Yetsa Tuakli

Lesson 8: Handle Hurt(s)

By Yetsa Tuakli on Jun 14, 2015 in Handle Hurt(s), Lessons | 0 comments

A friend of mine, Ado*, is one of Africa’s most decorated sprinters. He grew up in the northern region of Ghana, a relatively underdeveloped and rural place where folks follow a simple, agrarian life ideal for producing self-reliance and resourcefulness. When he was 5 years old, Ado found himself on a pier playing with older neighborhood boys. The river was large and dark. He’d never seen such a vast body of water before so he peered over the edge of the pier. As he did, one of the older boys shoved him into the deep water “as a joke.” Unable to swim and terrified, he flailed, swallowed what seemed like gallons of water and tried to scream… He almost drowned to death. Eventually, some of the older boys pulled him out. He clamored onto the pier, coughed, sputtered, shook water out of his ears and shivered, but he was neither sad nor angry. He was determined. He stood up. In that moment, all he could see, all he could hear and all he could think about was the river itself. He squinted at it, pursed his lips, walked over to the edge of the pier and spat in it, oblivious to the jeering boys behind him. “Next time we meet,” he said to it, “I’m going to save myself.” When Ado told me this story, I knew I’d just learned how and why he’d ascended to such incredible athletic heights. His is an attitude some would call “the heart of a champion.” In that moment, his was a gaze some might describe as “the eye of the tiger.” Others would call him plain crazy. Naïve, maybe. But imagine a skinny little kid standing next to a seeming endless expanse of water – an unfamiliar, dark, swollen and life-threatening body endowed with the unmatched power and unforgiving force of Mother Nature herself, and determining to take it on. That which almost killed him, he was determined to subdue, to conquer, to rise above. What grit. What resolve. What vigor. What commitment to doing the work that we’re so often inclined to shy away from – work that induces not only fear, but legitimate terror, maximum vulnerability and certain uncertainty in us (for good reason). And what faith. You see, the ability to squarely look at something that has hurt you – and in some cases, almost killed you, takes a certain modicum of wisdom, composure, self-reliance and courage. Then, the ability to go from squarely looking at it to making a decision to conquer it… Now this takes something more. This takes the faith that despite appearances (small boy versus mighty river), (1) you have everything you need to handle what has hurt you, (2) you were built to go through these types of trials and (3) that thing, person, situation, place, relationship, challenge, etc. is precisely (and maybe exclusively) the training ground you need to develop the skills you need to save yourself – from it and from any/every foe to come, real or imagined. Re-telling Ado’s story always brings a tear to my eye, elevates a tiny lump in my throat and/or erects goose-bumps up and down both of my arms. It reminds me to stop running from and start walking up to those rivers; to calmly square my shoulders and simply decide, with faith: when (not if) we meet again, I’ll have developed the skills I need to handle that which has hurt, and in some cases almost killed me. Sometimes (not always!), what doesn’t kill us renews our focus and allows us to become more skilled with the precise skills we need to navigate, and even enjoy every river we’re blessed to face. *name changed Share this:EmailFacebookLinkedInLike this:Like...

Lesson 7: Love The Mirror

By Yetsa Tuakli on Mar 8, 2015 in Lessons, Love The Mirror (Not That Kind) | 0 comments

