At an Inner Skiing workshop Tim and I were conducting we asked the three hundred participants to name the inner obstacles that most interfered with their proficiency and enjoyment of skiing, and then to rate these barriers by applauding to the degree that they shared them. Listening to the length and volume of the applause, we rated the obstacles on a scale from one to ten—ten being the most common and difficult, and one being those that presented a relatively low degree of difficulty.
Among other difficulties mentioned were negative self-image, poor concentration, trying too hard, and too many self-instructions. Most of these rated from three to seven on the applause meter. But fear got a thirteen; it went off the scale! There were very few participants who didn’t feel that this emotion was at least detrimental to their skiing, and most saw it as a major problem. Some people in the audience even said that because of fear they had never before wanted to learn how to ski.
Tim’s next announcement that the second part of the program would deal with this mental obstacle was met with cheers. It seemed to both of us that most of the participants were hoping for a magical cure—something that would immediately end their fear and create instant courage.
However, Tim took a more comprehensive approach. He asked, “Is all fear bad? Isn’t there a kind of fear that isn’t harmful, but in fact helpful? Haven’t most of you been in a real emergency when, instead of panicking, you felt a rush of adrenaline, knew exactly what to do, and did it? This reaction is also called fear, but rather than hindering us, it helps us do things which in normal circumstances we think are well beyond our capabilities.
“Chased by a bull in a field, a lady who had never done anything athletic might run a hundred yards in twelve seconds and leap a four-foot fence without ever pausing to doubt that she could do it. Not until she was safe would she remember that she was a slow runner and couldn’t jump fences.
“Although we call this kind of response ‘fear,’ it is markedly different from what happens to most of us as we stand atop a mountain, shaking in our boots as we look down at a mogul field, imagining all the different ways that we might fall. It’s strange that we call these two responses by the same name. One heightens our perceptions and gives us added energy to perform beyond our normal capacities, whereas the other distorts our perceptions, tending to paralyze us and decrease our competence. We need only work at decreasing this second fear; the first is welcome.”
When I was eighteen years old, I experienced vividly the contrasting effects of these two fears one summer while I was a lifeguard at Rockaway Beach on Long Island. It was the day after a hurricane and the waves were mountainous. Judging that the ocean was too dangerous for the average swimmer, the other lifeguards and I closed the beach to public swimming. Being strong swimmers ourselves, however, we decided to challenge the waves. It was a memorable experience for all of us, but especially for me. Catching one of those waves was like riding down a fifteen-foot slide with power behind it. When we were wiped out and thrown to the ocean floor, we would wait for a second while the wave passed over us and then push up toward the surface. The worst that could happen, we thought, would be a mouthful of salt water or a scraped nose.
Once, however, as I started toward the surface after a wipe-out, my legs became entangled in a safety rope that had come loose from its mooring. I struggled to free myself from it, but the rope only got tighter, making it impossible for me to work my way to the surface. I tried to use the rope to pull myself up, but just as I got my head above the surface for a gulp of air a huge wave crashed down on me, filling my mouth with water and pushing me to the bottom again.
I started to panic. I couldn’t see, my lungs were bursting, and I felt my strength ebbing. I began to think I was going to drown. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get free of the rope. In one more desperate attempt, I yanked on it as hard as I could, but it only tightened more.
Luckily, something else suddenly took over. I felt an onrush of energy, my panic subsided, and I grew very calm. I knew I was in serious danger, but I stopped struggling blindly. Time seemed to slow and everything becarne clear. Without thinking, I knew intuitively what to do. Exhaling the remaining air in my lungs, I relaxed my muscles and let myself drop toward the ocean floor. As I descended I felt the rope loosen slightly around my legs, so that when I hit the bottom I was able to disentangle myself, push off strongly, and shoot to the top.
Caught in the initial fear, all my thrashing had only gotten me deeper into trouble, almost costing me my life. Even though I was in greater danger by the time the second fear took over, my mind was calmer and my efforts more appropriate to the situation. I actually had more air and more strength left than my fear had led me to believe. Once free of panic, I found it easy to free myself.
Since these two kinds of fear have such distinct effects on perception and performance, it makes sense to call them by different names and to learn to distinguish between them. Fear 2 will be examined first because it emerges only in rare or abnormal situations; also, it serves as a useful contrast to Fear 1, the primary obstacle for most skiers.
When confronted with an emergency situation, the human body undergoes a series of physiological adjustments that prepare it for heightened action. Adrenaline is secreted into the bloodstream and breathing is stimulated. The chest expands and the throat relaxes to handle the increase of air intake. Pulse and blood pressure increase, as does the volume of blood sent to the muscles of the arms and legs. The liver manufactures glucose, adding fuel to the tissues, and the pupils of the eyes dilate, sharpening visual perception. In these amazing ways the body prepares itself for peak performance. This is the helpful kind of fear, and since it is wholly a function of Self 2 it will be referred to hereafter as Fear 2.
Fear 2 is the body’s natural response to challenge. It can exist simultaneously with courage, and often precedes the performances of athletes, actors, race car drivers, soldiers, or anyone in a high-risk situation. I know a man of ordinary size who, responding to a cry of alarm, found his son with his leg caught under the wheel of a car. Without hesitation and with a powerful surge of energy, he lifted the front end of the car, freeing his son’s leg.
Fear 2 focuses our attention in the present and lends us capabilities beyond our normal levels. Since this kind of fear is helpful to us, we need to learn not to resist it, nor to waste the energy it produces. In contrast with Self 1 stress and anxiety, which hang on and accumulate over time, Self 2 fear rises to the occasion and then disappears after the danger has passed.
Before looking at how to diminish the disenabling aspects of Fear 1, it is important to acknowledge the validity of Fear 2—especially in sports such as skiing where there is real danger. To feel some fear at the top of a ski slope is natural and useful and is not something that should be dismissed or even minimized without due consideration. If this fear deters you from taking a needless risk to life and limb, it is doing you a big favor and should be duly acknowledged. It is not the act of a coward to heed such fear, but the practice of the wise. It is only the Self 1 fears that are based in illusion that need to be seen through and thus dissipated.
