Transitional moments are difficult for all of us. Whether the change involves the intensity of the loss of a loved one or the end of a marriage, or the more mundane rattle of moving, starting a new job, or changing schools - the feeling of groundlessness, of not having a sure footing in a strange new land, challenges our brittle sense of control and can either drive us to utter nervous exasperation or inspire a wellspring of creativity. In my time living in Europe, I experienced both sides of the equation, but more than anything else I came out of the experience with a deeper understanding of the unavoidable transience which rules our lives. Our landmarks are always drifting into the past. There are bound to be moments in which we feel lost in space, and much of our professional, artistic, and competitive lives will be determined by how we react to those moments. 

	I believe that there are many times in which we cower from change when we could also embrace the unknown as a chance for personal growth or inspired creativity. Think of all those moments in which something unusual or surprising happened and instead of checking it out you either turned the other way or judged it harshly and with a closed mind. If we don't understand something, our instinct is usually to ignore or reject it because there is no box in our existing logical framework to conveniently slip it into. New ideas are scary, but they can also be exhilarating. Imagine your self as a floating sphere and your existing conceptual framework as a huge glob that holds onto most of the sphere leaving only a small edge of your consciousness in the open to receive and possibly process new phenomena. Really try to envision your consciousness in that physical sense. Now imagine the glob falling away from your sphere and try to experience the feeling of being wide open to all the new sensations of psychic groundlessness. Isn't this a tantalizing image? What is there to be afraid of?

	I remember sitting on a lake in Bad Wiesee Germany with my dear friend Maurice Ashley. It was during that same period of time in which I was living in Slovenia, and Maurice and I met in Germany to play in a two week tournament (the annotated game against Pavel Blatny was played in the last round of this event). He traveled from NY, and I from Slovenia - a distant reunion of lost brothers. We were discussing our lives. It was a brooding time for me. I was learning about life, far from home, and was in the tumult of a long-distance relationship. All of my connections to loved ones felt more like fantasy than reality. I was young and had been on the road for so long that America was a hazy memory. I remember telling Maurice that I couldn't envision a possible way that all the complications of my life could unravel into happiness. Everywhere I looked there were clouds, and I simply couldn't escape the gloom. When I described this, Maurice started speaking, and I looked up at the snow-capped mountain on the other side of the lake and recalled a story I once heard of a boy trying to see over a tall hill. However he tilted his head, and strained his imagination there was no way he could know what was over that hill - until one day he climbed it and what lay beyond was crystal clear. This simple image has always been very powerful to me in moments of unclarity. We are looking at the world from the height we have climbed - but from no higher. And tomorrow we will have a different perspective. 

	The acceptance of the fundamental groundlessness of our consciousness can help us embrace the struggle and mystery of life instead of clinging to recognizable answers and landmarks. For a chess player, it is absolutely crucial to flow with the rhythm of the game. My grandmother always told me to be a leaf in the wind, dancing to the rippling currents that many are too callused to even notice. When we are always looking for a judgement, for a label to place on a chess position or life moment, then we are in danger of missing the unique nuances of now. When we are open receptors, we can soak in the wonder of life with every breath.  

	The different responses to the feeling of being lost in space can make or break a performer or competitor's career, and I would recommend a relationship to the present moment that helps to fight the hang-ups of materialistic or egoistic attachment. If we don't believe in our ability to function without the safety net of having memorized a certain amount of opening moves or of being in a pawn structure that we know well, then we will be fish out of water when the unknown inevitably presents itself. On the other hand, if we simply stay in the moment and eagerly explore each new situation as it arises, then we will be far more resilient. The more we are attached to the last position, the more clouded our understanding of the present one will be. If we can flow with the immediacy of now as artists, competitors, or human beings, I think that there will be tremendous enjoyment and success. Here are a couple examples where I floated, with varying degrees of success, in chess positions that felt so bizarre that I may just as well have been lofting through space. Notice how the decisive factor was not so much chess ability as peace of mind in very unusual situations.