Most sprinters have a low center of gravity (clear exception: “Insane” Bolt). Most distance runners are slender. And most jumpers are tall. This is something that’s bothered me forever because, well, I’m just not! 5’5” (on a good day) is certainly above average height for an average modern woman but it’s below average for a jumper. So when my motivation wanes and I look around for inspiration, it hardly ever helps to look at other people in my event since most of them look nothing like me! Except Alice.* She’s not a horizontal jumper but she’s a petite, elite athlete with a storied career in an event dominated by tall people. Looking at Alice is like looking in a mirror – and sports psychologists would say that this simple observation (that we are alike) is a powerful tool for confidence building. The principle of “vicarious experience” gives us a clue as to why. Alice is one of those friends you don’t need to see all the time to maintain a powerful connection to. She’s laid back and funny but fierce, having accomplished everything I aspire to accomplish through sport (and in many ways, life). She’s been to multiple World and Olympic Games representing her island nation, and she’s pushed through slumps in motivation, external doubters and serious physical set-backs, to perform high in her athletic potential consistently, over time (over more than a decade!). When she retired last year, I asked her about her journey and she said, simply, “every year, people said I was done [for one reason or another]. But I decided ‘that’s not the way this is going to go’…” She decided. Using a decision as a weapon is another topic all together (take a mental note of that concept), and Alice has certainly exemplified that but I won’t linger there. In terms of her physical size (height, weight, proportions), Alice is exactly like me! Recently, she was in the area (for a track meet of course) so we had dinner together. I greeted Alice with a huge hug and as I did, I suddenly remembered, she’s tiny! I felt like I was hugging a high school student or maybe a slimmer, slighter and slightly younger sister. Her untouchable athletic resume makes her seem larger than life in the mind’s eye, but amazingly, she’s my size. Beyond that, she’s the same complexion as me, we have similar hairstyles, we have similar smiles (the kinds that completely overtake our faces) and our dreams are about the same size. All of these similarities are important for vicarious experience to work. There are roughly 6 major sources of self-confidence as it relates to sport: Performance accomplishments (“I did it before, I’ll do it again”) Vicarious experience (experienced through others, explained more below…) Verbal persuasion (positive talk from self, coaches, trainers, family, etc.) Control of psychological state (preventing excess anxiety) Emotional state (clearly needs to be regulated!) Imagery experience (multisensory images of successful performance) Vicarious experience involves deriving self-confidence from watching someone else perform successfully – and this is especially effective when that person has qualities or abilities that closely match your own. Every time I re-connect with Alice, I feel re-charged primarily because as she speaks, I see myself. Inevitably, our conversations meander over to all things track-related from coaches, to teammates, competitions, wardrobe malfunctions and “track hair.” She’s a great friend from whom I learn so much and deeply respect but unlike other friends who have had similar success on the track, she consistently motivates me to be and do better. Much better. My best. I think it’s precisely because she is similar to me in physique and in perspective that vicarious experience kicks in. Sure, there are expressions about water finding its own level and the importance of getting in where you fit in, and they speak to the same general idea. But these expressions are devoid of a critical ingredient: motivation to achieve higher and re-imagine yourself… Better. In the art of flight and of life, chose your mirrors wisely and love them! Your mirrors need to be achievers who are like you in some obvious way (be it physique, vision, favorite colors, sense of humor, upbringing, personal style, smile, nationality). They will do more than simply reflect who you are now; they will motivate you to become a better version of yourself by showing you it’s possible, no matter your size. When you find a mirror that consistently reminds you who you are and what’s possible just as you are, cherish it. *Note: ‘Alice’ isn’t her real name Share this:EmailFacebookLinkedInLike this:Like...