The fear that is harmful because it interferes with our ability to perform at our best originates in the imagination of Self 1, the ego mind, and so will be called Fear 1.
Fear 1 has a magnifying effect on our perceptions. When looking at danger, it greatly enlarges what it sees. Medium-sized bumps become giant moguls, intermediate slopes become sheer precipices, the possibility of falling becomes a broken leg.
While our perception of danger is exaggerated by seeing it through the small end of the telescope, our abilities to cope with this danger seem to shrink, as if we were looking through the opposite end. Our sense of competence is so depleted that we feel powerless to handle the situation confronting us.
The combined effects of these distortions make an intermediate skier at the top of an intermediate slope perceive it as advanced and himself as a beginner. Confused by these illusions, the skier, instead of reacting with heightened capabilities as he might under the influence of Fear 2, responds with hesitancy and overcautiousness, which can ultimately induce paralysis.
Standing at the head of a trail, the skier in the grip of Fear 1 looks down and begins to think how steep it looks. Feeling the anxiety churning in his stomach, he thinks of the times he has fallen on similar slopes or in similar conditions. He may remember a time when he was hurt and see it happening again. Instead of flexing slightly in readiness for action, his muscles react to his fear by becoming rigid and immobile. His courage ebbs, he feels weaker, and his vision blurs.
The more the skier’s anxiety mounts, the more Self 1 inflates the danger and deflates his ability. If eventually he does attempt the slope, he does so with overtight muscles and in a distracted state. He is so sure that he is going to fall that indeed he does, even before moving very fast. He picks himself up embarrassed, knowing at this point that the slope wasn’t difficult and that there was no need to fall. By exaggerating the danger and minimizing his own capabilities, Fear 1 caused his negative expectations to materialize.
This tendency of Fear 1 to magnify perceptions, to make things seem worse than they are, occurs in many areas of life. Many years ago I applied for a job with a New York advertising agency, and was told to wait in the reception room until I was called. Joining the other applicants and feeling very nervous, I peeked over my magazine to look at the competition. They all looked like Tom Cruise, self-assured and calm. I began to think how much better dressed and how much more professional they looked. Soon I was a nervous wreck—my hands sweating, stomach queasy—and became so caught up in the fear I had created for myself that it was difficult to be at my best when my interview took place.
The mind and the body are not separate units working independently; each affects the other. Originating in the mind, Fear 1 is immediately transmitted to the body and governs its actions.
Probably the most vivid examples of its results in skiing can be seen with beginners. Their most common characteristic is stiffness of movement. Their legs tend to be tight and inflexible, their knees locked, their shoulders hunched, their fists clenched tight as they hold their poles and their faces scrunched grimly. Fear 1 can transform a class of novices into petrified statues being pushed across a slope.
When muscles are overly tense, they lose flexibility and can’t react smoothly to changes in the terrain. While skiing, our knees and hips are meant to act as shock absorbers, compressing to cushion the jarring effect of bumps and then returning to normal. If these shock absorbers are already compressed, they will have no flexibility with which to react to differences in the terrain. Skiing would then be like riding over a rough road in an old Jeep: every small bump reverberates through our bodies, and the larger ones bounce us off the seat, throwing us off balance.
Besides inhibiting our flexibility, the tension resulting from Fear 1 also reduces our stamina. When our bodies are tight we have to work harder: every muscle we tense or flex requires extra effort. As our energy reserves are depleted, we tire more quickly. Our reactions slow down, our sense of timing is thrown off, our muscles become exhausted, and we lose control. As a result, our self-doubts and fears build, and the cycle perpetuates itself.
On the other hand, when we are relaxed and are skiing with Self 2 effort, we employ only the necessary muscles, and no energy is wasted in the overtightness that comes from fear and forcing. The upper body—stomach, arms, shoulders, neck and face muscles—is relatively loose, and the leg muscles do most of the skiing.
Another effect of Fear 1 is that it literally takes our breath away: we tend to stop breathing. To demonstrate the effects of this, I often ask members of my classes to hold their breath while running in place as fast as they can for one minute, paying attention to how their bodies feel while doing so. Then I ask them to run in place again, at the same speed and for the same period of time, breathing normally. Holding their breaths, they tire much more quickly—literally running out of steam. Holding one’s breath not only results in unnecessary tightness of the torso and face but causes loss of oxygen. In contrast, Fear 2 induces the opposite effect, increasing the oxygen intake of the body.
In Inner Tennis, Tim describes a common cause of error on the courts as the “uh-oh” experience. A player with a strong forehand will return with confidence a ball coming toward his right, but when he has to use his weak backhand, he says to himself, “Uh-oh.” In response to this warning, his arm tightens, his racket is jerked out of its natural path, the ball is hit off center and an error results.
This self-induced failure applies to other sports as well. Take the example of someone who has skied for a year but who still thinks of himself as a beginner. The instant he pushes off downhill he feels unsure of himself and moves overcautiously. Afraid of losing the slightest degree of control, as he starts to pick up any speed he thinks, Uh-oh, I’m going too fast. To resist forward momentum he sits backward, thereby weighting the tails of his skis, which causes him to go even faster and to lose still more control. Uh-oh, here comes a fall, he thinks, sitting still further back, thus accelerating more and tightening his body in anticipation of the fall.
I knew that was going to happen! I’m a lousy skier, he says to himself, further reinforcing his negative self-image. I’m still falling all over the beginners’ slope. Now he has one more memory with which to further distort his true competence and feed Fear 1. The next time he picks up speed, his fear again will cause him to tighten and lean back again for a repeat performance.
