My companion is persuading me to join her for a session at the climbing wall. I’m not against the idea of rock-climbing – far from it. I have childhood memories of hill-walking, climbing every rock face in sight on the orders of my adventurous father who didn’t believe childhood was an obstacle to fearless climbing ventures. In fact, I was usually in agreement with this philosophy, regardless of the weather conditions. However, there’s something about climbing indoors that seems off-putting. I find it bothersome how the holds are set up at varied levels of difficulty depending on the skill level. It reminds me of games or puzzles, where someone else has pre-ordained your route — possibly even created a hazard — and set up a contest that I would prefer not to participate in because, in all likelihood, I will lose. The ethos doesn’t seem carefree for me, so my inclination leans towards outdoor activities. I suggest taking a stroll, or even scaling a mountain if height is a factor, to which she concedes, likely due to her pleasant nature. Nonetheless, we both tacitly acknowledge that she would much prefer the climbing wall considering how it seems to draw her in of late.
My passions predominantly consist of activities I’ve indulged in from a young age, and many are inherited hobbies. I practiced needlework and knitting before even learning to read and have been an avid runner for over three decades. My fascination with archaeology rooted in my early years. My complex relationship with hiking originated when I could barely walk, and baking has been a pastime of mine since a tender age when using a heated oven was probably ill-advised. My firm commitment to these pursuits instils in me a sense of confidence, and the joy of achieving results enhances this. Skills improve over time, knowledge piles up and daunting tasks gradually become manageable, or at the very least, challenging. Confidence grows with every achievement. Joy stemming from mastery of certain skills forms a seemingly virtuous cycle: I consistently do the things I’m good at, and my proficiency can be attributed to my persistence.
Meet my acquaintance, let’s call her Jen, who has a genuine knack for taking up new hobbies. She’s recently ventured into indoor climbing and though she’s only a few weeks in, she’s made noticeable progress since her initiation. Unsurprisingly, she’s still a novice and might not necessarily transform into a seasoned expert due to her penchant for fresh experiences. Evidence of this rests in her previously adopted hobby of roller-blading, which was shortly put to rest and subsequently donated to a local charity called Oxfam once she discovered tango classes, something she had always harbored an interest in. Initially, Jen had great fun attending the beginner’s course, but the amusement dwindled upon starting the intermediate level.
Before assuming Jen to be a mere dabbler in hobbies, it’s important to note that she’s a comprehensive author who invests years in producing complex, profoundly researched books. She also holds academic degrees that can’t be achieved without dedicated effort, indicating she’s far from being a frivolous individual. In her spare time, she cherishes the prospect of being a beginner in acquiring new skills, relishing in the awkward yet fast-paced learning process. The concept of being a master of something doesn’t intrigue her much. She lacks the competitive instinct of outshining others.
Jen possesses a unique quality – she’s someone who appreciates not just the complex aspects of learning, but also the struggles that accompany it. Among everyone I know, she’s the sole person who wholeheartedly savours the journey of learning without an iota of focus on the end reward or recognition, a trait closely associated with feeling superior.
While indulging in my chosen hobby of yoga, a pursuit initiated three years past following an intense psychological crisis, contemplations of Jen often cross my mind. The inherent desire to excel in yoga, coupled with the misconception that mastery of complicated stances is indicative of proficiency, can be overwhelming. It’s quite challenging resist the urge for outdoing the strikingly graceful individual at my row’s end, or avoid trying to mastering absurd, utterly irrelevant talents, such as head standing (at which I’m good) or attempts to place a knee over one’s shoulder (an unfeasible task for me). Naturally, the psychological benefits associated with yoga are not contingent upon physical distortions. Jen’s seemingly natural flair for embracing enjoyable failure sets a high standard to emulate. While there may be a limit to one’s attempts at not trying, I don’t believe so; the endeavour to relinquish effort is itself an endless activity.