We’ve all had “that coach.” The one whose voice we can still hear. The one we invite to our wedding(s?). The one who changed the way we play and the way we see ourselves. By the time I joined the track team in 7th grade, Milton Academy’s Coach Richard Buckner was already a legend. He spoke like a Southern Baptist preacher, his booming voice shouting splits just as easily as it shouted proverbs; he dressed like a retired beatnik, his knitted skull caps seldom matching his tees, ties, shirts and slacks, his sneakers a clear nod to some prior decade; and he controlled his team like a seasoned army captain, setting strict rules and high expectations, even for a newbie 7th grader like me. Everyone was afraid of him, but everyone performed for him. Amazingly, though we were a small, private school that did not recruit track athletes, year after year, no matter who he was working with, Coach Buckner produced league champions. Sometimes it was the entire team (the women’s team more regularly than the men’s team), and at others, it was individual athletes. I used to think we were just a really talented group of athletes but I realize now that we were an average group of kids with a spectacular coach. Coach Buckner was a formidable presence in every room, at every competition, at every practice and on every bus ride. I will never forget his voice or his words — still rely on them today. http://www.theartofflight.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Buckner-2.mp4 In the winter, we trained in the wrestling room and the dreaded part of every practice, “Six Inches,” always came last. The entire men’s and women’s teams would lay on our backs, legs stretched out straight, fists resting under our glutes, heads and necks relaxed, and we’d wait for our command: “Six Inches!” With a collective heave and guttural groans, we’d raise our legs 6 inches off the floor and freeze. Coach Buckner would start pacing through the room, slowly weaving his way through outstretched bodies with one arm resting on the small of his back like a rudder and the other stretched out in front of him like a staff, as he spoke. That sweaty wrestling room was one of his many pulpits. His booming voice would start quietly, reflectively, every time: “The race does not belong to the swiftest… Nor the battle to the strong… Kurt! Get those legs down an inch!… But to he who endures until the end… Beatrice! Straighten them legs up!… This Saturday, we got North Field Mount Herman… Bus leaves at 6 am sharp… It’s a dual meet but (chuckling), mmmhmm… It’s gonna be a battle. It’s gonna be a battle… Andre! Legs uuuup!… They got the ISL champion in the quarter mile, so that means you, Miss Wendell, are gonna have to bring all you got, it’ll be the race of your life… Yetsa! Get ‘em up!… They got Sarah McDowell, she’s already jumped near 18 feet this season as a freshman… Yetsa? (chuckling) She. Is. Not. Playing with you!…” And he’d go on like that for minutes at a time, calmly preaching and pacing, like a drill sergeant practicing elocution. Legs would shake, feet would drop, faces would grimace, loud gasps would escape in staccato bursts, moans and groans gurgled through the room, but he remained unaffected, calmly preaching and pacing… “It’s a battle, folks! Legs down.” THUD! A few whimpers. The assistant coaches would come around checking on us (making sure we were still alive) and the whole thing would start again, “Six Inches!” HEAVE! One of his favorite phrases to preach was “Maintain Contact!” He’d shout these two words during practice and competition alike, indicating to the runners at the back of the pack that they couldn’t allow too large a gap to form between themselves and the pace-setters. He said it in his usual unique way: both syllables in “maintain” were delivered in a low monotone, and the “-tact” of “contact,” was emphasized in a rallying crescendo: “mayyne-taaane.. conTACT!” In 7th grade, I was one of about 2-3 young runners consistently grouped with the seniors (gulp!). For longer speed endurance intervals (200m, 250m, 300m, etc.), I knew at some point I’d hear Coach Buckner’s “mayyne-taaane.. conTACT!” as I struggled to stick with the stronger, faster runners. His voice cut through the air like a knife, scaring and motivating me at the same time. “All you have to do is maintain contact,” I’d tell myself as my legs and lungs burned. I’d pick something to stare at – a logo or a pattern on the back of one of the seniors’ tee-shirts, fix my eyes on it and tell myself “all you have to do is stay close enough to read that… Maintain contact…” and we’d get through the interval. That cue, “maintain contact” was effective because it challenged us just enough to step up to a daunting task, and an impossible goal, and feel that we could control one small aspect of it. As a 7th grader, it was daunting to run with seniors and it felt impossible to overtake them. But it was possible to at the very least, maintain contact. So in the midst of real fear and a perceived threat (you best believe I was trembling and nauseous every time I stepped up to the starting line with those seniors!), I could focus on Coach...

Lesson 5: Give Them A Show!