Illusion-based fear operates in a simple, self-destructive cycle. We look at a mogul field and think, I’m not good enough to handle that. The moguls begin to grow in size and degree of difficulty, and this distorted perception affects the body, which tenses in anticipation of being hurt. With muscles tight, our movements are stiff, and indeed a mogul does throw us up just as we imagined it would. This distortion in performance reinforces our already distorted self-image, and the next mogul will look even larger and more difficult.
Fear 1 distorts each component of our skiing: our perception, our performance, and our self-image. Each distortion reflects its own illusions, further skewing each of the other components. This fear cycle will inevitably continue until the distortions on which it is based are broken.
The essential difference between Fear 2 and Fear 1 is that Fear 2 is based on reality, whereas Fear 1 is based on illusion. There is only one way to dispel illusion: to increase one’s awareness of reality—of what really is. Though there are many ways to change the shape of an illusion, only awareness can eliminate it.
Awareness is light; illusion is darkness. Nothing except light can take away darkness. Illusion means seeing things that aren’t there, or not seeing things that are there. Awareness is the energy of consciousness that, when focused on reality, allows us to see only what is.
A young boy going to sleep is sure he sees a boogeyman in the darkened bedroom and is paralyzed with terror. This illusion has a very real power until his father, answering the boy’s frightened cries, comes in and turns on the light. The boy peeks out from under his covers, looks in the direction of the boogeyman, and sees only his own clothes draped over a chair.
“I thought I saw a boogeyman,” he says sheepishly.
“Well, now you can see that there’s no one here,” the father says as he leaves.
But the father is wrong. There was a boogeyman in the room: the Fear 1 in the child’s imagination—which more than likely is also still alive and well in the father’s. Until the inner boogeyman is confronted, the one that projects its fears onto our external reality, we all live in the dark.
How to turn on the lights? How does one go about increasing awareness of what is in order to decrease Fear 1?
There are three essential components in every fear situation, and Self 1 projects its illusions on any or all of them to produce Fear 1. First, there is the sense of danger—that is, something capable of doing harm. Second, there is the sense of vulnerability—that is, there is someone capable of being harmed by this danger. Third, there is a sense of inability on the part of the vulnerable person to overcome the danger. If any one of these three ingredients is missing, there is no fear.
In skiing, it is usually the slope that is perceived as the danger, while that which is vulnerable is the skier’s body. However, if the skier knows that he is competent enough to ski the trail, there will be no fear. If the skier is incompetent but the hill is too flat to be seen as a danger, there will also be no fear. The third possibility, the skier who does not feel vulnerable to being hurt, is hard to imagine, but theoretically such an individual would also experience no fear.
Fear 1 occurs when illusion governs one or more of these basic components. It increases in proportion to the degree that it exaggerates the danger and vulnerability, or minimizes one’s ability to deal with danger. The solution to Fear 1 boils down to simply increasing awareness of the realities in a given situation—that is, increasing awareness of the real danger, of one’s true competence, and of one’s actual vulnerability.
To dispel an illusion that either amplifies or minimizes danger, we have to learn to look the threat in the face. In tennis, Tim suggests overcoming the “uh-oh” experience by focusing on the ball’s seams. When concentrating on them, the mind sees the ball, not an “uh-oh.” As a result, the body doesn’t overtighten, sees the ball more as it really is, simply hits it, and avoids the error.
Similarly, our greatest obstacle to increasing our awareness of danger in skiing is that we usually resist looking closely at what frightens us. The boy afraid of the boogeyman pulled his covers over his head, making it impossible for him to reject his illusion and easier for his imagination to run wild. Because we don’t like to examine danger, it remains an unknown, and the unknown is always more scary. If we hope to overcome the illusions Self 1 projects, we must be willing to look openly at danger and assess its characteristics without resistance.
A good example of using awareness to decrease fear occurred in a lesson I gave to a strong intermediate skier named John, who felt that moguls were his nemesis. He wanted to overcome this fear—especially of the moguls on a run called Big Bumps. However, when we reached the top of the run, John took one look down the slope and panicked.
“I should know better than to try this,” he exclaimed. “I’m scared to death just looking down there, much less trying to ski it.” His voice had a finality that seemed to say, “Forget it! Let’s try another slope.”
“I don’t care whether we take this run or not,” I said, “but as long as we’re here, let’s try an experiment. It involves simply looking at the slope; I promise I won’t ask you to ski it.”
“Okay,” John agreed reluctantly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Look at the slope as if you didn’t hate it and tell me what you see.”
“It’s damned steep!” John said immediately. “And I hate moguls. I can’t help it! Too many of them have tripped me up.”
“Which ones do you hate the most?” I asked.
“Those right there where it’s almost straight down,” he answered, pointing to the steepest part of the slope.
“Take your ski pole,” I suggested, “and use it as a plumb line to estimate the angle of that part of the trail. Be as accurate as you can. How many degrees off the horizontal is it?”
After a pause, John looked up surprised, his pole still dangling from his hand at no more than a 20-degree slope.
“It looked more like eighty!” he said sheepishly.
“Now let your eyes look for other steep places, and for the most treacherous moguls. Notice each one carefully and rank them in the order of degree of difficulty.”
John started to scrutinize the hillside, pointing out with relish the most difficult spots and telling me in detail what was so hard about them. After a few minutes he said, “Hey, I’m getting to know this mountain pretty well. I might become the world’s greatest authority on Big Bumps someday.”
“If you were going to ski this slope—and I’m not suggesting that you actually try it—where would you make your first turn?” I asked.
John looked it over and said, “Okay, I could make my first turn right there. Yeah. I could do that.”
“And your second?”
“Yeah. Number two right there, and then there’s … three … four … five …” His voice was calm as he concentrated on his imaginary run. Suddenly he turned to me with a smile and, without another word, pushed his poles into the snow and skied off.
Surprised at the suddenness of his decision, I followed, and was astonished at how much more relaxed and yet aggressive his skiing looked. He was off balance over a couple of moguls, but never really lost control.
At the bottom John was aglow. “Hey, that was fun!” he said. “I loved it. I might even get to like moguls!”
