The Curse of Knowledge

It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I didn’t learn how to drive until late last year—a few months shy of my 44th birthday. How or why it took so long to do so is another story, but the reason I’m sharing this has to do with being a beginner.

Being a newbie on the road (my driver’s license is barely six months old) has made me remember how humbling it is to start from zero. If you want to learn, you have to take that uncomfortable first step into the unfamiliar, even if it means looking like a fool.

As a yoga teacher, I have taught many beginners, who on their first day of class are uneasy to share a space with more advanced students. I assure them that we all start from the beginning, and not to worry if they don’t know the posture names, how to get into the poses, or if they can’t tell left from right. That comes with time.

The funny thing is, once you’ve learned how to do something, it’s very hard to go back to that mindset of not knowing how to do it. When I’m on the road, I see the impatience and frustration of experienced drivers when I go too slow, or when I can’t get into a parking slot in one swift go. They’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a newbie like me.

In the book “Made to Stick,” authors Chip and Dan Heath write about “The Curse of Knowledge.” “Once we know something, we find it hard to imagine what it was like not to know it. Our knowledge has ‘cursed’ us,” say the authors. Reading about this concept has shifted my perspective immensely and has made me understand the way people behave the way they do in a new situation. It has also made me stretch my patience with my 2-year old when she is adamant about putting her pants on herself, when we need to leave the house in five minutes. When I see her falling over herself and struggling to put both legs in one pant leg as she screams high-pitch in deep frustration, I put myself in her shoes and imagine what it’s like to not be able to dress myself. And suddenly, I give her some slack.

As long as we continue to learn new things, we will always find ourselves going back to ground zero. And that’s a good thing, because going back to the start means we’re making more space for growth.

So the next time the person in front of you at the cash machine can’t figure out the touch screen technology, or the slowpoke ahead of you at the parking lot is struggling to position her car (take a good look—that driver might even be me), or when your mom or dad can’t figure out how to take a photo on their new smartphone, remember: those things were once new to you, too. Besides, one day, you’ll be a fumbling newbie at something else, and you’ll need other people to be patient with you.

Oh Child’s Pose, I love you.

It’s been a little over two years since I posted anything on this blog. My last post was dated several weeks before I gave birth in 2016. Up until then, I had been living pretty much the same routine that I had set since I moving to Basel in 2012.

And then I gave birth.

And everything changed.

EVERYTHING:

How I loved

How my body felt, and looked, and performed

How I slept (or didn’t)

How I HAD to stop working, and then how I WANTED to stop working

Where we lived—we moved from a tiny apartment into our very own house

How I practiced yoga

How I re-arranged priorities

How I strengthened, created, and let go of relationships

Motherhood status has made me experience the double-edged sword of parenthood. On the one side, I feel like a strong and fierce lioness, ready to protect my little cub. On the other, I am a vulnerable, bungling greenhorn, unsure of my actions and decisions.

Many, many, many times, things get overwhelming, or tiring, or daunting. Like an advanced yoga class where the postures are way out of my league. When I find myself in such a pickle,  I take the cue of yoga teachers everywhere: Pause and take Child’s Pose. I stop, close my eyes, catch my breath and wait for the giant wave to wash over me. When the challenge is done (i.e. my toddler throwing a tantrum over not wanting to eat, shower, brush her teeth, or sleep) I get up, forge on, a little stronger, a tad more relaxed, and maybe even a bit wiser.

 

Dedicated To My Room Mates Michi and Pinky

 

When I was in primary school in The Philippines, the best gauge for “storm signal #2” was when our neighbor’s coconut tree—visible through our bedroom window—swayed violently in the wind. It was during the #2 intensity that classes were cancelled for the day.

At the time, I roomed with two of my six sisters. Michi, the older room mate coined this phrase when school was called off: “WALANG PASOK SI MARIE CALICA!!!” (NO CLASSES FOR MARIE CALICA!!!) I don’t even remember how it started, but somehow the tradition of screaming this phrase continued through out each school-cancelling storm. Each time my Michi and Pinky saw our neighbor’s coconut tree swishing to and fro, seconds later there was always the chiming together of these famous five words: “WALANG PASOK SI MARIE CALICA!!!” I always had a good feeling when I heard this; it meant staying dry and safe in our home, and taking a break from the rigors of school.

Even as I got older and graduated high school and college, there would be occasional work-cancelling weather disturbances, or simple work-suspension holidays. Even if we no longer lived together, Michi and Pinky still managed to communicate their personal announcement to me—via phone call, pager message (hello, 90’s), or text message.

Today marks the first day of my maternal leave (my due date is in about 3 weeks’ time). For the first time in a long time, I don’t have to report for work (teaching yoga at a yoga studio I co-own in Basel, Switzerland—my home for the last 3.5 years). It’s a long way from those days where school was suspended, and yet here I am—42 years old and expecting my husband’s and my first child—waiting for my sisters to shout those playful words again.