By Yetsa Tuakli on Feb 1, 2015 in Give Them A Show, Lessons | 1 comment

Operative word: Give. Showmanship isn’t something we automatically associate with generosity. But at the Handel and Haydn Society’s fall concert at Boston’s prestigious Jordan Hall, I did. It’s hardly a conventional venue in which to have an epiphany about sports and performance. But for me, it was there that the ‘aha moment about showmanship finally (finally!) settled on my heart, a lot like the Rosetta spacecraft landing on a comet. The concept of showmanship had been hovering around it’s moving target (i.e. me!) for years waiting for the precise moment it needed to engage it’s landing gear and latch on. I’d alternate between embracing and rejecting showmanship and bravado in the context of performance; I simply didn’t know how I felt about it. But as I sat in one of Boston’s historic music halls, taking in a Handel and Haydn Society concert, suddenly, I did. The group’s newest principle violinist has flaming red hair, cut into a spiky pixie; struts across the stage like she may have recently been on America’s Next Top Model (only she’s Canadian); and wears a signature black tuxedo jacket and slacks. And she plays the violin like a boss. She is a true virtuoso with literally jaw-dropping talent (I peeked around at the audience during the performance just to check if mine was the only jaw that had involuntarily descended, and of note, it wasn’t). Her brand, a funky personal style combined with incredible musical ability, is compelling. What struck me most about the performance, however, was her showmanship. At the end of each piece, she would turn squarely to the audience, raise both arms high above her head (100+ year-old violin in tow), toss her head back with a smile-laugh-grin, and violently shake both out-stretched arms, beckoning the audience to celebrate with her. She was like the proverbial “hype man.” I’ve seen the same thing done by a running back after scoring a TD or by a midfielder after scoring a goal, it’s a move that is often accompanied by either an exuberant “come on!!!!!!!!” or “let’s go!!!!!!!!!” It’s what you do to let the crowd know you came to play and are doing just that. Sure, we expect to see football and basketball players demonstrate some degree of hype-man bravado, but a classically trained violinist? Not as much. So as I sat there watching this incredible talent, and found myself (like everyone in Jordan Hall that evening) enjoying, truly delighting in the show, I realized what giving your audience a show really is – a gift. In the context of real-time artistic and creative performance (singing in a concert hall, playing in a Superbowl, walking down a fashion runway, racing down a track runway), putting on a show gives your audience an opportunity to share in the moment your art creates – and to fully enjoy it with you. It goes without saying that as a performer, the privilege of getting caught up in a moment of showmanship requires that you first prepare, perfect and execute your art well. Once you’ve done that (without flair, but with focus), taking a moment to “flex,” in the context of a performance, is like being a considerate host. Your audience didn’t come to see a non-show. They didn’t leave work and home, part with money and time, to be unimpressed. No. They came to see talent and for many, that is enough. But the savvy performer (I now see), gives more. She over-delivers by adding bravado, flair and flourish to the experience. In so doing, she joins her audience in jubilant celebration of the moment. More than that, she gives them permission to truly revel in the moment; a fleeting moment filled temporarily with great classical music, athleticism, or song; a moment that is worth celebrating. American business magnate Russell Simmons was once asked about his creative process — how he came up with hits and how those hits made Def Jam what it is today. In the early days he said, he’d think more about what he could give, rather than what he could get. He’d start by thinking about how many people his music would touch. He’d think ‘so-and-so would love this track’ or, ‘when the guys hear this, they are going to go crazy!’ or ‘wait until they hear this; they are going to love it!’ He thought about the size of the smiles his music would put on people’s faces, how his music would rouse family and friends to move (tapping feet, bobbing heads) – he saw his music as a talent he could share; a gift. The concept of showmanship hasn’t always felt comfortable to me. We’re socialized to be appropriate and composed vessels of self-restraint, in a way. Especially girls. It often feels like an unspoken rule that it’s more acceptable (and praised!) to be demure rather than domineering, shy rather than showy, but shyness is a sort of vanity, isn’t it? In the context of performance, shyness or a cautious withholding of your true self is in a sense ungenerous rather than generous, selfish rather than selfless and vainglorious rather than humble. In the words of the wise, ain’t nobody got time for dat. Your audience didn’t come to be underwhelmed, they came to see something spectacular! They left work and home, parted with money and time to meet you at a venue...