I knew that John felt good about making the run without falling, but I also recognized in his expression the greater sense of achievement that comes from having triumphed over fear.
John’s victory was achieved by looking at the mogul field in detail and one mogul at a time. This objective observation shrank the imagined danger and, at the same time, made him aware of the realities of the situation: they were big moguls, but they were ones he could negotiate when unencumbered by fear. Just as in watching the seams of a tennis ball, the mind becomes calmer when it focuses on actual details, the smaller the better.
Many skiers experience fear in direct proportion to the speed at which they are moving. Because they have often fallen when going fast, it is easy for them to associate speed with falling. To the extent that excessive speed is contributing to skiing out of control, there can in fact be the real presence of danger. Again the Fear 2 component is healthy and needs to be acknowledged and heeded. Self 1 can try to talk you into skiing faster than your ability to control yourself, either for the thrill or to prove to yourself or friends that you are not afraid. Again, fear in such circumstances is your friend, not an enemy. At the same time, there can be an illusory component of the fear of speed that disenables the skier who is not in any real danger. How to overcome this illusion?
When we ski, we are usually so conscious of trying to either increase or decrease speed that our perception of it is easily distorted. If we want to increase our awareness of speed, we can simply train ourselves to distinguish between its different levels, and to notice the relationship between these speeds and our control.
One way of doing this is to assign the number five to what appears to be your maximum speed and zero to standing still. Then as you ski, say aloud the numbers that you believe correspond to the speed at which you are traveling. As most people increase their awareness of these different speeds, they usually find that soon they are skiing comfortably even when moving at a rate that previously had seemed to threaten their control.
It should be noted that discrimination is necessary here. In other words, the speed that may be comfortable in easy conditions can cause you to lose control on more difficult terrain; moreover, it’s virtually impossible to be aware of actual speed when you are far out of control. It is the relationship between these three factors—speed, terrain, and control—that is crucial.
One day during an Inner Skiing clinic, Tim fell while taking a lesson from Junior Bounous, the ski-school director at Snow Bird. When he had recovered, Junior asked him, “Do you know why you fell?”
“I have no idea,” Tim replied. “Suddenly I just felt off balance, and down I went.”
“Look over there,” Junior said, pointing to a patch of snow glistening in the sunlight. The difference was barely distinguishable from the packed snow around it. “That’s ice. You fell on that.”
“Oh,” said Tim. “I didn’t notice it. I guess I’d better avoid that stuff.”
“If you know how it affects your skis,” said Junior, “you won’t have to avoid it. Ice is more slippery than snow, so when your skis hit an ice patch, they tend to slide faster. Wanting to resist that downward slide, the skier usually leans uphill. Then his skis slide down further, and he ends up in the snow. But if, when your skis hit the ice …”
“Yes, if I’d gone with the slide instead of resisting it…”
“Right. Now let’s go look for some more ice,” said Junior.
Tim began looking forward to the challenge of skiing an icy section. What at first had seemed an obstacle to be avoided turned into something to be sought after, experienced, and enjoyed. Fear was decreased by curiosity, which led to increased awareness, which in turn reduced the unexpectedness of ice, thereby diminishing its danger. Soon Tim was skiing on ice with a remarkable degree of control.
Sometimes the most dangerous hazard on a slope is above rather than below you—that is, other skiers. Falling down is frightening enough; being knocked down seems unfair. Again, increased awareness is our best safeguard. Before skiing a trail, notice the density of traffic on it, taking time to become aware of the degree of proficiency of the skiers and being especially alert to the presence of daredevils. Once in motion, we can develop an increased peripheral awareness of nearby skiers, just as players on a team learn to develop peripheral awareness of where their teammates and the opposition are.
What is recommended is awareness, not paranoia. If you submit to the fear of collision, you increase your chances of being hit, or at least of falling unnecessarily. If you become distracted by other skiers, who probably wouldn’t have hit you in any case, you won’t see moguls or subtle changes in the snow. In addition, you yourself become the danger you are trying to avoid. Although in rare circumstances a collision may be unavoidable, the way to minimize the possibility is the same as overcoming irrational fear of it: be aware and trust Self 2.
In summary, the illusionary aspect of a skier’s fear of a danger can be decreased and even banished by increasing awareness of the slope itself. To do this, we must learn to overcome our tendencies to avoid looking at what we fear. We need to be willing to know the mogul, the ice, the speed, and the other skiers on the slope. This increased knowledge results in increased predictability, increased competence, and, consequently, decreased fear based on illusion.
If you find yourself experiencing Fear 1, allow yourself to look directly at those sights that seem frightening. Let yourself soak in all the details, one by one, of each obstacle. Look the dangers in the eye until you feel you know them—or at least until you feel you want to get to know them better. When you start to see obstacles as welcome challenges, fear will disappear. If you still believe that the slope is too difficult for you to ski safely after you have let yourself really examine it, then look for a somewhat lesser challenge. That’s not cowardice but good sense. Remember that it’s also possible to be deluded by Fear 1 into minimizing danger.
We have all seen the Boomer, who comes down the slopes out of control. He has that look of mad determination on his face as he shoots down the hill, usually without turning at all, his body and face tense. Most of the time, he is wildly off balance, looking as if he’s about to crash. Skiing beyond speeds within his control, he endangers not only himself but the skiers around him.
Such a skier may seem to have no fear, but what is more apparent is that he has little discrimination. Whereas the overly fearful skier exaggerates the danger of the mountain, the Boomer looks through the end of the telescope that reduces the apparent danger and thus inflates his perception of his competence. But perhaps the greatest distortion is his undervaluing of his own safety and of those around him. As a result, it is difficult for him to discriminate whether a particular slope is beyond or within his capabilities.
With bravado, the Boomers of life charge ahead into any situation. Trying to prove to friends that they are unafraid, they take foolish risks. Often they are attempting to cover self-doubt with a façade of fearlessness. In other cases, the Boomer is motivated by boredom with life and seeks situations of meaningless excitement to make it interesting.
