If I'm on my skateboard, coasting toward a curb with intentions to ollie up on top of it, I can watch the curb and begin to think about timing it, and then notice how fast I'm going, I get worried and mess up every time. But if I let the curb fade into the peripheral, and focus on the skateboard under my feet, and think about performing tried and true technique, I surprise myself by putting it right on top of the curb where it should be. I had trouble with math because I could never bring myself to trust the formulas. It wasn't enough that they demonstrably functioned to generate correct answers. Because I couldn't understand why they worked, I couldn't bring myself to commit to them. I've since learned that it is okay to trust the mathematical geniuses who've understood more than I ever will and have graciously left their methods behind for us to follow. Though I once regarded formal education as an inhibitor to creativity, I now see that learning and applying techniques, whether they be epistemological or martial arts, is conducive to freedom and spontaneity. Ensuring that we commit ourselves to the correct techniques, then, is critical. So I begin with reason to discern the technique which has taken its masters the highest, and following reason is a decision to place my faith in this technique. Faith is not careening toward the curb wildly hoping I can ollie it. Faith is concentrating on what I've been taught and shown, knowing what I must do and doing it.