JUGGLING PHILOSOPHICALLY

By Barrett L. Dorko

 

Two years ago I got an old bowling ball as a gag gift at Christmas. Although I live in a hotbed of ten-pin activity, it never occurred to me that I might use it to win a beer at the lanes. No, I'm a juggler, and however else an object might be seen by normal people, I always consider its potential for manipulation. How might I throw this? How might I catch it? What will happen if I don't catch it?

 

All jugglers share this fascination with manipulating inanimate objects. No matter what they may eventually do with it, their initial desire is to experience juggling alone, to feel the solitary sensation of risk and triumph that forms the act. We seek the repetition of risk, and then once we've conquered it we seek more risk. As far as I can tell, the only thing separating jugglers from non-jugglers is that the former keep picking up their drops and the latter quit while they're behind.

 

When someone says to me, "Teach me how to juggle," they aren't asking to become a performer or competitor. They want to feel this thing called juggling. They want to augment their natural senses with something that appears impossible, graceful, magical, and fun.

 

Juggling, like life itself, deserves a philosophy. Since I know of no one working on one, we will have to resort to something quite familiar to our community - we'll simply steal one.

 

The philosophy I have in mind is that of phenomenology - "the careful study of lived experience, as experienced by the experiencer." I love this definition. It is as confusing mentally as Mill's Mess is physically!

 

Simply thinking about how to juggle has a very limited effect. Edmund Husserl (the father of phenomenology) reminds us "(it) demands a direct personal production of the pertinent phenomenon." Likewise, Steve Cohen implores us in his book to "just juggle" and fight the tendency to worry about the outcome. It is the zen-like present moment that fundamentally comprises the act as well as the observation of juggling.

 

Perhaps this is why the written description of a performance falls flat, no matter how inspired the writing might have been. Descriptions are quantitative and phenomenology requires the personal experience that helps us see it more fully and deeply.

 

I took that bowling ball and I found a way of feeling relative to it that was sufficiently safe and powerful to permit a throw and a catch. I added two more, and eventually achieved the ultimate in juggling: to have my picture taken and put in the paper.

 

Was this a feat of strength? I think not. I worked to find what Behnke calls my "pivotal bearing," the place from which I can direct action accurately. Jugglers handling a new toy (this includes anything that can be thrown) will not only find out how it exists, but also how they exist in relation to it. Juggling is their way of continually altering that relationship through­out a spectrum bordered by safety at one end and disaster at the other end.

 

We seek to enrich our rela­tionship with the objects around us by inviting them to play with our muscles and sensory receptors, by working against gravity and over­coming it (albeit briefly) with electricity (the underlying power that drives our human muscles).

And all this time you thought you were just throwing things around, huh? Remember, you're not just a juggler, you're automatically a phenomenologist. The next time somebody comes up to you and says, "I want to be a phenomenologist," you can answer them, "You've come to the right place."

 

(Barrett Dorko is a physical therapist in Akron, Ohio, and trainer of the Rubber City Jugglers.)

 

Suggested Reading:

Body Learning by Michael Gelb, Delilah

The Juggling Book by Carlo, Vintage

Just Juggle by Steve Cohen, McGraw-Hill

"The Philosopher's Body" by Elizabeth Behnke in Somatics Vol. 3 No.4 1982 ("Somatics" may be obtained by writing Novato, CA) For additional work on this subject write: Study Project in Phenomenology of the Body; Elizabeth Behnke Ph.D., Coordinator; Felton, CA.