Of course, there are real dangers to fear in the world, just as there are some slopes that in certain conditions are too steep for even the best skiers. One of the greatest problems Fear 1 presents is that in distracting us with unreal dangers, it prevents us from perceiving the real and present ones. With the world on the verge of a nuclear war, there would still be ski buffs worried about proper form on their turns.
A friend of mine returned from Hawaii amazed by the people of one town who lived on the side of a volcano that frequently smoked and rumbled but hadn’t actually erupted for fifty years.
“They were just like us,” he told me, “more concerned with the opinion of their neighbors than with the threat of the destruction of their town.”
It is as important that we perceive real dangers as they are as it is that we see through illusionary ones. Accurate perception of peril prepares us to cope with it. Still, I have observed that in general people are more likely to indulge in Fear 1 when the actual danger is minimal. My mother was apt to panic if one of her children didn’t arrive home when expected. Fantasies of an automobile accident would plague her, she would work herself up into a pronounced state of fear, and would try to alarm the rest of the family. On the other hand, when she found herself in an actual emergency, Mother was the calmest of us all; she knew exactly what to do and would take appropriate action quickly and with full mental presence. Fear 2 had replaced illusion-ridden Fear 1.
One may ask, “How do I know when the danger is real and I am feeling Fear 2 or when the danger is that of Self 1 and is simply in my mind?”
If you are in a state of physical and mental preparation (Fear 2), you probably won’t even have to ask yourself this question, but if you do find yourself wondering, the best way to discern between the two fears is to notice your body’s reactions. Though Fear 1 is born in the imagination, its physical symptoms have a strong sense of reality about them. We are definitely aware of the anxiety churning in the stomach, the shaking of the knees, the dryness in the mouth, and the shortness of breath. These physiological responses are no less real for being based on a magnification of danger.
It is simple to tell the difference between the tension and tightness of muscles caused by Fear 1 and the heart-pumping adrenaline rush of Fear 2. In Fear 2 there is a clarity of mind and an intensity of perceptions, while Fear 1 produces panic and unclear vision. Influenced by Fear 1, we usually are afraid to look at the trail closely because it evokes a higher anxiety, whereas Fear 2 enables us to see danger with a heightened sense of detail.
In most cases we experience a mixture of Fear 1 and Fear 2. There is usually some degree of danger present, along with the illusions based on
Self l’s imagination. The goal is to decrease or eliminate the illusionary component of our fear. To the extent that we succeed, the Fear 2 that remains will increase our physical and psychological ability to meet the challenge at hand.
Once we can see the slope clearly, facing but not exaggerating its perils, the next step is to evaluate our competence to cope with the situation. It is this balance between the degree of difficulty and one’s competence that determines the actual danger level of the slope.
We estimate our competence in several ways. The easiest way is through experience. Have we ever before skied a run this steep, this narrow, with moguls and ice? If not, how big a jump is this challenge beyond what we’ve handled before?
As we take our past experience into consideration, it’s a good idea not to forget the specifics of the present situation. A run that might be manageable in the morning when you are most alert and fresh might be quite a different proposition at the end of a tiring day. Also, the trail that in the morning was cushioned with two inches of powder may by afternoon have hardened into crusty patches of ice that would make it a challenge even for skiers more advanced than you. If we trust Self 2, we don’t have to think about such factors; we know intuitively. Self 2 knows what it can do. If it is given the chance to really see the slope, it will be able to assess whether the particular challenge is within its capabilities.
I usually trust the intuition of Self 2 in combination with objective observation and memory. I don’t trust my thoughts—all those voices in my head that tell me, No, you can’t handle that, or Don’t be a coward—any dope could make it down there. Instead I ask my intuition, Do you really want to ski this or not? I don’t try to persuade myself. I’m open to either answer. If I’m not sure, I look more closely at the hill and ask again, Is this a challenge I’m ready for, or am I taking a foolish risk?
From our experiences, we gradually learn what we can and cannot do. If we never accept challenges, we are left in the dark about all but our most superficial resources. But when our minds are freed from distorted concepts of our ability that are induced by fear, we can accept reasonable challenges without undue risk.
Self 2 knows the next step in one’s progress as a skier. Self 1, on the other hand, asks, What will the others think of me if I don’t take this run with them? If I can’t keep up with them, they’ll think I’m scared and won’t want to ski with me any more. Or, Wait till I tell everyone I skied this run! Will they be impressed!
Self 1’s urgings are related to the maintenance or aggrandizement of its image. Self 2’s promptings come from our core and guide us gently toward realizing more of our potential. They seldom push us into an action; instead they lead us quietly, respecting our freedom to accept or postpone a given challenge.
I remember an occasion when Self 1 led me to take a very foolish risk. I was skiing with friends who were more advanced than I was, and they decided to venture through the woods into an unpatrolled area on the back face of the mountain. Something inside me told me that it was not a good idea. I didn’t experience the usual symptoms of fear; I felt only a deep conviction that it was wrong for me. I was about to stop and tell my friends that I didn’t want to ski this run when Self 1’s voice chimed in, If you chicken out, they won’t respect you or ski with you any more.
I wavered for a few minutes between that sense of knowing that I was making a mistake and Self 1’s blackmail. When we reached the top of the back face, I decided that my first instincts were right. The slope was extremely steep with deep, heavy snow, and there were quite a few trees. But Self 1 came on stronger: You can’t quit now! What will they think of you? Giving in to such urgings, I started off. It was a wild run, with many nasty falls—a thoroughly unpleasant experience—and at the end I counted myself lucky not to have been hurt.
Three days later I read in a newspaper that there had been an avalanche on this same slope and that three people had been killed.
