tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84236330498706628612024-03-14T04:43:04.625-07:00The Athlete WayWritten by and for women in sportRachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-65404613029715613842022-12-19T11:05:00.010-08:002022-12-19T11:34:09.222-08:00Brilliance In the Biggest Moment<p><br /></p><p><i><span> </span>Thank you, Grant Wahl, for opening my eyes to the magic of soccer and importance of storytelling. May I have the courage to do the same for the sport that pulses within me. </i></p><p><span> </span>Name a better drama than sport. I’ll wait. </p><p><span> </span>The only thing that I can think of that compares to the epic drama of sport is, well, life. Sport is life, in all of its beauty and messiness (feel free to read Messi-ness). The twists and turns of fate. The emotional rollercoaster. The confrontation with the best in us and the worst in us. The relationships. The succeeding. The failing. The beginning. The ending. The quest for greatness. The falling short. The rising. The losing. The finding. The redemption. The prevailing. The grappling. The unknown.</p><p><span> </span>Sport evokes awe and wonder and madness. It captivates the soul. </p><p><span> </span>Yesterday, in the Men's World Cup Final, two soccer stars were pitted against each other in the biggest moment of their careers, and in an event that may go down as the pen-ultimate sporting event in history and set against the back drop of conflict (not just any conflict but the prevailing conflict in human history, money and power versus human rights), these stars - Messi and Mbappe - and their teammates, delivered. They shined with breath-taking brilliance. </p><p><span> </span>Captivated, mouth agape, I watched in awe as the drama unfolded. The more awe I felt, the more I thought of Grant Wahl and how cruel the hand of fate had been to him and his family. That he wasn't there, in the stadium, in the flesh, to witness this miraculous unfolding, and tell us how to deepen our understanding of it.</p><p><span> </span>I didn't know Grant, yet I followed his storytelling. Somehow his story-telling made me feel like I knew him. I trusted his voice. It was honest, passionate, and relentlessly pure. His voice made me want to follow soccer. He opened my eyes to the magic of the game. He helped me see the human thread weaving through it. I felt equal parts invitation and biblical-type decree in his storytelling. His words seemed to decipher a secret language for us. </p><p><span> </span>As I watched, I thought about what Grant would see, and what he would write. I can't even pretend to know. I feel such cruel anguish that we will never know. But what I do know is that yesterday, it was the love that captivated me the most. The love of a a passionate and devout nation pouring itself completely into the hope of a man, named Messi, wearing the number ten.. The love of the players for a game that pulsed in their veins. The love of the fans who clung to their seats and watched through tears. The love for the game. The sport. For life. ; I could see the love because Grant showed me the love. </p><p><span> </span>Grant's storytelling is what I brought me to this moment. Storytellers are the code-breakers who help us decipher the beauty and brilliance of sport. They position us perfectly to understand the great unfolding of the drama; they help us appreciate and understand the arcs of our favorite characters. They help us understand how each character has come to this precise moment in time, and how each decision will define the future. </p><p><span> </span>Sport is the greatest form of storytelling. When you watch a sport, you watch the ending write itself. You watch the magic unfold. Without the storytellers, we could not marvel at the mastery or muse in the mystery. </p><p><span> Without storytellers, w</span>e would be blind to the brilliance in the biggest moments. We would not be able to see the magic. I think about all the magic that we are missing in women's sport because we don't have storytellers teaching us how to see the magic.</p><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-77544914681941869262022-12-17T13:05:00.016-08:002022-12-19T07:28:00.340-08:00You Won't Find God in Target<p><i>The holiday season is upon us, and as we search for presents, I hope we remember what's at the heart of our searching; a higher power that won't be found stacked on the shelves of Target. </i></p><p><i>What are we actually looking for when we are looking for God? Maybe, we just want to say that we don't have the answers. We need help.</i></p><p>I’ve been searching for God lately. I’ve looked everywhere. Scrolled for God on my phone. Googled God on the internet. Shopped for God in Target. Listened for God in Taylor Swift’s lyrics. Watched for God in every practice, every play, every game. Read for God in the bible. I've told myself that I'll find God in a new job, new relationship or new place. </p><p>I know it sounds ridiculous. But it's true. I've wandered aimlessly around Target looking for something greater only to realize that the thing I'm looking for can't be found in Target. I'm looking for inspiration, meaning, connection, purpose, holiness, sacredness. I'm looking for help. I'm looking for God.</p><p>I used to imagine God as some big, almighty thing, but lately, I think maybe God is much simpler than that. God is something more honest, pure, and true; and the truest, most honest, pure thing feels like acknowledging the fact that I am looking for God. I'm looking for something greater because I need something greater. Greater than my own understanding and power. More than hope, I'm looking for help because life is hard. </p><p>The search for God isn’t about finding God but about acknowledging our need for there to be a God; acknowledging our vulnerability and meekness in a world that constantly tells us to lean on our own intellect, wealth and power. </p><p>This holiday season, let yourself look for God - and when you don’t immediately find God on the shelves of Target, remind yourself that God and grace lives in the humility that leads to the looking - the realization that we need God. We need help. We need each other.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-58249415380778041462022-12-08T11:52:00.094-08:002022-12-17T09:39:35.135-08:00In the End, There's Love<p><span><i>This is dedicated to a teacher and coach who challenged me to live the lessons she taught. Thank you, Coach Shelton.</i></span></p><p></p><p><span><span> </span>After 42 years, </span>Karen Shelton retired. I still can’t believe it is true. When I first saw the post, I scrolled quickly passed it, thinking it was another celebration post - the type that has become customary to Tar Heel fans over the past decade of Carolina Field Hockey dominance. A few seconds later, something made me pause. There was something more in that post. So I went back and read it fully. </p><p><span></span></p><span> </span>My stomach dropped. My eyes welled with tears. A flood of emotions overcame me. Indescribable emotions. <p></p><p>There was shock. This is really happening.</p><p>There was grief. This is the end of an era. An end that always seemed unfathomable. I can't imagine a Carolina (or recruiting sideline) without Karen Shelton (and Willy) leading it.</p><p>There was love. The love surprised me the most. That it was still there, beating strong, after the years of hard times, difficult conversations, avoided interactions and stubborn wills. The love gutted me and left me speechless.</p><p>Life and relationships are complex. My time at Carolina was complex. My relationship with Karen was complex. There was always push and pull. I always wanted her admiration and respect. I wanted her to understand and accept me for who I was - passionate, introspective, determined, and creative. By my senior season, she gave me the acceptance and trust that I longed for. </p><p>Karen Shelton is a teacher to me; she not only taught me lessons, but challenged me to live those lessons. She helped me learn to trust my own voice and beliefs by challenging me to stand up for what I believed in, to be an advocate for myself and others.</p><p>When Karen came on a home visit to New Jersey my Senior year of high school, she told me two things. First, she told me that she would eat anything my mom made except for liver and onions, and second, she told me she wouldn’t kiss my ass to come to Carolina. </p><p>We both kept our promises. My mom didn’t make liver and onions, and Karen never kissed my ass to go to Carolina or to stay there. </p><p>The Carolina Field Hockey program I went to in 2003 was very different than the Carolina Field Hockey program that we know today. It was Carolina in between the decades of dominance. It was a Carolina team in need of new uniforms (those cotton kilts were a tragedy; they looked more like drapes than skirts). It was a program trying to figure out who it was again after the unprecedented success of the mid-90s. The program was led by a legendary leader in the midst of her own coaching transformation. A mother with a teenage son. A woman trying to reimagine what success looks like for her program in the new millennium.</p><p>There was nothing easy about that transformation. There were a lot of hard times. Lots of doubt and uncertainty. There were a lot of hiccups. There was a never ending battle of wills. There was also a lot of passion for the game of field hockey, and Carolina, too. A desire to redefine who Carolina Field Hockey would become in the next decade. A desire for excellence with no guarantee that we'd ever discover it. </p><p>I am grateful to have come through Carolina at that time. For the opportunity to have traveled those years with Coach Shelton. I am grateful to have witnessed the remarkable evolution and transformation of Coach Shelton and the program. To have seen through the years what she built. Most of all, I am grateful to have seen the joy in the eyes of this year's champions.</p><p>My friend Laurel said it best, “Life is so complex and fascinating. It’s amazing that love wins out even after everything.”</p><p>In the end, it is the love for Carolina, field hockey and Coach that wins out.</p><p>Thank you for all you've given Karen. Thank you for challenging me to be brilliant and thank you for helping me find my voice. </p><p>In the end, there is, and always will be, love. </p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-85686838121160258692022-12-07T07:36:00.017-08:002022-12-11T07:39:41.553-08:00Gifts for Her: The Female Coach<p>The holiday season is upon us and that means the season of endless gift searching for the important people in your life. So what do you gift that ever so incredible coach who has hustled all year to help her athletes thrive? Well, beyond the customary ‘Best Coach Ever’ coffee mug (which she totally deserves), we've put together a gift list that will help her stay legendary in her everyday life.</p><p>This list will inspire you to think fab and functional. <i>If you have a gift item that should be on the list, let us know and we will add it.</i></p><p><span></span></p><a href="http://theathleteway.blogspot.com/2022/12/gifts-for-her-female-coach.html#more"></a>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-24559878114098570702022-12-01T06:42:00.211-08:002022-12-06T14:19:27.509-08:00Culture: It's Behaviors not Branding<p>Culture. It’s magical, mystical, and dare I say yet another buzzword that leaders use when they want to sound like they are doing something really special within an organization. The use of the word culture veils what is the actual bedrock of any culture - the ordinary, everyday, and seemingly unremarkable behaviors of the people within an organization. The standards people hold themselves too and are held too when no one is watching.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">Daily Behaviors</span></h3><p><span> These behaviors include s</span>imple things like: What time do team members show up for work? How do they show up? Do they keep showing up when things get hard? How do they interact with one another? How do they resolve conflict? How do they share and express ideas? What type of work do they produce? What’s their follow-through on projects? How quickly do they respond to emails? How do they leave the locker-room after a game? The boardroom after a meeting? Where do they invest their time and money? Do they show up consistently? How do they communicate? How do they treat each other? Do they treat the boss and the janitor with the same respect? What type of conversations happen at the proverbial water-cooler? Do they jog off the field at half-time? Can they be honest about what’s happening within the organization? When faced with ethical dilemmas, how do they make decisions? Do they take ownership and responsibility for their decisions? How do they collaborate? Where do they eat lunch? Do they eat lunch? </p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Beware the Branding</h3><p><span> In</span> the content-crazed world we live in, culture often gets mistaken for branding. We think the culture of an organization is the story told about it in the media or through its marketing. Branding is aspirational; it tells people a story that they want to believe about the organization. Behaviors are real. So, if you want know who an organization is, look at how the people act everyday. What do they prioritize and set as precedent? These behaviors and standards get passed from person to person, from day to day, and from generation to generation. They become the basis of expectation and belief for the next generation.</p><h3>Unconscious Cultures</h3><p><span> </span>The interesting thing about culture is that it is not always passed consciously from person to person or generation to generation. A lot of standards, specifically unhealthy ones like racism, sexism, abusive standards and ableism, get passed subtly and unconsciously. They are inherited from the prior generation. When I reflect on the standards and expectations for women’s sports in the USA, specifically small Olympic sports like field hockey, I can see that many sub-par standards that have unconsciously been passed through the generations. </p><p><span> </span>I'm sure you've heard the refrain before: Be grateful for what you have, at least you have a place to play, at least the game is on TV, at least you have a national program, at least you have a turf field, at least you have a job, at least you get these crumbs. Don't ask for more; you are lucky to be on this team; don't speak up about abuse; be quiet, stay silent if you want to belong. Don't rock the boat if you want to keep the crumbs we've given you.</p><h3>Compare the Narrative to the Action</h3><p><span> </span>The NCAA and many NGBs push a narrative about female empowerment while chronically falling short of equitable standards. Look at the Title IX numbers. Look at the television coverage of the NCAA Field Hockey tournament. Look at how they deal with allegations of abuse. Look at who they hire to leadership positions. These institutions brand themselves in a way that perpetuates a myth that female athletes and coaches matter while their behaviors deliver a different message. We value you, but not enough for us to actually treat you equitably, to invest in you, to bet on you, to listen to you.