Oopss - 30 Years Later, the Question Is Still the Same

Thirty years.

Saying it like that feels pretty strange and, to be honest, it makes me a little emotional.

I left with my friend Ed. We were 21, and at that point in my life I was pretty lost. I had split up with a girl I loved very much about six months earlier, I had been under pressure with the final part of university, and I really didn’t have a very good way of studying. Though I put the hours in. I’d always been a little dyslexic, although I’ve never been diagnosed, and university wasn’t exactly a place where that made things easy for me.

It was a great university, a real cultural melting pot, and there were lots of things I loved about it. But I struggled with the academic system. During the long Christmas and Easter holidays, I would often still be studying while everyone else seemed to be able to switch off. And I drank too much too - it was part of the culture at the time, a way of loosening up. Anyway, that “safe haven” ended and “the world was my oyster”, as a family friend pointed out in a serendipitous moment.

I was very shy. Very. I found it difficult to look people in the eye and to really feel connected. I had friends, of course. During lunchtimes we used to play pinball Star Trek and we had become pretty bloody good at it. Then, in my final year, I finally found some people who were into the music I loved - jungle and drum and bass - and we started going out to clubs together in Birmingham.

So life was there. But somewhere inside I still felt there was something I hadn’t found.

And I had this huge desire to discover the world.

I knew almost nothing about life outside England, but I wanted to see what was out there. So I left with Ed 30 years ago today, and as soon as we landed in France, I cancelled my return ticket.

I had no plan.

Thirty years later, I realise that perhaps it wasn’t exactly the outside world I was looking for, though the outer helps us understand ourselves better.

It was something more internal.

What other ways are there to be in the world?

Over these thirty years I’ve lived many different lives. I’ve travelled quite a lot, lived in different places, done physical theatre, juggling, yoga, tai chi, music, acrobatics, clowning, festivals, teaching, retreats, permaculture, projects, failures and new beginnings.

I’ve been incredibly lucky to meet some extraordinary teachers, guides and mentors, and so many people who have helped me grow in one way or another.

Juggling became one of the strongest threads running through it all. At first I mainly taught technique, but gradually my classes became more and more creative. There was more movement, expression, play and improvisation.

And at some point I started to notice that something was happening to people.

They were happy. They felt freer, more present, more enthusiastic.

And it wasn’t simply because they had learned to juggle three balls.

For a long time I didn’t really understand the impact of what I was doing. Today I see it much more clearly. The work I do can transform people, although I realise that it’s difficult to say that without sounding exaggerated.

But what I see is that through play, movement, creativity and connection, people can rediscover enthusiasm, the desire to be here, to share, to take a few risks, to learn. Learning with enthusiasm and awakened curiosity just works much better.

Sometimes they simply rediscover a part of themselves that seemed to have got lost. Reflecting on it now, that’s what happened to me.

And perhaps this is the question that has accompanied me through all these years.

Because as soon as something becomes familiar, the mind says, “Ah, I know this.”

And once we think we already know, we stop really looking. We stop asking questions. We stop noticing the details, and the sense of wonder fades a little.

I want to keep coming back to that place where I don’t know yet. Where I can look at something I’ve seen a hundred times and ask myself:

“Is it really like that?”

Perhaps I wasn’t really interested in discovering everything there was to see in the world.

What interested me, and still interests me, is discovering different ways of being in the world.

And that exploration continues.

That’s one of the reasons I’d love to return to India. It will be my third time. And from January 10th to 31st, I’m organising a trip for a small group, starting in Varanasi and following in the footsteps of Hanuman.

But really, the journey will also be something else:

an opportunity to rediscover that part of ourselves that doesn’t change, that deeper joy that doesn’t depend on what is happening outside us.

We’ll meditate in temples, open our eyes to the colours, allow ourselves to be surprised, perhaps return to something of the innocent way children look at the world. We’ll practise.

And of course we’ll juggle.

If you don’t know how, if you want, you’ll learn.

Three balls, five balls, throw them in your bag and off we go.

At the same time, I feel a pull towards home. Towards Cornwall. Towards Penwith, that western tip where I grew up as a teenager and often go back to.

It’s a magical place.

Perhaps there is a journey to make there too. A pilgrimage.

Because pilgrimage doesn’t have to mean the Camino de Santiago. That’s one way of doing it, but there are so many others. Pilgrimage is in the travelling with a question and allowing a place to open you.

You can find your own.

I’m 51 now. And when I think about the next thirty years, I really can’t see them simply as a gradual descent towards the end.

I know people in their late 70s who are doing incredibly well and still have an enormous appetite for life. And just recently, in England, I met a 93-year-old lady with so much energy that it filled me with joy.

So perhaps we have no idea how much there is still left to discover.

And that’s also what I wish to communicate to folk over 50:

It’s not over.

You haven’t already seen everything. You don’t have to become a smaller version of yourself.

We can keep changing. We can make small changes that make our lives better. Not necessarily by doing more, but by doing things with more intention.

And especially by finding ways to do things together with other people.

You go faster alone. And there are things you need to do by yourself.

But having a shared vision, creating something together, surrounding yourself with people who still want to explore - that’s powerful.

I feel it in my work with Pearls of Juggling, but I feel it even more strongly in my work with Giocosamente.

A part of this important early story is told in my book Meeting Life, published in Italian as Giocare il gioco della vita. If you haven’t read it yet and this story makes you curious, you can get a copy here.

And if we’ve met somewhere along this thirty-year journey - through juggling, a workshop, a festival, Giocosamente, a trip, or simply a conversation - I’d really love to know what stayed with you from that encounter.

Often we don’t really know how things unfold and I’d love to hear your stories.

If something we’ve shared has touched you, opened something up, or made even a small part of your life better, I’d love to hear about it.

Thirty years ago I left without a plan.

I just wanted to discover.

And perhaps, after all this time, the most beautiful thing is that the question is still the same.

I don’t know exactly what is still out there.

And I don’t know exactly what is still in here.

But I still want to find out.

And the adventures are still there.

Thankfully.

Thank you for being here.

And before I sign off, please join our next mini adventure:
September 11–13 at Pianeta Verde (an Hour North of Rome):
Una Vita Vibrante - A Vibrant Life

Would love to see you thereAnthony