Though the most obvious vulnerability in skiing is the possibility of falling and suffering injury, most skiers are afraid of more than simply hurting their bodies. It is important to recognize that the fear of bruising one’s ego, of damaging one’s self-image by failing, is just as real. Recently when I asked a class of novices how many of them were experiencing fear, eight out of the twelve raised their hands. “Of those who are afraid, is your fear about falling or is it about making a fool of yourself?” I asked. Six of the eight admitted that they were as afraid of failing as they were of falling.
Another kind of fear comes from a less recognized vulnerability. It is what we might call “fear of flying”: the fear of going beyond one’s expectations, of letting go and relinquishing one’s control to Self 2.
The three kinds of fear—of falling, failing, and flying—stem from different vulnerabilities, and in order to overcome their negative effects it is useful to learn to distinguish between them.
Below is a partial list of fears mentioned by participants in a recent ski clinic, categorized by their particular vulnerability.
An effective way of increasing your awareness of vulnerability in general is to ask yourself some questions. What possible harm can come to me? Does the harm I fear threaten my body or my ego? Then be as specific as you can.
If you realize you’re afraid of falling, don’t stop there. Ask yourself what is likely to happen if you fall. In the particular situation, do you really think it is possible to hurt yourself seriously? Even if the answer is yes, what then? Is it the pain, the incapacitation, or the expense you fear? On the other hand, if you are only afraid that falling will make you cold and wet, follow that to its full conclusion as well. In short, neither exaggerate nor minimize the consequences of falling, failing, or flying.
I once asked a frightened skier what was the worst she imagined could happen. She answered that she wasn’t as afraid of hurting herself as of not skiing as well as her friends.
“What would happen then?”
“Well, they might like me less, and not ask me to go skiing with them.”
“Okay. And then?”
“Well, I might lose them as friends.”
“And after that?”
“I guess I’d feel lonely … No, I’m sure I’d find more friends.” “And then?”
“They might even be better friends than the ones who would like me only if I skied well.”
With little help from me, she had seen through her exaggerated vulnerability, and now her fear was gone.
Of course, the human body is vulnerable to injury when moving too fast to be able to control itself. We have discussed increasing one’s awareness of the actual danger from the hill or from other skiers. Now let us examine how to increase awareness of one’s vulnerability to being physically hurt.
Some people are more prone to injury than others, and so they experience more fear. For example, a ten-year-old girl in perfect health, with a little extra padding where it counts, is not as vulnerable as an older woman who has recently torn a ligament in her leg. If for some reason your body is particularly fragile because of a recent injury or some other structural weakness, it doesn’t make sense to ski beyond your safety zone.
To think that you can’t be hurt would be silly, but it’s equally irrational—and more common—to exaggerate the probabilities of injury if you fall. Realism is gained by paying attention to experience—your own and that of others.
When you fall, try to notice what happens. There’s no need to fall on purpose, but when and if you do fall, you can learn something from it. If you fall as a result of going too fast and allow yourself to experience the pain, you will probably be less inclined to go out of control the next time. If you find the fall didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, you learn that not all falls are painful, and your fear will decrease. This is often the case with beginners, who generally dread falling, and this usually causes them to tighten and sit back. But when they do fall, they find that it wasn’t as bad as they had imagined. With their fear lessened, they relax more and hence fall less. I saw an example of this at exactly the opposite end of the spectrum—that is, the experts—while watching on television a special downhill race without turns designed to break speed records. To cut down resistance from the wind and snow, the racers used special equipment and reached speeds of up to 120 mph. On one of the runs a racer had a spectacular crash but was unharmed. In an interview afterward the skier said that the fall had actually made him more relaxed. Prior to the run he had been afraid of what might happen, and so was tight. After falling he realized that the worst wasn’t so bad, and so wasn’t as afraid on his next run.
In other words, whether novice or expert, it is important to learn by example; otherwise, experience has a habit of repeating itself until the inherent lesson is learned.
I once gave a ski lesson to a beginner, Charles, an Englishman who had been reading The Inner Game of Tennis and was enthusiastic about its approach. Whenever he fell, he would laugh and exclaim, “Nothing is good or bad. Falling is fine. Falling is fun!”
As I watched Charles I noticed that he seemed to fall whenever he was even slightly off balance. It was a cold day, and I grew tired of helping him put his skis back on every time he took a tumble. Finally, when he was sprawled out in the snow again, still blissfully smiling, I asked, “Tell me, how is it down there? Are you cold? How long does it take us to get your skis back on each time?”
Charles paused, assessed his body and his situation, and then said, “Actually, it’s damned cold down here, and I’d rather be skiing than doing up my bindings all the time.” Thereafter, he fell less.
Falling is falling—nothing more, nothing less. If it were more fun to fall than to stand up, few children would learn to walk. Falling is supposed to be a little uncomfortable; why pretend the discomfort isn’t there? Painful falls teach us not to take unnecessary risks, define the extent of our vulnerability, and help us to make more intelligent choices.
Many skiers are more afraid of pain than of injury. The pain of a fall is real, but fear exaggerates it, often making it seem more intense than it actually is. Pain needs to be experienced as it is in order to avoid distortion. It is the body’s way of telling us something; we need to attend to it rather than to ignore or to exaggerate it. Again the principle is the same: experience what is; be aware and learn.
In my second winter of skiing, I took a bad fall and tore the ligaments in my right knee. It was quite painful. Even more painful was the ankle-to-groin cast that I had to wear for a month.
After the cast was removed, I exercised religiously until the leg was back to normal. That spring I played lacrosse, a physically demanding game that requires a lot of running, and that summer I was a lifeguard, swimming constantly in the ocean and running on the beach. My knee never bothered me; in fact, I don’t believe I even thought about the injury.
But the first time I went skiing that winter a voice in my mind reminded me, “Better be careful. Your knee might not be strong enough, and you don’t want to injure it again.” I started hesitating a little, tightening up, favoring my right leg so that I wouldn’t put all my weight down on it. As a result, I constantly fell when turning to my left.