</p><p><span> </span>We can't change the culture of women's sports without directly addressing the standards of behavior that have been accepted throughout the generations. These are the standards that we aren't proud of; the ones we knew weren't okay, but accepted at the time because we felt like that was the only way to keep the proverbial crumbs. </p><p><span> </span>It is hard to admit where we've been because we've all been there, collectively. We've all been complicit in accepting sub-par standards. At some point, we have to collectively own it, admit our complicity, and say enough. We have to admit that we know better now and because we know better, we have to demand better. It's about accountability, not judgement. The complicated thing about women's sport culture is how shame has been used to keep it small; to keep it undermining its own inherent worth. Women's sports matter! </p><h3>Accountability Sets the Precedent</h3><p><span> </span>Accountability sets the precedent and priority for what is acceptable behavior and what is not. Changing culture means setting and maintaining new standards for behavior. It starts with speaking up about what has been accepted as okay for far too long. The Sally Yates report on abuse within the NWSL is pivotal for women's sports because it illuminates specific behaviors that have become culturally ingrained and acceptable in female sports. By reckoning with the actual behaviors and standards that have been passed through the generations, we can consciously create a new, safer and better culture for female sports.</p><p><span> </span>When standards are clear and kept, people thrive. Healthy accountability means knowing the standard expected, and being held to it when specific actions don’t align with it. Healthy accountability is not a judgement of people’s character, it is an accounting of actions, and the impact of those actions on the collective standards and expectations within the larger group. </p><p><span> </span>To change the culture of women's sports, specifically field hockey, we need to reckon with what we've accepted as the standard for our sport. We need to make it clear the actions and behaviors that are no longer acceptable. We need to stop passing on sub-par beliefs and expectations to the next generation. We need to demand better - better coverage, better investment, better support, better results, better leaders. Demanding better means we expect better. For too long, we have collectively expected less than we deserve. It's time to expect more and expect better. No more crumbs, its time to demand a feast!</p><p><span> </span></p><p><br /></p>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-54475560975788534272022-11-10T07:01:00.012-08:002022-11-16T07:31:40.691-08:00My Mom Raised a Team<p><br /></p><p><span> </span>The most valuable lessons I have learned about coaching, I learned a very long time ago from an unsuspecting source, my mom. Karen Dawson is the least coach-type person you will ever meet. She never played sports, and I am not sure that she really likes them, or understands them either, though she has watched a lot of them. She is the only parent I know who fell asleep while sitting in the stands at the Olympic Games watching her daughter play (she claims she was just resting her eyes). Still, her influence on the way that I coach is beyond measure. My mom didn’t teach skills, she instilled values. She didn't coach teams, she raised one.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A friend from college asked me recently if my mom ever yelled at us growing up. I had to think about it for a moment. She definitely got annoyed and overwhelmed by us; she raised her voice when we were being ridiculous, told us to go outside and swing on the swings, but I can’t remember a time when she ever yelled at me in a way that felt demeaning or made me question her love for me. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My mom showed up. She made lunches and gave rides. She was the first up in the morning, and the last to bed at night. She saw each of us for who we were. She didn’t expect us to be the same. She had a different relationship with each of us. She let us be wild. Never shamed us for being who we were. She never spoke poorly about anyone. She looked for the good in everyone; even in the worst of circumstances. She was kindest to the people who needed kindness the most. She stayed away from the gossip and the crowd. She stayed out of the spotlight. She didn’t let us quit. She let us talk about quitting; vent about our coaches; our teammates. She listened. She never amped up our egos or diminished our pride. She let us feel the things we needed to feel. She was humble. Saw us for the people we were. She knew that each mistake would become a lesson. She saw the things we cared about, and learned to care about those things because she cared about us. She let us be wild and passionate. She didn’t tame our passions. She didn’t tell us how to think or feel. She let us find our own way; and when we got it wrong, got in trouble, veered a dangerous direction. She showed up and supported us. She helped us navigate the consequences of our actions. She saw the good in us all the time, even when it was hardest. She reminded us of our beauty everyday. She wasn’t perfect. She told us she only had so much she could give. She was honest about what was possible, and what wasn’t. She trusted God to provide what she couldn’t. She trusted God to provide what was needed. She trusted us, too.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I asked my mom recently about her philosophy on parenting. This is what she said:</p><p>“Most of my life I was standing in a spot, then moving forward, then stepping backwards like I didn’t know which way I was going. I just kept giving what I saw as necessary for each child. One kid needed to shop, I did not like to shop, but I would still go with her. One kid liked to walk, whether I wanted to or not I would go, down a mountain and back up. One kid wanted me to have a catch, and I did even though I was not athletic. One kid always wanted to save money, so I let her buy cheap things even though I wanted her to spend more. With all of them, I just wanted them to be who they were.”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I think about what my mom did for me, I am inspired to do the same for those I coach. I want to give what is necessary for each athlete to find their own way in sport. Every athlete, like everyone of my siblings, is different - different personalities, different goals, different challenges, different talents, different resources, different backgrounds, different stages of development. Every athlete needs something different to unlock their potential. What works for one athlete, may not work for another athlete. Beyond that, athletes change. What worked in the past, may not be what works right now. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s overwhelming to think about. Every athlete. Every day. Every moment. Every need. As a coach, it often feels like an impossible task to give each athlete what they need to develop. Like my mom said, “I was standing in a spot, then moving forward, then stepping backwards like I didn’t know which way I was going. I just kept giving what I saw as necessary for each child.” More days than not, you feel like someone isn’t getting what they need. You do your best, but often, the constraints - time, resources, energy, knowledge - limit your ability to deliver what is needed. </p><p><span> </span>I often marvel at what my mom gave us, given the circumstances, and when I think about it in the context of coaching, I think these are 5 of the values she instilled in me:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Provide structure, sustenance and support.</b></li><ul><li>Mom made lunches and gave rides, a million rides, everyday. She always showed up for us. She stood out of the spotlight. She let the spotlight shine on us. </li></ul><li><b>Stand in Awe of Them. Remind them of their power and beauty.</b></li><ul><li>Mom stood in awe of us as athletes. She marveled that we could run around a field. She didn't care about winning or losing. She saw the beauty in each of us as people, and reminded us of it all the time. </li></ul><li><b>Do Your Best within the constraints you are given. </b></li><ul><li>Mom never got caught up in what she couldn't provide; she gave what she could give in every moment, and had to trust that it was enough.</li></ul><li><b>Let Them Think for Themselves. </b></li><ul><li>It was a challenge, but mom often let us think for ourselves. She didn't try to sway us to think the way she thought. She gave us space to think and find our own way. </li></ul><li><b>Show interest in the Things they care about. </b></li><ul><li>Mom walked up and down that mountain with me. She learned to care about sports because her kids cared about sports. </li></ul></ul><div><span> The next time you take the field to coach, remember this: As coaches, we aren't just teaching skills, we are instilling values through sport, providing spaces to grow. We are raising teams of people to harness their power, perspectives and potential on the playing field. Whatever the constraints, do your best to give them what they need.</span><br /></div><p></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-75668452374148541972022-11-02T08:12:00.024-07:002022-11-16T07:31:49.173-08:00Who Are You? Look for the And<p><i><span> </span></i></p><p> When I was in college, I was adamant about one thing career-wise and one thing only. I was never going to be a coach. I professed it emphatically to anyone who would listen. <i>When I am done playing field hockey, I am done with the sport. Totally. Forever. Never going back. Done.</i> I was especially defiant about it to anyone who told me that I would make a good coach. <i>Well, tough luck, because it’s never happening. </i> <i>I’d say. I love playing. Not coaching.</i></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was so stubborn about not becoming a coach that I enrolled in the business school at the University of North Carolina just to defy the stigma of my identity as an athlete. I wanted to prove that I could belong in spheres of education beyond the field hockey field. The irony makes me laugh because as you may have guessed, I now coach field hockey and I really enjoy it. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Coaching brings me joy. When I am on a field with athletes or talking shop with other coaches, I lose track of time. I love the game; I love sharing it, watching it, writing about it, analyzing it, exploring it, and teaching life lessons through it. I love seeing others fall in love with the game too. I love seeing them develop their own, unique relationship with it. Some players love it, some players leave it, and some players, like young me, want to devote their lives to it. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No matter the relationship, at some point all hockey players wrestle with the question of identity and who they are within the context of sport. We ask ourselves where do I belong within this sport, and where does this sport belong within my life. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3izZS2hOSbodvmXooxJ-2jUkkwC7EPqi54zUCj5ACGcLmCDk3Pi591wjCAR1VSSI18Are5FHDSoM5WG9NR-rmWUbyCbs5HjYvWY702ASO5gk6MSokiD49tbExqKPjhoXi8nPX2WWmsOtWGwR-5FxswhJGDW3PiWpkQ3QT94N91tsYxphI2EOGPrctw/s1092/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-05%20at%2010.27.31%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1092" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3izZS2hOSbodvmXooxJ-2jUkkwC7EPqi54zUCj5ACGcLmCDk3Pi591wjCAR1VSSI18Are5FHDSoM5WG9NR-rmWUbyCbs5HjYvWY702ASO5gk6MSokiD49tbExqKPjhoXi8nPX2WWmsOtWGwR-5FxswhJGDW3PiWpkQ3QT94N91tsYxphI2EOGPrctw/w320-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-05%20at%2010.27.31%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>When I look back at college me, I see that my resistance to coaching was never rooted in how I felt about the game; it was rooted in how I felt about myself. Field hockey was the dominant force in my life. Yes, I loved it; okay, yes, I was obsessed with it, but I also knew that there was more to me than what could be discovered on a hockey field. I had unexplored talents, passions, and perspectives. Yet, I clung to field hockey because it was my ticket to a better life. I needed it, desperately.<span> </span></p><p><span><span> </span>It was easy to</span> carve out a niche identity for myself within the context of the sport. I knew my role. I knew my in-group. I knew what I needed to wear. I knew where and when I needed to show-up. I knew how I was expected to behave. I knew what was needed from me. Sport gave me, as it gives many athletes, very clear and distinctive answers to the question of '<i>who am I?’</i> The hockey player identity felt safe, and because it was safe, I didn't really want to explore other passions. I didn't want to stray from the known, because the unknown felt scary. </p><p><span> In 2008, before my first Olympics, someone suggested that I partake in a new Olympic blogger program that was being hosted by Lenovo. If you signed up to be a blogger, you got a free computer. That was enough to coax me into signing up. I wasn't equipped with any formal journalism training, yet in this opportunity I found a love for words and storytelling. The experience</span> unleashed a dormant, creative part of myself, and I've been dabbling with writing ever since the first blog dropped on 'Beijing Bound and Beyond.' </p><p><span> In my discovery of blogging, and the exploration of my own identity and belonging within the sport of field hockey, this is what I've learned - t</span>he more I write and make space for the ANDs within me, the more I love the game; the less I write and the more narrow my focus becomes, the more I wrestle with my passion for the game. I realize that I must keep looking for the <i>ANDs</i> - the new passions and perspectives - within myself. I can be obsessed with the game, like I was as a kid, and explore other parts of myself too. </p><p><span> I write this, because I know there is someone who needs to hear it. So, to the athletes and coaches now wrestling with their own identity and belonging within the sport, I beg this of you - love the game and celebrate the search for the ANDs within you, too. You can be a brilliant athlete or coach, and explore whatever passion your heart desires. </span><br /></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-45134328364734082062022-10-26T09:49:00.017-07:002022-11-16T07:31:56.179-08:00The Game Needs You<p></p><div style="text-align: left;"></div><span> </span>I want to share something that I think is important for all American field hockey players, coaches, parents, umpires, and fans to hear - the game needs you.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><p></p><p><span> </span>I’ve observed an interesting trend in the sport of field hockey over the past few years. It goes a bit like this:</p><p><span> </span>An athlete graduates from college, hangs up her stick, says goodbye to the game for good and sets off for a new horizon. She moves to New York or San Francisco or Colorado or Texas or some other new place. She forgets about the game for a while because the game doesn’t have anything left to offer her. No one knows about the game in this new place; no one knows what it meant to her. </p><p><span> </span>A few years pass, she makes her way in the world, makes a life for herself away from the sport, and then a chance encounter happens. She reconnects with an old teammate, catches an amazing highlight on instagram, sees a kid with a stick on her way to work. This small but meaningful encounter rekindles something within her. </p><p><span> </span>She remembers the part of herself that came alive on the field; the part of herself that reveled in game day, hated run tests and preseason, got annoyed with her coach, and wore glitter on her eyes for good luck. She remembers the joy, aliveness, and community that the game gave her. That small, chance encounter brings field hockey back into her life. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9QJ3DkNIRXu6mhqePPzlYbpuzMVHh-UcetSAFEyT2gw4p2lj-2bQPiINszfwmWEn0NLm5PjFOkcy1mH7MiWC3Tk4rWCVIIWqcNVEF_0qB86bgUaImjJGf7KoahCKZOReJoHcmVatTtMfzoW5Ct_S9tRF_iFmJOE4DoNo_tI83R2FPiN2u2cqN_zguTQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1170" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9QJ3DkNIRXu6mhqePPzlYbpuzMVHh-UcetSAFEyT2gw4p2lj-2bQPiINszfwmWEn0NLm5PjFOkcy1mH7MiWC3Tk4rWCVIIWqcNVEF_0qB86bgUaImjJGf7KoahCKZOReJoHcmVatTtMfzoW5Ct_S9tRF_iFmJOE4DoNo_tI83R2FPiN2u2cqN_zguTQ=w320-h283" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span>She aches for the sense of community that the game once gave her. So she starts looking for small ways to get involved. She looks for opportunities within her local area or her alumni group. She takes an umpiring course, starts coaching a local team. She scrolls instagram for hockey content; she signs up for masters competition or Cal Cup. Before she knows it, she’s organizing her work schedule so she can watch hockey on Friday’s in the fall.<p></p><p><span> </span>In this rekindled appreciation, she recognizes something about the game that she couldn’t see all those years ago - the game needs her. The game needs her insight, her time, her attention, her joy, her story, her perspective, her passion, her competitiveness, her talents, her curiosity, her investment. It even needs her critique. The game needs her in her own unique way, the same way it needs you and me. The game needs all of us.</p><p><span><span> </span>So, i</span>f I could tell athletes who have recently finished their college careers, or are about to finish up their final season, one thing it is this - the game needs you. You matter to the game as much as the game matters to you.</p><p><span> </span>When you are ready and in whatever way you can serve it, know this, the game will always need you. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-76933455106738048352022-10-21T08:40:00.012-07:002022-10-24T07:34:51.395-07:00Failing Into Excellence<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKxq0Tqzf-cTLrSBlEHcBkDhKkjwgCccWEWj1SglHKgw08HhOlsiw9hFia9ZTz167Wn-rf6zrbHFSG4-A-uWcdnieKUoxeYR2lFXxMVN2GALOZSyvBWV6SAmMd5jtyvDagZ2CCu7_9Lziixr7uhmUecYROM_DO-ktA6N7sI8oL-vylpgNWL9T7GtkVVw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="522" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKxq0Tqzf-cTLrSBlEHcBkDhKkjwgCccWEWj1SglHKgw08HhOlsiw9hFia9ZTz167Wn-rf6zrbHFSG4-A-uWcdnieKUoxeYR2lFXxMVN2GALOZSyvBWV6SAmMd5jtyvDagZ2CCu7_9Lziixr7uhmUecYROM_DO-ktA6N7sI8oL-vylpgNWL9T7GtkVVw=w419-h640" width="419" /></a></div><p></p><p>Developing talent means delivering feedback. Not just any old feedback, but measurable, actionable, performance-based feedback. Failure is, and always has been, one of my favorite forms of feedback. Why? It’s clear and ruthlessly honest. It delivers only that which is essential in the moment. Did you meet the mark or not? Failure isn’t vague. It hurts. It forces you to confront the gap between your desire and your reality. </p><p>Some of my most memorable triumphs in sport can be traced back to a lesson-learned from a pivotal, gut-wrenching failure:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Not making the U16 National Team in 2000 led to making the U19 & U21 National Team in 2001. The Lesson: Work when No one is Watching. Let your work be your talk.</li><li>Losing to Argentina in the Pan American Final in July of 2007 after being up a goal at half-time led to an undefeated National Championship in the Fall of 2007. The Lesson: Never Take a Lead or Moment for Granted. Things can change quickly. Be relentless and humble. Respect the game. </li><li>Not qualifying for the World Cup in 2010 led to beating Argentina (World #1 at the time) in the Pan American Final in 2011 to qualify for the Olympics. The Lesson: Your mind is your biggest obstacle and opportunity. Your body is capable of more than you think. </li><li>Finishing last at the 2012 Olympic Games led to a 4th place finish at the 2014 World Cup. The Lesson: Be In or Be out. Half-hearted commitment leads to half-hearted results. Have the hard conversations. </li></ul><p></p><p>Failure only works as a form of learning, though, if you set clear, measurable, timely, and ambitious goals. Vague goals lead to vague behaviors which leads to vague feedback and vague results. Vague is the enemy of great.</p><p> Chasing excellence means setting clear targets and welcoming the failures that meet you along the way. It is okay for those failures to sting. Dawn Staley said it best when speaking on coaching Aliyah Boston: "You gotta love ‘em enough to let them hurt. That hurt doesn’t define her. It’s only going to make her better. Because you gotta do something to get better."</p><p> Too often, we avoid the hurt that greatness requires. We live in fear of failure and that fear defines our actions. Failure doesn’t define you, it informs you. It informs you about where you've fallen short, where you are vulnerable, how you are beatable, how you can improve. Failure gives direction for your next right step. It redirects you to your intended destination. As Tony Bennet preached after the Virginia Cavaliers 2019 NCAA Championship, if you learn to use it right, failure will take you to a place you could have never gone otherwise. It is a painful gift.</p><p>Failure, used well, inspires meaningful and deep change, not surface level change. I wonder though if we let ourselves fail enough to experience this deep change. What are we actually chasing? Do we chase and ache for excellence? Or do we chase status, perceived success and influence? Our world demands the constant perception of success. We expect coaches to get it right all the time. We expect athletes to make every team. We expect parents to have all the answers. We live in a world of vague yet exceptionally well-branded expectations. The expectation isn’t to be great. Nope. Our expectation is to never look bad, hide our shortcomings, never hurt, never fail, never get it wrong. Because we are so caught in the vague desire to look good, we never pursue greatness wholeheartedly. We always hold back, we set easy goals that look good when achieved, and because of this, we never experience the gift of failure. </p><p> Greatness requires failure. Failure hurts. Yet in failure, we often remember the clear, vulnerable desire that drives us, and the gut-wrenching humility that our desire demands of us. Failure isn't something to be feared. Instead, I encourage us to lean-in to the learnings that failure offers us. Failure is empowering because it cuts through the layers of vagueness and gives absoluteness about where we stand in the moment. Failure offers a gift; an opportunity to respond, rethink and reformat your approach to the task. It is an opportunity to strengthen your resolve and commitment to the thing you are chasing. To be great, we must be clear. We can't be vague. Vague is the enemy of great. So don’t be vague. Get clear about what you want. Define excellence. Chase it with measurable targets. Let the failure inform you. Fail your way into excellence.</p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-80444332512506372802022-10-07T07:31:00.026-07:002022-11-16T07:33:04.251-08:00America's Got Talent, Not Time<p>Let's take a dive into the talent pool.</p><p> America’s got talent. A lot of talent. What it doesn’t have though is time and a cohesive system to identify and develop that talent to maturity. The short timeline for the development of talent undermines the country's ability to succeed at the highest level. A multitude of factors play a role, yet the most influential is the win now mentality driven by the demands of college and youth sport. This mentality - and the money behind it - dominates the American sport landscape; it leads to early selection and deselection, myopic views of talent, and the narrowing of the playing pool before most athletes have time to emerge and fully develop.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p><span><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Recruiting accelerates the timeline. We expect more from athletes at an earlier age. We evaluate them at an earlier age. We select and deselect them at an earlier age. The consequence is that an abundance of talent drops out of the pathway, or goes unidentified and undeveloped. A number of factors contribute to drop out from the</span> high performance pathway including cost, perceived bias, early selection, time, travel and limited opportunity. The national high performance pathway rather than creating a system that accounts for the bias of the college model, has actually reinforced its bias by promoting a pay-to-play, national rather than regional high performance pathway that emphasizes early talent selection rather than talent identification, quality coaching and development. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>What Does a Healthy Talent Pool Look Like?</b></h2><p><span> </span>Talent is the number one requisite for success in my opinion. Top teams and national programs have talent. Not a few talents, but a large, diverse pool of talent that seems to replenish itself year after year. A healthy talent pool has a blend of mature, emerging, and raw talent. Put talent in the right environment with the right coaching and provide it with enough opportunity to mature, and the likelihood of success improves drastically. That is why recruiting is such big business. Programs need talent to deliver results. Specifically, programs need talent that fits its philosophy and timeline for winning.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I reflect back on my career with the USA Women’s National Team, I recognize that my longevity was in part due to a strategically created high performance talent development pathway from 2005 - 2013*. Some of the key characteristics of that system were:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The pool of athletes was kept relatively large, competitive, and mature through the existence of regional high performance centers that emphasized quality coaching, player commitment, and competitive cultures infused with regional pride.</li><li>The type of talent within the pool was diverse, especially in the later stages of my career. There was positional talent, leadership talent, skill talent, physical talent, grit talent and tactical talent. One type of talent was not celebrated or ‘showcased’ over another. It was recognized that different types of talent were needed for team success.</li><li>The talent was at different stages of development - there was a blend of mature talent, emerging talent, and raw talent. The mature talent often nurtured the raw talent and introduced them to the standards of high performance. Talent was given the opportunity to learn and mature through the system and national competition.</li><li>The talent was nurtured through the pathway and selected when it was ready for high performance; talent wasn’t pushed through the pathway too soon. In some cases, the ones who were pushed too early dropped out.</li><li>The talent remained in the pathway at the regional level even when not selected for the WNT. This improved the maturity of competition at the national tournament.</li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span>When I look at the current high performance talent pool, a few things stand out to me. </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>There is an abundance of emerging and raw talent; and a lack of mature talent</li><li>There is a steady rate of drop-out at an early age because of constant selection and deselection. This means the playing pool is kept relatively small and young, and leans upon a few talents to deliver results over a long period of time.</li><li>There is a lack of diversity within the playing pool. A very specific type of early-developed, wealth-backed talent enters and survives the system due to the cost of the pathway</li><li>There is not consistent, high quality coaching at all levels within the pathway</li></ul><div>*<i>The system was reformatted in 2013. National Team members were removed from the competition. Athletes competed as individuals on randomly appointed teams rather than regional teams. </i></div><p></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>The Talent Timeline: Identification vs. Selection</b></h2><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The timeline for winning has a huge impact on how we identify and select talent. It also effects the amount of pressure we put on talent to perform. I don’t think we talk about talent timelines enough. What I mean by a talent timeline is the time between when talent is identified and when we need or expect it to be able to deliver results on a specific level. The talent timeline in the USA is expedited because of the demands of the college game. College coaches are expected to win now, and if not now, then soon. So logically, college coaches select talent that they think is best suited to win now (or soon) on the college level. </p><p><span> </span>This ethos has a huge impact on the high performance talent pool. First, it impacts the type of talent that is identified and selected. Second, it creates a motivational structure that emphasizes selection/recruiting over developing. The type of talent identified typically comes in two forms: international recruits and dominant <i>show-case performers</i>. </p><p><span> </span>International recruits are perceived as being more prepared to deliver results now for a multitude of reasons. In my opinion, these include: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>In general, international athletes possess an overall better understanding of the game tactically and strategically developed through game play and watching the game at a higher level. (international league structures provide very different competitive experiences than American showcase tournaments)</li><li>In general, international athletes tend to be more mature and responsible because there is less parental hand-holding in sport. I remember the Dutch kids I coached were responsible for riding their bikes to practice and getting there on time.</li><li>In general, international athletes possess more deliberate and precise technical skills appropriately applied under pressure. This may have something to do with the surface and the coaching kids receive at early ages. This could be the reason for the dominance of international defenders/backs in the college game. </li></ul><p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> Beyond international talent, t</span>he other type of talent that is perceived as being more prepared to deliver results comes in the form of what I call dominant showcase performers - the early-developed, observably-skilled athletes who stand out in the showcase environment. The ones who catch your eye when you sit on a sideline watching game after game of hockey in the hot sun or freezing cold. The showcase environment has a few definitive features - multiple games in a short period of time, random team placements, games played in random formats (not 4x15), games played on random surfaces. </p><p><span> </span>In the show-case style environment, the motivation isn’t necessarily to develop important competitive habits, or execute team plans but to be ‘seen and selected’ by potential recruiters. This incentivizes an individualistic style of play (<i>everyone is a center midfielder mentality</i>) that may not be successful in the team environment or correlate to longterm high performance success. This type of athlete may be successful at the college level, yet does not always translate to the international game. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;">How We Identify Talent</h2><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Identifying talent is tough. When we watch a player perform at their peak, the talent is clear and obvious; it shines because it fits its role within the style of play. Unfortunately, we’ve also seen examples of when talent does not fit the philosophy or role and rather than shining, it becomes stagnant. The challenge is to be able to identify talent in the peaks and the valleys. By valley, literally, the low area between the peaks, when the athlete isn’t dominant, on the ball, ripping backhands, standing out, or in the best-resourced environment. Catching a glimpse of an elite behavior in an otherwise ordinary moment is what talent identification at an early age is all about. Talent identification, especially at an early age, is about catching a glimpse, and asking the question if this ordinary something can be transformed into something extra-ordinary over the long term within a positive environment. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The problem in this country is that we don’t linger in the question of identification and development very long. We go directly from identification to selection. There is little time, space and opportunity for development. We make a bet on an athlete and jump directly from talent identification - that glimpse of something - to talent selection and deselection. </p><p><span> </span>The environment in which these national selections are made is less than ideal. Selections occur during the course of a 3-day tournament in which players are randomly assigned to teams, playing in random positions, with coaches who have limited prior experience with the athletes. The margin of error for deselection is huge. Deselection narrows your playing pool too early, too often, and leads to an overemphasis on early-developed talent, or talent that can win now. There isn't a holding space for the athletes who may have the potential to win later. </p><p><span> For instance, a</span>t the 2022 Nexus Jr. Championship, the elite athlete playing pool was narrowed by 80% on average per age group (u14, u16, u19). Out of 216 athletes at the u14 and u19 age groups, 38 and 40 athletes were respectively selected to the Stars and Stripes Games. Even fewer were invited to Junior National Camp. The problem isn't necessarily selection and who gets picked; it is deselection, who does't get picked and drops out. The next tier talent often drops out of the system. This has a long term impact on the talent pool. </p><h2>A System to Account for Bias</h2><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Talent identification is a very difficult business; no one can predict with certainty who will emerge, when, and with what opportunity. In my opinion, it is the responsibility of the high performance pathway to account for the short-term bias within the system. Currently, America lacks a cohesive system to account for this bias. Instead, the pathway reinforces the bias by focusing on showcase style events, pay-to-play models, and selection rather than development at an early age. </p><p><span> We need to broaden the talent pool at the regional level by identifying athletes with potential elite behaviors in the long run. We need to expose more athletes to consistent quality coaching and steady team competition - more leagues less showcase structures. </span>By broadening the talent pool on a regional level, we can account for the underlying risk of bias in the talent selection process. Make the emphasis of these regional sites development and competition rather than selection and recruiting (selection and recruiting should be byproducts of, rather than the primary motivation of the system)</p><p> Critical to success in the years to come will be creating a high performance pathway that:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Nurtures emerging talent into full maturity</li><li>Identifies and celebrates diverse types of talent </li><li>Provides more athletes the resources and opportunity to succeed</li><li>Provides opportunity/financial support for athletes from a variety of socio-economic backgrounds</li><li>Provides regional training model to broaden talent pool</li><li>Provides competition that resembles the international game (4x15) and emphasizes team results over individual results</li></ul><span> </span>My biggest fear is that culturally and systemically, we have become so invested in identifying the shiny new talent that we have neglected to develop systems that bring emerging talent into full maturity. We don’t give talent enough time and appropriate opportunity to develop. We demand too much of it too early, and when it doesn’t immediately deliver, we drop it, or it drops out. We need to re-evaluate our model and motivations. Because right now, America's got talent, not time. <p></p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-57799324660037856162022-09-30T08:55:00.003-07:002022-11-16T07:33:15.365-08:00The Power of Doubt<p> “If you hear a voice within you say you cannot paint, then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.” ― Vincent Willem van Gogh </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Every morning when I sit down to write, two things greet me - a blinking cursor on a blank page and my dear friend, doubt. I often stare at that blinking cursor wondering what I’ll write about, and if its even worth the time and effort to write. I chide myself that it is a silly task. That I am an imposter. That I don’t have anything meaningful to say. Few people will ever read my words and the ones who do have most likely done so out of pity (to my pity readers, I really appreciate your pity reads, keep doing it please). The doubts are demotivating. They tell me to stop writing. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here’s a dramatization of my daily battle with doubt that I wrote in a journal:</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>It’s my 37th birthday. I’m sitting at my writing desk. The computer is open. The coffee is steaming. The morning light drapes itself dimly around me. I’ve set the stage perfectly. I put my fingers to the keys, eager for meaning to emerge from my palms, but all I see is a blinking cursor on a blank page. </i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nothing. Absolutely nothing happens. The cursor stares back at me, taunts me, waits for me. With each blink, the cursor gets louder, until it screams at me. Do Something! I panic. I type words. But they are meaningless words. It’s all trying. It’s all bull sh-. I erase the words. I sit with the cursor. The cursor has found me out. I am an imposter. </i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I told you so, says the cynic in my head. I want to cry, because I felt the words within me only moments ago. They felt so alive, so clear, so true, so inspired. Where did they go? </i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A moment later, as if on cue another voice emerges from within me. Here comes the hero. Ahhh, I know this chick. She comes from the dark corner of my mind, strutting like a total badass. She walks up to the cynic, taps her on the shoulder. Startled out of her doubting reverie, the cynic slowly turns. Their glances meet; the hero tilts her head down, and glares. The cynic rolls her eyes, knowing that she is totally misunderstood. </i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ll show you, says the Hero. Then, she struts away.</i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I watch the drama play out in my head. The doubting cynic meeting the always overcoming hero. I wish they could learn to be friends. The hero always seems to win, but I’m starting to think the cynic has a point. The hero is exhausting. Always overcoming.</i></p><p><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I chuckle. Maybe this isn’t a drama, maybe it is a comedy. An absurd comedy that borders on the edge of insanity. Maybe, there is space within me for both the cynic and the hero. Maybe, I just need to watch and enjoy the entertainment. </i></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve always lived with a healthy dose of doubt in my life - doubting myself, life, God, this new thing, that new thing, people, the things people say, teams, motivations, abilities, goals, organizations. You name it, I’ve probably had my doubts about it. I’ve been trained to overcome these doubts. I’ve been told to silence the doubts and buy-in to whatever team I am part of in the moment. I’ve been told to fake it till I make it. Maybe, I've got it all wrong about doubt. Maybe doubt is not something to be overcome or silenced, but something to be understood. Maybe it is time to dig into doubt, and discover the power within it.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, what is doubt, and where does it come from? To doubt means to call into question the truth of, to be uncertain about, to lack confidence in, to consider unlikely. The latin origin of doubt means - to waver or hesitate. For me, doubt is the nagging, ever-present voice that constantly asks, ‘are you sure?’ My response is typically - no, I am not sure that it will go the way I hope, and yes, I am sure that I still want to try. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Doubt isn’t the enemy of belief or buy-in; doubt reaffirms our buy-in. Beneath doubt lives deep longing. Self-doubt often veils the vulnerability of our deeper desires. If you thought for a moment about the things you doubt, what would they be? An ability to do something, a higher power, a person, belonging in a certain sphere, an outcome. So often we get caught in the doubt, in convincing ourselves that the doubts are or aren’t true, that we totally miss what lives beneath the doubt. Beneath doubt, there is deep longing. Let’s dive a little deeper into my current doubts about writing.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I doubt my ability to write something meaningful. I doubt that its worth the time investment. I doubt that anyone will read it. Rather than simply overcoming or dismissing these doubts, if I replaced the words, <i>I doubt</i>, with the words, <i>I want</i>, my doubts take on new power. I doubt my ability to write something meaningful becomes <i>I want to write something meaningful.</i> It feels like a sucker punch of truth to the gut.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>I want </i>to write something meaningful. <i>I want </i>to invest the time in writing. <i>I want</i> someone to read it. Vulnerable and powerful. That is how I feel actually admitting these things to myself. It feels powerful because they are true, and it feels vulnerable because there is no guarantee that they will happen. There is no guarantee that I will write something meaningful. There is no guarantee that anyone will read what I write. But I will write, and in writing, I will find out. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span>Doubt isn't the enemy of belief and buy-in; giving up on the thing you want because you don't know if it will work out is the enemy. You may not win the game. The relationship may not work out. God may be way different than you imagine. You may fumble your words when you give that big speech. If you doubt it, that isn't the cue to stop, that may be the voice telling you that you deeply desire it. So play the game, give the relationship a go, get to know God, give the speech, and to myself, write the damn words. Tell the cynic and the hero that they want the same thing. Tell them to go have a drink together. </p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-2581039692116520612022-09-27T12:57:00.017-07:002022-11-16T07:33:23.618-08:00Kelly Ripa's House: The Power of Our Beliefs<p><i>In honor of the release of Kelly Ripa’s memoir, Live Wire, I decided to share this story.</i></p><p><span> </span>Our values and behaviors are anchored in our beliefs. Belief prompts action. I am not speaking of religious beliefs but more simply the things we hold to be true about life. For instance, I believe that everyone I meet is a teacher. This belief prompts me to frame interactions that are challenging as having a lesson to offer. It opens me to learning in non-traditional ways.</p><p><span><span> </span>When</span> we look at high performing cultures and teams, we often see groups of people with a shared set of beliefs. These teams believe in the way they train, play, communicate and interact. These beliefs often permeate the organization that surrounds the team. Think about Barcelona football during the Pep Guardiola era, there was an unwavering belief in how they played and approached the game of football. Because they believed it, they lived into it.</p><p><span> </span>Everyone has their own set of beliefs that shape their lives. Beliefs are ingrained within us at an early age. Often we don't notice their existence or influence. But if you were to examine your life to unearth the beliefs that led to your best performances and experiences, what would you discover? What did you hold to be true about life that made you make the decisions you made? Can you pinpoint the origin story of your belief? We never know which experience will instill a particular belief or which belief will shape the course of our lives. Of my own sport experience, I wonder two things - first, what beliefs prompted me to pursue and sustain the path that I did, and second, where did those beliefs come from?</p><p><span> </span>What if I told you that the answer to both of those questions lives in Kelly Ripa’s House. I’ve never met Kelly Ripa, but she changed my life, and I consider her childhood home in Berlin, New Jersey a sacred relic from my past. The house stands on Broad Avenue, a quiet, wide street that links the busy White Horse Pike with the Berlin Park. When I conjure up an image of that house from childhood, all I see is a large bay window with forest green shutters overlooking a pristine green front lawn. </p><p><span> </span>In the summer before sixth grade, I went on my first run. I ran through the streets of Berlin for twenty minutes before I got tired and started walking. As I walked down Broad Ave, I caught a glimpse of Kelly Ripa's House. Kelly Ripa was Berlin’s only celebrity, a soap opera star (at the time) who played Hayley Vaughn on ABC’s All My Children. It was mind-blowing to me that someone from this place was on TV. Berlin was the most boring, unremarkable town ever, barely worth a pit stop on the road between Philly and Atlantic City until they built the Wawa on Route 73. I made it my mission to watch Kelly defy the odds of her humble beginnings every weekday at 1pm that summer.