The First Inch

Years ago, when my children were young, we visited a museum while we were on vacation. One of the exhibits has stayed in my mind ever since.

It was a large white column. It was round, maybe 4 feet across, and went from floor to ceiling.

About an inch above the floor, there was a line that went around the column.

There was a small sign explaining the significance.

It said "If all of mathematics was represented by this column, all of the math taught in schools would be in the first inch."

When I first started learning to fence, I was excited about every little detail. New footwork, new blade work, or new warm up stretch, it didn't matter. I eagerly soaked it all in, like a sponge. Each class, I was thrilled to learn something new. This continued through the entire series of classes.

When the class was over, I asked about taking further classes.

I was told that a new series would begin soon, and I could sign up for that and take the class over again.

So I did.

Since the first time, I was, putting it charitably, not highly skilled, I was fine with taking the "same" class over.

This time, it was like watching a movie I had seen before.

The first time watching a movie, you have to pay attention to the plot, the storyline, to who the characters are, or it's easy to get confused, and get to the end of the movie and not know what happened. Concentrating on the story, it's not possible to catch everything.

But if you watch it again, you can relax, let the story flow, and pay attention to the details.

For example, take the movie "The Sixth Sense."

Did you figure it out the first time through? I don't know anyone who did. But watching it a second time, so much was obvious and clear that I entirely missed before.

The second time through the class, although it was not exactly like the first time, it was similar.

The footwork we learned was the same.

The bladework was the same.

But this time, I could begin to do it without tripping on myself.

I was still enthusiastic. Delighted by each class, by the things I was beginning to be able to do.

Although I "knew" intellectually how to do the moves, being able to actually do them made it all feel fresh and new.

At the end of the class, I asked about taking more classes.

I was told that another series of classes would begin soon, and I could sign up for those.

Hmm.

This would be the third time taking the "same" class.

But it was the only available option, and I loved what we were doing, loved how it felt, so I signed up again.

I was hooked by this point. No question.

But the third time through the class, what could there be that would keep me interested? Wouldn't I get bored? Shouldn't I be able to do more advanced things by now?

We worked on the same footwork.

At least it was supposed to be the same.

It had the same names, the same explanations, the same demonstrations as in the previous classes.

And watching the fencing master, it sure looked the same.

The thing is, what I was doing wasn't the same at all.

Moreover, what I wasn't doing, wasn't the same, either.

This time through, I began to feel more comfortable with the movements. My feet were more coordinated with each other, and with my hands. I could maintain the stances for far longer. I could hold the weapon for far longer. I could maintain my focus for longer.

And although the master had said something about "move from your center" from the very first day of the first class, it wasn't until now that I had some understanding of what that felt like.

It was much later that I began to understand why it was important, and how important it was.

Much later than that, when other things he had said from the beginning began to fall into place, and have actual meaning beyond the words.

It took me a while to realize that each time I came to that new recognition of what something meant, that as much as it felt like NOW I understood, I was still in that "first inch" of all there is to know. That I could simultaneously have come so far- and have so far to go.

It isn't only that "the more I know, the more I realize I don't know."

It is also that the more I know, the further I am on this path, the more paths there ARE. The more there IS to know.

I may get beyond that first inch, after all.

I may even reach the top of that column.

And that will be when I can see that the COLUMN itself continues above the ceiling.

In that museum, years ago, that column very probably did continue.

I don't know.

I was too busy looking at the bottom of it to even think of looking up.

I took that intro class six times before taking a different class.

I take it again, every time we teach it, working on that "same" footwork just as much as the "students."

May it always be so.