Memories of past injuries enhance the power of Fear 1, telling us that the worst that has happened is about to happen again. Fear works by association. If we take a bad fall in a particular circumstance, the next time we’re in a similar situation we’re apt to experience fear. The present may be void of real danger, but the fear will still be there.
Memories are only memories. If we can keep our minds in the present, we will see the situation as it is and know how to respond. But if we let our minds project the past onto the future, we will see ghosts and tighten up, responding to the illusion instead of what is really there, thus increasing the likelihood of another injury.
People, especially in our Western culture, are greatly concerned about not performing well enough to meet the expectations of self or others. It is not so much a fear of not accomplishing a given task or of attaining a certain standard, but of having the stigma of failure attached to one’s self-image. It is Self 1’s fear of losing face.
When I asked a young man who was worried that he would never graduate from a stem to a parallel turn what the worst thing was that could happen to him if he failed to improve, he answered, “Well, I’d never get off the beginners’ slope.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Well, no, I don’t really mind skiing the bunny trails. What would hurt is thinking that I’m a failure as a skier. I’d lose my self-esteem if I didn’t get better.”
So many of us have been conditioned for so long to measure our self-worth according to how we perform—especially at sports—that loss of self-esteem on the slopes seems a matter of importance. Identifying ourselves with our performance, we believe that we are how we ski. If we ski well, we feel that we are good, deserving of recognition, love, and respect. If we fail, we fear that we will lose the love and respect we need.
This belief that one’s self-worth can be defined by success is implicit in the minds of many people, and I know of no way to overcome it other than by gradually seeing through the myth on which it is based. Human worth is not proportionate to human achievement. It simply cannot be measured in talent, position, age, wealth, roles, belongings, and trophies. Why not? Because the value of human life is beyond measure. At his core every person is invaluable and deserves all possible respect and love—not for anything that he or she has achieved, but simply by virtue of being human. The truth of this assertion is not easily acknowledged, but as one grows in self-awareness it will be gradually recognized.
Estelle was a middle-aged psychological counselor. After skiing for one morning, she was in tears and didn’t want to continue. “I’ve simply never been able to learn anything in a group. Ever since high school I’ve failed at everything I tried to learn with other people around. I’ve achieved a lot of success, but it has always been with what I’ve picked up on my own. I really want to learn to ski, but I’m terrified because I know I’m going to fail again.”
It was clear that Estelle wanted to realize two separate goals: to learn how to ski, and to overcome her lifelong intimidation in group-learning situations. I asked her which of the two she wanted more, and she answered that what she wanted most was to overcome her fear of failure in groups. “After all, if I wasn’t so afraid, I’m sure I could learn to ski, and a lot of other things too.”
Once this choice was made, all that was left for Estelle was to look failure in the eye and see just what it consisted of. We discussed in detail the worst that could happen if she failed to learn how to ski. “The last time you failed, where did it hurt? What real difference did it make? Did failing really mean that you were a failure? Who are you, anyway—someone who is worthwhile only when she succeeds, and unlovable when she fails?” Estelle edged closer to a recognition that she was neither her successes nor her failures, but the one person who was experiencing both. When she looked closely at the possibility of failing in the group ski lesson, she realized that it would be only a little embarrassing. She saw that failure was one experience, success another, and that both were simply experiences in the life of the experiencer, herself.
When we parted, Estelle was looking forward to skiing that afternoon. She had no idea whether she would succeed or fail, but somehow that wasn’t the most important thing any more. What she was sure of was that she could learn and benefit from whatever happened. She was going to be alert and appreciate learning more about what failure or success really was. Already she seemed to be waking from the worst of her nightmare, and the decrease in Fear 1 could only make learning to ski easier.
In almost every case the key to overcoming fear of failure is a process of breaking one’s attachment to results. Whenever we convince ourselves that results are all that count, we fall into an anxiety that paradoxically limits our ability to achieve those results. When the tennis player thinks he has to get his serve in because it’s game point, tension takes over and fluidity and accuracy vanish. The same is true in skiing when we have to make a turn. The hardest thing in any achievement-oriented endeavor is to recognize that it is more important to stay fully present and aware than to strain for results. Our maximum potential is a by-product of awareness and of letting Self 2 express itself. Overconcern about achievement causes tightness and restriction of our bodies. The greatest competitors want to win, and hate to lose, but they aren’t afraid to lose.
What is the value of learning a parallel turn if we neither enjoy ourselves nor learn something that can improve the quality of our life? Detachment from the god of success frees one from fear of failing, and then success comes much easier, for whatever it is worth.
Only Self 1 is vulnerable to lack of achievement; Self 2 neither benefits from success nor is hurt by failure. Children recognize this: they chant, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never harm me.” The more we are able to recognize that failure is only a name and that we are not our Self 1, the less vulnerable and less fearful of failure we will be. The only real failure is not to recognize that you are more than your Self 1.
Self 1’s third major vulnerability is its fear of achieving a state beyond its control by becoming totally involved in the present. During such a breakthrough experience, Self 1 becomes so absorbed in what’s happening that it stops thinking, fearing, doubting, instructing, congratulating, or analyzing. Though this quieting of the mind helps our performance immeasurably because of the resulting increase in awareness, it is a kind of dying for Self 1. After the experience is over, it is always surprised: Wow, I don’t believe it! Who was doing that skiing? How did it happen? Self 1 likes such skiing, of course, but not the fact that it occurred without any help from its voice. What would happen if the skier realized he didn’t need Self 1—for skiing or anything else?
Self 1 experiences a dilemma whenever we start to perform near the level of our highest expectations. It wants the excellence, but not the loss of self. It is a hard choice, but usually Self 1 chooses its own existence at the cost of excellence. Tim often gives an example from the tennis court of what he calls the three-ball player. This is the person who, after the ball has gone over the net three times, says nervously to himself, Wow, this is a long rally. Of course, fear ends the rally shortly after the player becomes conscious of how well he is doing.