</p><p><span> </span>When I saw her house, a thought crossed my mind, “What would Kelly Ripa do if she got tired on a run? Would she give up? Would she walk? Did she become a soap opera star by taking the easy way out when things got hard?” I wanted to be like Kelly Ripa. I wanted to prove that remarkable feats could begin in unremarkable places like Berlin and be done by otherwise unremarkable people like me. </p><p><span> That's when a belief started to form within me. </span>I told myself a story about Kelly Ripa's success and what was possible for people like me. I told myself that Kelly Ripa worked damn hard for her success. That she believed in her talents, pursued the path less traveled, followed her passion, trusted her instinct, and coveted every opportunity she got. When things got hard, Kelly Ripa didn’t quit, she kept going, and if I kept going I could be like Kelly Ripa. In all honesty, I'm not anything like Kelly Ripa. I'm not funny, or famous, or blond, or tiny, or an actress or rich or on TV. The point though is that Kelly Ripa's House became a talisman of possibility. I told myself this story over and over again, every time I ran past that house until it was ingrained within me. I believed that if I worked hard enough, if I kept running, if I kept going, I could be like Kelly Ripa. I could get out of Berlin and explore a world full of possibility. </p><p><span> </span>Over the next twenty years, through high school, during breaks from college, after Olympics, I kept running past Kelly Ripa’s House. Each time I saw that pristine lawn and bay window, I'd reaffirm that long held belief that if I kept going when it got hard more was always possible. When I came home from my first Olympics in Beijing, I ran past Kelly Ripa’s House and knew that if I kept going I’d make it to London and Rio, too. After Rio, when I came home and went for a run, I did something different. I turned on Broad Ave, and as I approached Kelly Ripa’s house I decided to walk. Though the house had changed over the years, the belief within me never did. I whispered a quiet thank you to Kelly Ripa's House. Thank you for making me believe that I could do more than I thought was possible if I simply kept going.</p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-66871798765624541742022-09-21T11:13:00.032-07:002022-11-16T07:33:33.682-08:00Left Hand Layups: Deliberate Practice<p>I grew up in South Jersey about thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia. That is to say I grew up a Philly sports fan in the mid-90s and early 2000s, which really is my way of saying that every time I hear the word practice, I immediately and incredulously respond, ‘PRACTICE? For real, we talking about PRACTICE…PRACTICE…?' These are the iconic words of 76ers legend Allen Iverson from a 2002 media interview after a disappointing finish to the season. If you’ve never seen the video, watch it. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All that is to say, yes, we are in fact talking about practice. Specifically, we are talking about deliberate practice, and the role it plays in high performance. High performers come from all walks of life, perform in all spheres of life, and possess totally different personalities and abilities. Regardless of where they come from, their personality, or their domain of excellence, common threads are woven into the fabric of high performers. What makes a person a high performer? Is it the environment, the culture, the mindset, the habits? Through the lens of my own experience, I want to deepen my understanding of high performance habits and traits, specifically the ones I possessed at a young age that led me toward the high performance path.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, let me take you back to my proudest sporting moment. It’s not the undefeated college national championship nor qualifying for and competing at the Olympic Games, or the first ever Pan American Gold for the USA in field hockey. It’s not the undefeated high school career. My proudest sporting moment didn’t happen on a hockey field. It happened on a square slab of concrete in the backyard of my childhood home. It happened in my sacred space. No one saw or witnessed my proudest sporting moment. Although, my mom surely heard about it after the feat was accomplished. It was me, a ball, a hoop, and a relentless desire to do a left handed layup. Conquering the left handed layup is my proudest sporting moment.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxFsr9EclGSFHITsWU1Q7oIHDViD1cSN3Ny1l-ZHi0cEWfYYYQmIJsUFtua__gBi-W_K2EYUzioFgONVgTYFCLxsTiwmclK9MOj-9m1WA-PmPFrn0bpxD6k9YfTRQSksHIVqY1I4KIFomh9a0ywDm6mNBrcrYZUrS3Zthu5bPFQqfJRd3efBWMYyMMQ/s1103/IMG_2206%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1103" data-original-width="972" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxFsr9EclGSFHITsWU1Q7oIHDViD1cSN3Ny1l-ZHi0cEWfYYYQmIJsUFtua__gBi-W_K2EYUzioFgONVgTYFCLxsTiwmclK9MOj-9m1WA-PmPFrn0bpxD6k9YfTRQSksHIVqY1I4KIFomh9a0ywDm6mNBrcrYZUrS3Zthu5bPFQqfJRd3efBWMYyMMQ/w353-h400/IMG_2206%202.jpg" width="353" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>My first love was basketball. It is a love that gnawed at me and inspired me in early childhood. It still gnaws at me. I often wonder what would have happened if I chose basketball instead of field hockey. When I tried out for the middle school basketball team in the 5th grade, we played on blue and gold carpet floors. I came home from tryouts with rug burns on my knees and the smug satisfaction that I was one of only two fifth graders who made the team. I had unnaturally good size for my age, decent athleticism, good vision, could run the floor, make passes, and had an instinct for getting in the way, also known as defending. </p><p><span> </span>I was money underneath the basket on the right-side, however for the life of me, I could not do a left handed lay-up. When we did lay-up drills in practice, I’d always cheat and do a right-handed layup on the left-side of the basket. Before my turn, I'd stand in line hyping myself up to attempt a left-handed lay-up, but every-time I neared the hoop my body rebelled and did its own thing.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hated not being able to do the skill, but I hated missing lay-ups and looking bad in front of others more. I watched with jealousy as my teammates completed the skill. The older girls made it look effortless. I hid my deficiency. I pretended to do the skill. I bluffed expertise, until one practice the coach made us do Mikan lay-ups. There was no hiding my deficiencies in this exercise. Every time my body moved to the left side of the basket, my right knee and arm took control. The coach saw and he said, “Rachel, left hand, left knee.” I tried awkwardly while he watched, but as soon as he walked away, I reverted to my old way. I didn't want to look bad, and I didn't want to miss the hoop. There wasn’t enough time during team practice to re-train my brain and body to perform the skill. If I ever wanted to learn it, I knew I had to do it on my own time. I had to humble myself, and stop pretending that I could do it.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So that is what I did. I humbled myself, admitted I couldn't do it, and everyday after school that winter, I went in the backyard to the square slab of concrete, my sacred place, and battled myself. I say battled myself because I am pretty sure anyone who watched me could see me wrestling with my weakness. I talked to myself, coached myself, hyped myself up, and cussed myself out. I threw the ball into the neighbors yard in frustration. I cried in frustration. I screamed in frustration. I laid down, crossed my arms, and quit in frustration. When anyone came outside to help me, I chased them away with rage. I hated not being able to do it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t do it. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Luckily, the quitting never lasted long. I’d freak out, then take a pause, uncross my arms, and strategize a new way of teaching myself. I was a stubborn pupil. I kept trying to swallow the skill whole. I’d imagine the older girls doing the skill in the flow of a game and I attempted to do it just like them. This got me no where. The problem was that my body already had a pattern ingrained in it, and resisted the change. It constantly went back to the default. I had to figure out where specifically that resistance was. I had to take the movement apart, and figure out what felt most uncomfortable. The uncomfortable-ness, the resistance, would be an inkling into what part of the skill I needed to retrain most. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So I broke it down, part by part. I stood under the basket on the left side with two feet on the ground. I put the ball in my left hand and my right arm behind my back. I felt weak in this position, but not entirely awkward. I shot the ball. Over and over until I felt more comfortable with the movement. Next, I added the knee lift. This was uncomfortable. There was resistance. So, over and over, I shot until it felt comfortable with my left knee lifted. Then I added a step. Over and over until it felt comfortable. Then my Mom called me in for dinner.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next day I went outside very proud of the progress I’d made, and excited about the gains I was about to make. I stepped under the basket, and immediately everything felt off. My body rebelled. I got pissed. My temper exploded. I screamed at the ball, at the basket, at my knee. I had to humble myself again. I had to go back to the basics. I threw the ball into the grass, and did the skill without a ball. Then I picked up the ball, and started the progression. Ball in the left hand, both feet on the ground. Over and over again until it felt natural. Then I added the left knee lift. Then I added one step. Then I added a second step. Then I added a dribble. Over and over, until it felt natural. When it didn’t feel natural, I simplified the skill. I took away the ball. I did this everyday, always battling the unnaturalness of those first few repetitions. I battled the frustration, the stubbornness, my ego. </p><p><span> </span>I humbled myself everyday at that hoop. Over and over. I practiced until the movement felt natural and fluid in my body. I practiced until I didn’t need to think about putting the ball in my left hand, or lifting my left knee. Eventually, I felt confidant enough in the skill that I ran to the backdoor and asked my mom to come watch me. She walked out to the square slab of concrete, and I proudly showed off my left-handed layup. Over and over. She gave me hug. She knew what this moment meant to me. I was so proud of myself.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That moment, that conquering, meant everything to me, and it still does. But why? What was in this seemingly unremarkable feat that makes it so special to me? Here’s the thread I see:</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s recognition and admission of a limitation. There’s initial resistance, and looking for a quick fix, or way to pretend, or hide the limitation. Eventually, there’s the realization that there’s no quick way to learn the skill. It will require work.</h3><h4 style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-weight: normal;">Though I hated not being able to do it, I hated missing lay-ups, and looking bad, more. I watched with jealousy as my teammates completed the skill. The older girls made it look effortless. I hid my deficiency. I pretended to do the skill. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-weight: normal;">There wasn’t enough time during team practice to re-train my brain and body to perform the skill. If I ever wanted to learn it, I knew I had to do it on my own time. </i></p></h4><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s a choice to start the work, and show up every day, despite not knowing the exact way forward. </h3><h4 style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>...Everyday after school that winter, I went in the backyard to the square slab of concrete, my sacred place, and battled myself.</i></span></p></h4><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s stick-to-it-ness, the ability to wrestle with frustration, and stay with the task. </h3><h4 style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>I am pretty sure anyone who watched me could see me wrestling with my weakness. I talked to myself, coached myself, hyped myself up, and cussed myself out. I threw the ball into the neighbors yard in frustration. I cried in frustration. I screamed in frustration. I laid down, crossed my arms, and quit in frustration.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>Luckily, the quitting never lasted long. I’d freak out, then take a pause, uncross my arms, and strategize a new way of teaching myself. </i></span></p></h4><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s the ability to tinker with the skill, to break it down, part by part in order to put it together in a new way. </h3><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>I kept trying to swallow the skill whole. I’d imagine the older girls doing the skill in the flow of a game and I attempted to do it just like them. This got me no where. The problem was that my body already had a pattern ingrained in it, and my body resisted the change. It constantly went back to the default. I had to figure out where specifically that resistance was. I had to take the movement apart, and figure out what felt most uncomfortable in my body. The uncomfortable-ness, the thing I resisted most, was probably an inkling into what I needed to retrain. </i></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s multiple attempts at learning, which means there’s multiple failures, and sustained effort and learning through the failures. </h3><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>The next day I went outside very proud of the progress I’d made, and excited about the gains I was about to make. I stepped under the basket, and immediately everything felt off. My body rebelled. I got pissed. </i></span><br /><br /></h4><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s the ability to find the feedback in the failure. There’s humility to continuously simplify the skill.</h3><div><i>I had to go back to the basics. I threw the ball into the grass, and did the skill without a ball. Then I picked up the ball, and started the progression. </i></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">There’s the definition of success as the effortlessness and repeatability of the skill, not simply the ability to do the skill. </h3><p style="text-align: left;"><i>I humbled myself everyday at that hoop. Over and over. I practiced until the movement felt natural and fluid in my body. I practiced until I didn’t need to think about putting the ball in my left hand, or lifting my left knee. Eventually, I felt confidant enough in the skill that I ran to the backdoor and asked my mom to come watch me</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Till this day, I sometimes go outside and do Mikan lay-ups just to remind myself how powerful I am when I practice deliberately. </p><p> </p>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-17785623417363956602022-09-19T09:18:00.006-07:002022-11-16T07:33:40.282-08:00Fever Pitch: What is High Performance?<p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What is high performance? The phrase has become a catch-all in the world of sport, business and society. The educated define it in astutely researched papers, giving us lay people finely wrapped tools for applying it to our daily endeavors. I love reading those papers, however the scholarly, distilled version of high performance paints an almost too cozy and comfortable image of the actual high performance experience. I’d like to explore high performance from a slightly messier perspective, those of my own lived experiences. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span>There is still so much about my experience in sport that I don’t fully understand, specifically the implicit behaviors that led to a sustained career in sport. What made me a high performer? When did I develop the traits of a high performer? My words will be neither astute nor finely wrapped, instead, they will be a wild foray into hopefully what becomes a deeper understanding of my own experiences in sport. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ll begin with a story. A memory that has been with me for a long time.</p><p><span> </span><span> </span>It is the end of summer. I am eleven years old. My skin is on fire. My hair is greasy from sweat. My eyes droop toward the ground as I lean my forehead against the van’s window. I can barely lift my head. My sisters scream and squirm around me. Normally, their screams would annoy me, but today, I don’t hear the noise. I am somewhere else - too exhausted to waste energy on anything outside of myself. I’ve been in bed all day with a fever. I begged my mom to play in today’s game. It is the championship game of the local softball tournament and I am supposed to pitch. In terms of my young sporting career, this is the biggest moment of my life. I need to play. I want to play. I will do anything to play in this game. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, I feign being well. I rouse myself from bed, put on my teal Berlin AA uniform and matching flat-brim hat. I’ve been waiting all summer for this. I tuck my jersey in and go sit in the van. I sit there for ten minutes before we leave. No energy wasted today. I only have so much to give. I know my mom is skeptical about me playing, but I’m determined. The glass of the window is cool against my forehead. I watch the cars as they pass, one by one. Everything else is a blur.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_EhcEbVGw1VVvT48qq2Npa4G7Yj9MhYSeL3Db80Sjbw0-GjMS1wHXbzCoWXN6w8suL5UwZyukHR6LN4LqCPmdN7r1O7IncZrh21LHuI56zjKyTN5ksJlaMOVhpsrulfMnkyg8oZEqlaG-DIx6EcGAMsLUO-1m_1ZzscSmQ4DmZgQ53c6rt-2o0bzUA/s1529/IMG_2172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1529" data-original-width="1170" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_EhcEbVGw1VVvT48qq2Npa4G7Yj9MhYSeL3Db80Sjbw0-GjMS1wHXbzCoWXN6w8suL5UwZyukHR6LN4LqCPmdN7r1O7IncZrh21LHuI56zjKyTN5ksJlaMOVhpsrulfMnkyg8oZEqlaG-DIx6EcGAMsLUO-1m_1ZzscSmQ4DmZgQ53c6rt-2o0bzUA/w153-h200/IMG_2172.jpg" width="153" /></a></span></div><span style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>When we arrive at the field, I step out of the van, and immediately feel unwell. I can barely stand, but I fake wellness because I want to play. I am desperate to play. I see my team, and wander over to them. They are chatting, having fun. I am enlivened by their energy, even though I cannot match it. We huddle up with our coach. The distraction makes me feel better. We warm up. As game time gets closer, the doubts arise. Can I actually do this? I am exhausted. Everything feels hard right now. I want to go back to bed. I choose to play anyway. The desperation, the longing, demands that I play. I heed its call. <p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The game begins. I take the ball, and step into the white circle. I push my foot against the pitchers mound and leap forward in the dirt. My arm whips around my body, my glove smacks against my thigh, and the ball slips effortlessly out of my finger tips toward the target. I watch it spin in slow motion until I hear it smack in the leather of my teammates glove. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For the next two hours, each time I step into that white circle, all I see is the target, the bright brown of my teammates glove. I watch the ball glide towards it in slow motion. Nothing else exists. I don’t hear the noise of the crowd. I don’t smell the hot dogs cooking at the snack stand. I don’t see anything but that glove. It’s the same when I step in the batter’s box - all I see is the ball, and its red stitches as it spins toward me. I play the game of my life.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When the game ends, my team hoists up the trophy. I am named MVP. We celebrate and cheer. I forget about my fever, I have energy, I am well again, or so I think. The celebrations end. I walk to the van. Exhaustion crashes upon me. I lean my head against the window. I can barely hold it up. How did I do that? I think to myself. Was it even real? Where did I go? I go home and sleep for almost two days. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Till this day, I reflect on this experience and wonder what happened in those two hours. It is my first memory of flow. My first inkling that there was something in me, beyond mere talent or ability, that was a portal to a higher power, and a higher performance. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> So, what is High Performance?</span></p><p><span> </span>High performance is a multitude of things. It is a mindset, a culture, a team, an environment, an experience, behaviors, and a way of training. This memory gives insight into my young competitive mindset, and some key behaviors and motivations that perhaps led me down the path I took in sport. Here is what I see in my young self:</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is deep desire, desperation to play. A single-mindedness to achieve. </h3><p><i>I begged my mom to play in today’s game. I need to play. I want to play. I will do anything to play in this game. This is the biggest game of my sporting career.</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is a choice to play despite the doubts that arise about my ability to play.</h3><p><i>As game time gets closer, the doubts arise. Can I actually do this? I am exhausted. Everything feels hard right now. I want to go back to bed. I choose to play anyway. The desperation, the longing, demands that I play. I heed its call.</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is pressure and adversity - not just externally but internally. There are specific constraints to be overcome.</h3><p><i>I am somewhere else - too exhausted to waste energy on anything outside of myself. I’ve been in bed all day with a fever.</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is an understanding of those constraints. I only have so much energy in me, I have to optimize and use it wisely; nothing wasted. I prioritize what’s most important. </h3><p><i>No energy wasted today. I only have so much to give.</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is clarity of focus in the moment. I see the ball and the target, I feel the ground, I hear the smack of the ball in the glove. I am immersed in the moment of action. </h3><p><i>For the next two hours, each time I step into that white circle, all I see is the target, the bright brown of my teammates glove. I watch the ball glide towards it in slow motion</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">There is supreme trust in the experience of the action. I only have so much to give, I cannot control the outcome, I focus on and trust the action. </h3><p><i>Nothing else exists. I don’t hear the noise of the crowd. I don’t smell the hot dogs cooking at the snack stand. I don’t see anything but that glove. It’s the same when I step in the batter’s box - all I see is the ball, and its red stitches as it spins toward me. I play the game of my life.</i></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-60106221947045659602022-08-30T16:52:00.001-07:002022-11-16T07:33:46.853-08:00Hall of Reclaiming<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I am ready to stop pretending. I am ready to be honest; ready to reclaim my beauty, my story, my passion, and my voice. I am ready to wrestle with the truth, and that means standing face to face with the lies. I retired from field hockey six years ago, and I am finally ready to stop playing the game. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am 36 years old and sitting at a table with my family in the ballroom at the Union League of Philadelphia. I’ve come here to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. This should be a happy moment but happy is not the right word to describe it. I don’t like the word happy. Happy is wrapped in deception and comes with a lot of baggage. It expects way too much from us. Decisive is a better word for this moment. It’s decisive because I feel something I’ve never felt before - I feel like myself. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m wearing a bright orange dress that I found on the sale rack at Kohl’s and earrings borrowed from my sister-in-law. I dyed my grey streak with a box of color from CVS the day before. All I have on my face is the mascara and concealer I found stashed in my back pack after realizing I’d left the rest of my make-up at home in Maryland. I got ready in twenty minutes. I’m slightly buzzed from the two beers I drank at my 8 year old nieces birthday party.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, considering such unglamorous preparation, I am really surprised by how beautiful I feel on this night. I don’t usually feel beautiful. I usually feel stressed and on edge when I have to be around people. But on this night, I feel different. I feel the incomparable and undeniable beauty of being comfortable in my own skin. I don’t feel the pressure to perform, pretend or fit in tonight. I’m not trying to impress anyone. This is very new for me. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Since I was young, I’ve battled with my identity. The battle is between the me I am ‘out there’ in the light of the world, the ever-proving performer, and the me I am ‘in here’ in the depths of my own soul, the kind, spiritual thinker. Both sides are me, equally and paradoxically. I am both a performer, and a deep, quiet thinker. So the moments that I feel most beautiful are usually spent alone, in the quiet cuddled up with a book, a pen, and a journal. In those moments, I feel and express the rawest, most mysterious parts of life. During those moments, I can accept the paradox of my identity without judgement. I cocoon myself within its mystery, in awe and wonder of its intricate beauty.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the quiet moments, I give myself permission to be both the loud, crazed competitor who loves to perform, and the quiet, observant, contemplative who loves to dig deep. I don’t have to be one or the other. I don’t have to contort myself to fit a frame someone else’s mind can understand. I give myself permission to be the paradox. In my most beautiful moments, I don’t pretend, I just am. I think that is why I feel so beautiful on this night. I am out there, and I am not pretending to be someone I think I should be. I am not trying to make sense, to be digest-able, to impress or prove anything to anyone. I am just here. I showed up, and for me, on this night, showing up is enough.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It took a lot for me to be here. A week before this night, I was in the shower, sobbing tears of exhaustion, desperately pleading for relief. I’d been around people too much over the past few months. I’d been going, going, going. I was breathing fumes, and the fumes were toxic, poisoning me from within. I needed space from people. I needed space to remember myself. It was a familiar, and suffocating feeling. A feeling I’d felt a lot in my younger days. The feeling of sacrificing myself in order to belong in and live up to something outside myself. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So tonight, this dinner in Philadelphia, is way more than celebration; it is a holy reckoning with myself. It is a choice between continuing the pattern of self-betrayal in order to 'fit in' or being ruthlessly honest with myself. Did I love this journey, or did I regret it? I don’t want to disappoint people with my honesty. I don’t want to be labeled as difficult or ungrateful because I am not either of those. What I want more than anything on this night is to be honest and free in front of this room full of familiar faces. They are the faces of family members, teammates, umpires, friends and coaches. Fellow lovers of a silly stick and ball game. Faces I’ve seen up close, and known from afar.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I look at each face, I wonder if anyone knows what this moment is for me. I wonder if they really know the anguish I feel of being honored for achievements that still haunt me. I say they haunt me because the achievements came with a cost that I’m not sure I would have paid if I knew how broke it would leave me in the end. I traded my soul and beauty for a chance at what I thought was greatness. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought that if I worked hard enough, and punished myself long enough, I could earn a spot at some mystical table of worthiness. One day, I hoped that I’d open my email and find an invitation to THE TABLE. I am not exactly sure what table I wanted a seat at, some imagined table of glory. Mostly, I wanted belonging in a world that celebrated part of me while rejecting most of me. In the world of sport, the stronger performer I became, the more I learned to reject the sensitive, emotional, deep thinking part of me. I didn’t know how to hold space for both. To get where I have gotten in life, to get to this night, I denied part of me so the other part of me could flourish. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sitting at the table in my orange dress, I make the decision to reclaim the whole of myself.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I give voice to the question that has been haunting me as I reflected on my career. Was it worth it? In the quest to become a great athlete, I told myself many lies. I chose a path of pain and self-denial. I allowed myself to be exploited and abused in the pursuit of greatness. As I walk toward the podium, I wonder what I’ll say to this room full of people. How do I sum up my journey in this sport? The love and the hurt. How do I make it make sense? Because none of it makes sense to me. There was pain. So. Much. Pain. Hidden beneath a beautiful lie. A lie I needed to survive. And within the pain, I discovered so much joy. I found friendship and power too. Do I continue the mirage, do I play my role and say what is supposed to be said in these types of speeches, or do I let my heart speak? Do I trust myself enough to let my heart speak? How do I tell the story without being a total downer, and without pretending? </span>I let the question linger, without an answer. I don't need an answer. </p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I walk to the podium, and I speak from the truest place within me. The place of inspiration, love, and truth. My words are the messy and beautiful merger of the paradox within me - the crazed competitor inviting the deep, intuitive thinker to sit beside her at the table. Both parts of me belong here. The whole of me finally feels welcome here. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-75428535624137282152022-08-12T10:05:00.001-07:002022-11-16T07:33:58.829-08:00What's in Your Pocket?<div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> </span></span>I remember the first lie I ever told. I was five years old. I can still feel the weight of that lie in my pocket. The lie was yellow, rectangular-shaped, and wrapped in plastic. It was called Chiclets Chewing Gum. Chiclets were the expensive, sparkling white, candy-coated gum, shaped like teeth and reserved in my young mind for the upper echelon of society. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> </span></span>Chiclet-chewers were glamorous thin wealthy white women with straight blond hair, long legs and sparkling smiles. Chiclet-chewers snapped their gum with effortless confidence. They didn’t ask for attention, they demanded it, and damn, they got it. Chiclet-chewers were desirable. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> </span></span>Suffice it to say, I wasn’t a Chiclet-chewer, and I wasn’t desirable. I was an over-sized awkward kid from a blue collar Catholic family in New Jersey with frizzy hair who wore hand-me-down clothes, sucked her thumb and drove around with my mom in a gigantic, ugly as hell Dodge Ram Van. I wasn’t allowed to chew gum, or drink soda. I was boring. I was bland, and I deeply longed to be desirable. I wanted to be a Chiclet-chewer. I’d do anything for it. Even lie.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span></span></div><a href="http://theathleteway.blogspot.com/2022/08/whats-in-your-pocket.html#more"></a>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-91575259019088059852022-06-29T12:08:00.007-07:002022-06-29T12:20:11.412-07:00Your Body Belongs to You<p><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;">To the generation who fought for Roe, I am sorry for not understanding sooner. Thank you for your gift. To the generation that comes next, I promise to fight with all the rage inside me. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We fight the same battles, over and over, decade after decade. And now, 53 years later, we find ourselves fighting a battle we thought we had won. We are fighting for a right that only a week ago was guaranteed to all of us. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was on the phone with my sister on Friday morning when the news broke. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Oh my God, she said, Roe was overturned. Like actually, overturned. I can't believe it.</i></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5704cd9f-7fff-16fc-92a2-9606947bfb62" style="font-family: georgia;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was a hushed knowing between us. A rushing in the veins. The slow rising of rage. Rage that had been tamed, taunted, pushed down, held back, silenced, dismissed. The rage of knowing that this was coming but not believing that it would actually come. The rage of realizing, yet again, that we've been duped by the ones empowered to serve us. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am not sure how I expected to feel in that moment. I knew the decision was coming. I knew the misogny that was alive and well in American society. Just the day before, I'd shook my head at the disgusting vitriol in the comments on an ESPN post celebrating the 50th Anniversary of Title IX. </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Who cares. Not real sports. Get back in the kitchen. </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It was right there in front of my eyes, and I didn't want to admit how far and how quickly we've slid back in time. Or maybe we never moved forward, we just got better at hiding the hate behind fancy posts about progress.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I guess what surprised me wasn't the decision, but my immediate, intuitive reaction to it. It hit harder and closer than I expected. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> I've never been pregnant. I've never had to make a decision about bringing life into this world. Still, I felt the impact in my bones. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt the cage being built around me, around us. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I imagined the woman who in that moment needed a procedure to save her life and couldn't get it. I imagined her family. Her loved ones. I imagined the woman who's choice was taken away from her in that very moment when she needed it most. I imagined her fear, her trauma, her grief, her anxiety. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Truth is, until it was taken away, I never understood the real power of Roe. I have been part of the silent mass of American women who have quietly enjoyed the right to, and benefits of private bodily autonomy my entire life without ever realizing how precious and necessary a gift it has been. I never had to fight for my right to bodily autonomy. I inherited it, and because I inherited it, I never realized the privilege, and protection Roe afforded me to pursue whatever gosh-darned path I wanted.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Idealist, naive, Catholic and poor. That’s how I grew up. I wanted to be a good Catholic, so I went along with the rally cry when I was young. Abortion was bad. Murdering babies was wrong. It made sense. I love babies, and life is sacred. It was hard to refute because the pro-life argument reduces the question of bodily autonomy to a disgusting, overly simplistic, non-sensical argument defended by </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">stomach-turning photos and loud, indignant rants. I'm not pro-abortion, I'm pro-women having a choice about their bodies. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The rights guaranteed by Roe delivered an important message to women. <i>Your body belongs to you.</i> The stripping of rights in the aftermath of Roe deliver a dangerous message to the next generation of women. <i>Your body does not belong to you.</i> To force birth upon me, or any girl or woman is to take away our most sacred choice, responsibility and right. To force birth upon women, is to put us in danger of abuse and violence. To force birth upon women, is to strip us of the guarantees provided in the constitution - life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Without bodily autonomy for women, there is no equality in society, and without choice no woman can ever choose life. Roe isn’t about murder, it is about ensuring a woman’s right to life through private choice.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll finish as I began:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To the generation who fought for Roe, I am sorry for not understanding sooner. To the generation that comes next, I promise to fight with all the rage inside me. Because your body belongs to you.</span></p></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-22794491232589840782022-06-27T09:52:00.003-07:002022-11-16T07:34:05.716-08:00Showing Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLPwiu38fXE8KOzVGEb2jyzvtvmkCadojnQnHQWW2_pwI_205rj4sjy7eAZtwnik8UBjj4u0UHdx4SyENRU24QpjeqX5Zakqai-ghSTuh1zqvf8g28M_v4Yl4LQQ6UKeJ8u8RqVzBk42ijJSo7KEOQyT2zRUu9cAaJxjyN4L6KOWWut5rH29snEnlEg/s1894/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-27%20at%2012.56.34%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="1894" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLPwiu38fXE8KOzVGEb2jyzvtvmkCadojnQnHQWW2_pwI_205rj4sjy7eAZtwnik8UBjj4u0UHdx4SyENRU24QpjeqX5Zakqai-ghSTuh1zqvf8g28M_v4Yl4LQQ6UKeJ8u8RqVzBk42ijJSo7KEOQyT2zRUu9cAaJxjyN4L6KOWWut5rH29snEnlEg/w699-h277/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-27%20at%2012.56.34%20PM.png" width="699" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am still striving for a dream I once touched. </div></span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>The night was getting late. The
crowd, though inspired, seemed to be getting restless. They were ready to move, mingle, and celebrate. Rhodes - my 10 month old niece - who sat
beside me, had fallen asleep hours ago. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQCY49WcNST81AGsPGChiIRxnSa3aAZphtqp8d1PXC6IbfiV8lZkGYqlF0gnP-zz2a87286xzL7itymaiAGJvsVNOJJ-ApJCg1anTxJInLbnE3SzJZx--snj5FJbCERGMztuBLsdcEl5AUY48sk3FT7HL0EBJHwXYFglfZXcf6f8bNMXVNqeSBCptrSQ/s1184/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-27%20at%2012.55.12%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1114" data-original-width="1184" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQCY49WcNST81AGsPGChiIRxnSa3aAZphtqp8d1PXC6IbfiV8lZkGYqlF0gnP-zz2a87286xzL7itymaiAGJvsVNOJJ-ApJCg1anTxJInLbnE3SzJZx--snj5FJbCERGMztuBLsdcEl5AUY48sk3FT7HL0EBJHwXYFglfZXcf6f8bNMXVNqeSBCptrSQ/w200-h188/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-27%20at%2012.55.12%20PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>As I walked up to the podium, I didn’t
know the exact words I would say. I had scribbled down a few notes. Yet writing
a speech didn’t feel authentic to me. I wanted to let myself be carried by the
passion in my heart, because the passion is what had carried me to that moment.
I had to trust that the passion would lead me where I was meant to be. I was at my best when I trusted the passion, and let the desire to please fall away.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had mixed
emotions leading up to the Hall of Fame and 100th Anniversary ceremony. Joy,
grief, thankfulness, resentment, excitement, and anxiety. A lot of anxiety.
Anxiety about the people I would see, about what I would wear, and say. I was
scared about how I would feel in the moment - would the emotion be too much to
handle? I had so much anxiety I didn't know if I wanted to show up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Most of all, I had anxiety that I would not be able to convey the
complexity of my passion for and experience in the sport. Field hockey broke my
heart, left me grieving, confused about who I was, and what value I had to offer. Despite the grief, the game still pulsed in my soul the
way it did before I ever got good at it or made a career out of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dream of
playing and transforming hockey in the USA has always been with me. It carried me as a child,
battled me as teenager, haunted me upon retirement and re-inspired me as a
woman. When I walked up to that podium, I decided to share the thing that got me through it all. The thing I am most proud of, and thankful for. The thing that at times, including that night, was hardest to do - showing up. Showing up when you are messy and vulnerable and
uncertain about the way forward. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone who has played for the national team knows that it is not a
glamorous life. It’s hard, it’s uncertain. People make pennies to prove they aren’t
expendable, that their play is up to par. I wrote a poem for us. The ones who
showed up, kept showing up, and will keep showing up. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>When it was hardest </i></div><div><i>We
showed up. </i></div><div><i>We believed. </i></div><div><i>When no else did. </i></div><div><i>When no else knew </i></div><div><i>What we could become </i></div><div><i>We showed up. </i></div><div><i>We put in the work </i></div><div><i>We argued. </i></div><div><i>We cried. </i></div><div><i>We doubted. </i></div><div><i>We ran. </i></div><div><i>We
learned. </i></div><div><i>We grew. </i></div><div><i>We fought. </i></div><div><i>We played. </i></div><div><i>We played our hearts out. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The critics
shouted, </i></div><div><i>And still, deep down </i></div><div><i>We knew. </i></div><div><i>We knew We had to keep showing up. </i></div><div><i>Because if we kept showing up </i></div><div><i>We could become </i></div><div><i>The team we knew </i></div><div><i>We already were. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>There aren’t records. Or medals. </i></div><div><i>But we know what We’ve done </i></div><div><i>And what we will
continue to do. </i></div><div><i>We will keep showing up. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We will show up for the passion. </i></div><div><i>For
the 6 year old in us. </i></div><div><i>For the 27 year old in us. </i></div><div><i>For the 50 year old in us. </i></div><div><i>For
the 90 year old in us. </i></div><div><i>For the athlete in all of us. </i></div><div><i>The Olympian in all is us. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We will show up. </i></div><div><i>Because we believe. </i></div><div><i>Because We love. </i></div><div><i>And one day, We will
realize </i></div><div><i>That all the Showing up </i></div><div><i>Day after day </i></div><div><i>Game after game </i></div><div><i>Minute after
minute </i></div><div><i>Hard time after hard time </i></div><div><i>Broken hearted, bruised, exhausted. </i></div><div><i>It’s in the
Showing up </i></div><div><i>Where we discover</i></div><div><i>The Gold in life.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Never underestimate the power of
showing up. Not now. Not ever. Keep showing up. Keep playing. Keep fighting, and
keep reminding yourself that showing up matters. You never know whose life you
will change when you show up.</div><div><br /></div></div>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-61024085689695223552016-10-11T05:24:00.000-07:002016-10-11T05:24:41.452-07:00Letters<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dear Rachel,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I hope you play better today. But I hope more that you enjoy your play today. This might upset you but I was never really into winning or losing. I always loved just watching you play - when you were just playing the game and using your own abilities. And when the object of the game is to get the ball into the goal, and you play just to get it in goal, not to add up a score but to get it into the goal. I loved the goals they always give me chills simply because it is the object of the game - not because it makes you win. And then when you are playing to keep the goals from the other team, and you just block them because it is the object of the game not so they do not get points, or so you don't lose, but you play just to keep it out simply because that is the object of the game. I love that too.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What I took from today was pretty simple - half the battle is your presence and your voice - you touch the ball, on a good day, for about a minute during a 70 minute game - so unless you are an absolute magician on the ball, you make your impact in all the unnoticed actions away from the ball. How you stand, where you stand, what you say and how you say it - you can change the world, ignite a fire, or inspire a teammate in those seemingly insignificant moments. Its powerful. Its more than a way to play the game - its a way to live. By your Presence and voice. </span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dear Rachel,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>It is so funny though I used to pray for you guys to win games or for me to win the lottery, but as I grew I realized that they weren't good prayers because if my prayers were answered it may change the outcome of a better life, but maybe losing a game or a little bit of money makes us who we are. So now I pray to have the outcome be whatever is best for who is involved and trust that we will get through it. </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "tahoma"; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes, I have to remember to thank God for defeat. I grow from failure, and heartache. The greatest triumphs always grow from loss, from being cut, from not being good enough. Failure makes us grow. I thank God for the losses because I know He believes I can be better, not just as a athlete, but as a competitor, a teammate, a person. I used to hate losing. Like I couldn't stand myself if I lost - now I view it as a necessary means of improvement, a challenge, a way of bettering what and who I am so I can give better to the world.</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