Lesson 4: Improvise (Be Humble)

By Yetsa Tuakli on Jan 18, 2015 in Improvise (Be Humble), Lessons | 0 comments

Humility comes in many forms and flavors. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a charismatic Fortune 500 businessman eating a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. John Carrington* met me at a small Manhattan café to discuss business, or at least so I thought. After a storied career in finance, a 55-year marriage and a meteoric ascension from small beginnings in Astoria to international corporate fame, he was now the Chairman of numerous high-profile boards with generous budgets and global reach. He had what’s called “wasta” in Arabic: influence, clout, pull, power, swag with a capital “S.” He was the kind of guy who walked into a room and pulled the room’s energy his way. First, he was 6’4” with military posture and big mits. A handshake from John typically involved him leaning down, smiling, and offering the recipient a somewhat inflated version of 5 fingers and a soft palm (his mits, in part, made him a high school basketball standout). Second, his intense sky-blue eyes twinkled when he smiled (nothing to do with cataract surgery, mind you) and locked on their target like lasers. If you weren’t careful, and didn’t peer past his stylish spectacles (or better yet, catch him in profile view), you might miss the fact that John was actually studying whatever he was looking at; his gaze, unwavering and his silent analysis, comprehensive. Third, he smiled and/or chuckled almost continuously. Continuously! ‘But,’ I thought… ‘Rich people laugh all the time.’ My litmus test for why they are laughing is whether or not the smile includes or does not include the eyes (eyes included = safe; eyes not included = disconcerting). At times it seems condescending/bullying (“I could buy you, everything in this room, this building and even this block…! This amuses me…! Mmwahahahaha…!”), at others, nervous (“OMG, what if I’m not as perfect as my hair/nails/jewels/suits/shoes/cars/houses suggest – and worse, people find out?!?! Ha. Ha. Ha?”), and at others, social but false (“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to laugh along with everyone now so I’m, um, laughing… chuckle, chuckle… And throwing my head back for effect… chuckle, chuckle…”). But John’s laugh started and ended with his eyes. It was as though joy – the unshakable kind, had taken up residence in his face and the laugh lines flanking his intense blue eyes were it’s badges of honor. We sat down to talk about a business proposition. So naturally, after “hello, it’s great to see you John, oh, and thank you for coming on a Tuesday…” I hastily opened my laptop and offered to show him my presentation. He stopped me. No. He was sure it was excellent. But he’d rather we just get to know each other. I blinked rapidly (confused, mildly flustered), cleared my throat (composing myself), swallowed (submitting to the request), sat back in my chair and put my laptop away (proposition accepted). Ok. We’d “get to know each other.” Hm… This might be nice. He opened with how he met his wife (in high school, on a subway car, and the rest was a beautiful 55-year history), he remembered the searing pain of having lost an adult child to a rare disease (tears still well up), he confided that when he met me, something about me made him think we shared the same faith (we did), and he described the various charitable boards he chairs. And so it went. We talked not about what we would do but who we were and how we’d become that way – our life journeys. I used my ears and eyes in the proportion they were given me (listened > spoke) and all the while, I knew I wanted to be around this giving spirit, this battle-tested (and scarred) vessel of gratitude for as long as I could – that day and long into the future. Then our food came. He ordered a hard-boiled egg and oatmeal, I opted for Nutella hot chocolate and a sandwich. He was in the middle of telling me his keys to success… Respect everyone (title or no title) Integrity at all costs People respond to your energy, not your accolades Take risks …when suddenly, he realized he had no knife. The server had given him a spoon (for the oatmeal) but no knife (for the egg). I frequented this little café almost daily for the better part of a year so I was used to hiccups (no fork, no napkin, no sugar, no pepper) so I said I knew where to grab a knife. I started to get up. He immediately chuckled and gestured for me to sit down, “oh, no, no, no,” he said, grabbing the spoon, “I’ll improvise,” and he hurriedly went back to his sermon… Answer directly to the boss Help as many people as you can Build a home to “come home” to And so it went. He preached about life and success, his journey and lessons learned while cracking the egg-shell with the back of his spoon, “cutting” it up with the front and eating his oatmeal with the same spoon. All in one fell swoop. I smiled. Improvise. In that moment, he taught me much more than how to creatively eat an egg when the implements you are used to are not available. His reaction in that moment spoke volumes about who...