This same self-consciousness exists in skiers as they begin to surpass their expected levels, and it originates in Self 1’s fear of flying. Having surrendered temporarily to Self 2’s control and skiing “out of one’s mind,” Self 1 intrudes itself on the scene and sabotages the breakthrough run. Very few of us can experience a peak performance for long without Self 1’s rushing in to admire, congratulate, take credit, or in some other way separate us from the experience. It’s as if Self 1 is saying to Self 2, Okay, you’ve had your fun, but I’m not going to let you run the show any longer.
After the initial amazement and congratulations, Self 1 then generally attempts to repeat the breakthrough experience, but this time under its own control. It starts thinking about how it happened and tries to make it happen again: Gee, I was really skiing out of my head … that was beautiful … I think I must have really been letting go and being more aggressive … I’ll just keep being aggressive … Okay, bend, weight, unweight, lean into it… attack. It isn’t the same experience with all those thoughts and all that straining, but at least Self 1 feels comfortable now that the reins are in his hands again. It is programmed to sacrifice the beauty for the known sense of control, the excellent for the familiar.
There is probably nothing so challenging as changing one’s means of self-control from Self 1 to Self 2. Learning new skills or new sports, or even learning to move in outer space, is nothing compared with the sense of the unknown when we change our way of controlling our bodies. Nothing is quite so beautiful as Self 2 action, and our dilemma is that we know this; we know it by the breakthrough moments when we left our minds and fell into the natural control of Self 2, the same self that produced the excellence and joys of our early childhood. To suddenly abandon Self 1 requires more courage than most of us have. But it is possible to do it gradually, and the more we come to trust Self 2, the more we lose our fear of flying.
Often when a skier is caught in Fear 1 he is so acutely conscious of his terror that it is difficult for him to focus attention on the slope. When the physiological symptoms of fear are overpowering, the skier often begins to be frightened of the fear itself: I know I can never ski a hill like this when I’m so petrified. At times like this, illusion can be decreased by focusing on the symptoms of the fear.
A good example of the power of such awareness occurred during a program Tim and I were giving to a group of three hundred skiers. Wanting to make his point by example, Tim asked how many people would be afraid to come up on stage and face the audience. About a hundred people raised their hands. Then he asked, “Of those who would be afraid to come up, how many would do it anyway, if I requested it?” About two-thirds raised their hands. “Of those who feel they are too terrified to come up here, is there one or two who’d be willing to do it for the sake of an experiment?” Tim asked. One hesitating hand was raised, and Tim encouraged a young, slightly overweight woman to come forward. Once onstage she didn’t face the audience, but stood sideways looking toward Tim, who asked her name and how she was feeling. “Barbara, and I’m scared to death!” she replied while blushing and giggling.
“Of what?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know—all I know is I’m petrified.” She was obviously more conscious of her fear than of the audience.
Tim asked, “How do you know you are afraid?”
Barbara looked surprised. “Because I feel it.”
“Where are these feelings located in your body?”
“Well, my heart is pounding and my face is hot, but mostly I can feel my knees trembling.”
“Are your knees shaking right now?” Tim asked.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, but I wish they’d calm down a bit.”
“If shaking as much as they possibly could were measured as ten and not shaking at all was zero, how much are your knees shaking?”
“About nine,” Barbara replied, but by now her voice was considerably more calm.
Tim asked if her heart was still pounding as hard and her face still as hot, then told her to focus her attention on her knees again.
“Huh, they’re down to about five,” said Barbara with surprise.
“All right,” said Tim, “let’s see what happens when you look out at the audience.”
Barbara turned and stared blankly at the sea of faces. “Wow, the knees just shot back up to ten.”
“Just keep looking out there and at the same time pay attention to your knees,” Tim suggested.
Soon Barbara’s knees were only at four or five, even though she was facing the audience.
“Where is the easiest place to look?” Tim asked.
Barbara stared at the back of the hall and reported that her knees were only at two. Then Tim asked her how far she could bring her eyes toward the front of the hall without an increase in the shaking. Her gaze came forward and stopped near the middle. “I can get about halfway,” she said in a voice that indicated that she was becoming absorbed in the experiment.
“What do you see there that makes your knees shake?” Tim asked.
“Some people aren’t smiling,” Barbara answered, and started to laugh.
“Point to the people who aren’t smiling,” Tim suggested.
When she did, everyone started to laugh, and Barbara joined in.
“Look at the front four rows.”
“Oops,” she said. “Back up to a four.”
“Look individually at the people in those seats,” Tim suggested.
Some of them started to wave at her, and soon Barbara was laughing again. “I feel great,” she said. “My fear is down to almost nothing.”
Barbara stayed onstage while Tim continued his discussion of fear. Fear is like pain, he suggested; not something bad in itself, but an indication from the body that something is the matter. Fear 2 indicates that there is a real and present danger and the need for greater alertness, whereas Fear 1 signals the presence of an illusion about some unreal, imagined danger. But it, too, calls for a heightening of awareness—an indication to get out of one’s concepts and return to what is. When recognized, both fears can be useful barometers.
There were questions from the audience, and finally one about the experiment with Barbara. Tim hesitated, as if thinking how best to answer the question, and then turned and asked Barbara to reply. Much to everybody’s surprise, Barbara gave a fluent and articulate answer, with poise, calmness, and no hesitation. Without the interference of Fear 1 she had become a different person; in fact, the change was so striking that some people thought the demonstration had been planned in advance. But Barbara knew that it hadn’t, and during the next break she came up to tell us that this had been one of the most important experiences of her life.
Awareness can focus on fear without fear. When we identify with fear we are afraid; when we identify with awareness we are that which is looking at the fear. This awareness is the part of us that is always calm, and it can be a helpful refuge when we are under attack by Fear 1.
As long as we identify with the parts of ourselves that change, inevitably we are subject to fear. To gain final freedom Socrates exhorted the individual to “know thyself.” Castaneda’s teacher, Don Juan, called those who attain this goal Men of Knowledge, pointing to the final destination of one who plays the Inner Game to win.