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</div>
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</div>
<div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Rachel,</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Mom said she always sleeps best when she has one of her babies sleeping with her. She said that "in the middle of the night Rachel used to pull out my little workout mat and set up a bed right next to me on the ground." </span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I laughed about the mat, I'd forgotten about it. I had a lot of night terrors. I was scared of the dark. I tried sleeping in her bed, but I felt suffocated in the middle of Mom and Dad. I needed space, so I did the next best thing, I slept on the floor. I felt safe in their room. No evil, no terror, could touch me. And on the floor, I was safe yet still free. If the fright fled me, I could return to my bed, without disturbing anyone. Its funny, my use of that mat sums pretty much sums me up. I need the comfort of love and freedom of space. Sometimes, those needs fight against each other - the protecting love of my family and the freedom to create my own existence. I haven't quite found the balance. I am sorting my way through life and learning through experience. Maybe that is what its all about - live, learn, apply, grow - and then do it all over again.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><i>Dear Rachel,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Through this whole process if there is one thing I realized is that I have the best support system in the entire world: my siblings. We really do have something so magical and special that only we share. </span><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">Dear Sister,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Please come visit. I live right by the bay in a city. I have a job, a team, and some friends. I have sunshine. The only thing I am missing is my family - the people I love most in this world. But I carry you with me where-ever I am - you live in the fabric of who I am. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And there is so much I want to say to you, and hopefully, one day, I will have the chance to say it all. But it all falls under the one roof that has housed us all our lives, the roof that shielded us from the storm and carried us through the dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I Love You.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dear Rachel,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br />
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You my daughter are a complex simple person, you have all the makings of simplicity however there is a pull for something more. But I think as you age you will realize it and it will all flow together.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br />
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes, well a lot of the time, I forget to give love. I lose perspective. I get caught up in all the expectation of what life could be - who I could be with, what I could be doing, and where I am going next. I get caught up searching for love and happiness when really its right inside of me, all the time, if I am willing and courageous enough to accept it.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br />
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dear Rachel,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Let your little sister give you some advice as a retired athlete - value every moment, even the tough ones. Even the mornings it is hard to get up, the track workouts and just everything that goes with it. I miss it a lot and wish I took in more of the lessons that come with sport. I wish I took it less for granted.</i></span><i style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Sister,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I found joy in my teammates today. In the rain, in hockey, in the simple comfort of friends - the ones who know you, what you desire and why you hurt because they have been with you through so many ups and down. </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma"; font-size: 13pt;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I found love in a place it has always been. Inside of me. I found it for the people I am with and for the thing that brings us together. Sport. I found it in the rain. I found it in myself, in who I am, how I live, and the journey I am on. I found it for life, for God, and for the fact that this is all we have. Each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-16127952061979537512016-01-20T12:27:00.003-08:002016-01-20T12:27:35.237-08:00The Weaver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I’m not going to be the hero you read about in books. I’m
not that type of hero. I am a weaver. I weave seemingly random moments into a
tapestry of words that come together to form a message that connects the outwardly
disparate, distinct threads of my life. I merge bold obnoxious hues of green,
red, and orange, with soft pastels of pink, yellow, purple, and blue. That is
my craft, my gift. I connect things, subtly, invisibly, patiently, into an intelligible
whole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I went to community mediation with a friend.
The teacher spoke of the Zen Buddhist tradition of koans, and I came to
understand them as being a bit like Jesus’ parables, <span style="background: white; color: #222222;">paradoxical anecdotes used to demonstrate the inadequacy of
logical reasoning to arouse enlightenment. I left the meditation with the sense
that my gift, like my life, was remarkably similar to this notion of koans. It doesn’t
</span>make sense. It’s an answerless riddle, whose truth, invisible to the eye,
is discernable only to the heart.<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weaving, I often don’t see it happening. No, I feel it
happening. I sense myself gathering threads, random moments of significance
that capture my attention. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
an unscripted, non-linear process. I don’t know how the moments will come together.
It doesn’t fit a pre-determined path; its not goal-oriented. It unfolds
moment-to-moment, word-to-word, from some non-distinct origin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s an abstract, confusing, and frustratingly slow process.
People often ask me why I’m still playing field hockey, well, its simple really,
the tapestry isn’t complete. I’m still weaving.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
You know how you can see a thing, and understand a thing one
way your entire life, you think you know it, but all of sudden, in an
unsuspecting moment, everything shifts, and you see the very same thing you’ve
been looking at your whole life in a totally new way. Well, that’s what is
happening for me, everything’s shifting, a new sense of awareness buds within
my soul, and these random moments of significance I've been cataloging for years are beginning to settle themselves into the weaver’s tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when the tapestry is complete, I can't wait to share it.</div>
Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-58487793644376402572015-12-14T17:26:00.002-08:002015-12-14T17:38:56.117-08:00Here<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqUBVuBpj0XJs1ZP5lYtJCw5olfInX6h5TGhyJ39DLZ6O1f5ofF4SmCP3pdX8U41tz7q36hRw01bD6HM1hmal8lKb2vU2sj__N_cVkg26STJaXyZz35HTRB5sD8TLgXNBISyR2b9Voj6W/s1600/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqUBVuBpj0XJs1ZP5lYtJCw5olfInX6h5TGhyJ39DLZ6O1f5ofF4SmCP3pdX8U41tz7q36hRw01bD6HM1hmal8lKb2vU2sj__N_cVkg26STJaXyZz35HTRB5sD8TLgXNBISyR2b9Voj6W/s320/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Morning
dawns,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And with it,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m gone.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Darkness
settles,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And in it,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I mettle. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Demons come.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And from
them,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I run.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bells ring</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And with
them,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I sing.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Winds blow,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And from
them,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Light
appears,</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And in it,</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I hear:</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
There’s
nothing to fear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
God is here.</div>
</div>
Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-5890171362066820672015-11-18T14:28:00.001-08:002015-11-18T14:36:52.694-08:00The Personification of Sadness<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEFdd70lfb94keIO_tduWU-YEAiSD4FBvgdIBr76StLUWYDWl3keEo7JImuoEhA96YrhmdrniU0sb5cBjf6dL0uxzFUjZ_Y9CLD0aPxwO0jAn4Q9lCQEgYXBuctVk8hGrIJzzfZYV3ENs/s1600/IMG_8082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEFdd70lfb94keIO_tduWU-YEAiSD4FBvgdIBr76StLUWYDWl3keEo7JImuoEhA96YrhmdrniU0sb5cBjf6dL0uxzFUjZ_Y9CLD0aPxwO0jAn4Q9lCQEgYXBuctVk8hGrIJzzfZYV3ENs/s400/IMG_8082.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lips brushed
gently against my ear. It was like the soft caress of a warm wind. A shiver descended
my spine. I anchored my bare feet into the brown panels of cold wooden floor. The
room was empty, and yet, I wasn’t alone. I knew those lips. I knew that wind,
and I knew that the swell was nearly upon me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’ve returned.”
I mouthed in wordless welcome. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Yes. I’ve
returned.” She whispered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Again?” My
eyes spoke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Again.” She
replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I bowed my
head in calm acceptance. The urge to fight - to run, to protest, to demand a
reason for her intrusion – rose instinctively inside of me. I let the urge
rise, I let it morph into anger, and I let rage color me blind, enjoying for a
moment, the freedom of sightlessness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still, I
felt her. I opened my eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Yes, I'm here.” She answered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unyielding and inescapable, she remained. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had no choice. I let the rage reach its crescendo, and then,
I watched it fall, and with it, my body crumbled to the cold floor. My forehead
came to rest upon the earth, my hands clasped gently together in prayer. With
heaving sobs, I surrendered myself to her, to the flood of emotion, and the swell of truth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve run
away from Sadness my entire life. I've pretended she wasn’t
there. I've ignored her whispers. I’ve fought her with anger, achievement, excuses and fear. The hardest, and perhaps most beautiful thing
I’ve ever done in my life, is I've learned, well I am learning, how to accept Sadness. She comes as a teacher, with a kind, compassionate voice, offering presence, and an opportunity to flow into a vast new ocean. If only I am courageous enough to listen, to heed her wisdom. For like all great teachers, when the lesson is learned, the teacher fades away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-74739487320582608822015-11-07T05:21:00.003-08:002015-11-07T05:26:58.510-08:00Undressed<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My
fingertips fumble for the button. I ache to make it come undone. Naked. I’m
ready to be naked, to stand still and quiet out in the world. It’s summer. I
want to let the sun kiss my skin. It’s always been summer, and yet I’ve lived
in such fear of winter, wearing so many layers, stacking layer atop of layer,
afraid to face life without layers, scared to be naked. Scared to be still,
scared to sit in the moment, scared of the spaciousness of life. It’s hot beneath
all these layers. I’m sweating. I’m suffocating.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tell
myself to let go, to unbutton the buttons, and let the layers fall away. There’s
a universe within. I sense it pulsating through my veins. I’m ready to set that
universe free. I cling to the layers though, to the rigid macadam-crusted earth.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I said it
was summer, but its actually fall, and today I walked in the sun, and sat in
the shade of a tree, on a bench, and leaves fell around me. They danced from the sky,
twirling and teasing. It was beautiful. And I thought how interesting a thing
it is, how the leaves change in color, and when they are done changing, when
they reach some non-changing state, they die, and eventually they fall away. Even
the leaves though, when dead, they cling, they hang on. And then the wind comes.
It blows, and detaches them from the tree, shaking them just enough to break
the last vestige of bondage, and that’s when they start their dance back to
earth, back home. And the leaves, even though they are dead, they seem happy, free.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I haven’t let
my dead leaves fall yet. I’m bundled in layers of dead leaves. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The funny thing is, I can't fight the layers, the tree doesn't disown the leaves, the breeze comes, and frees them. So the layers, like all things, have a purpose. They are there for a reason. I'm thankful for my layers, they have served me well,
protecting me, saving me, motivating me. It’s hard for me to say goodbye; it
feels like gravest of betrayals. My dear ego has been such a loyal protector, a courageous, passionate, yes, admittedly, overzealous friend. She loves me, like a somewhat rebellious and quarrelsome loyal disciple; she's a warrior, a solidier in uniform.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Without the uniform, who will I be? I wonder how I'll be able to do it. The uniform is my shield, my certainty, my answer to the chaotic, unknown questions of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can
I take the uniform off, and live without an answer. Who will I be without the uniform, without Ego, without her fierce aggressive passion spurning me
forward, onwards. Maybe ‘I’ will not be. Maybe, there will just be space,
existence, being, a sort of free-flowing formlessness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve come
far. I’m still not there yet. Really though how can I ever be there? It’s
impossible to ever be there, because here is the only place I can ever be. Right
here, where I am, experiencing whatever there is to experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still I distract myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wonder
when it started, the distracting. What was I distracting myself from? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid of something, some ghost,
some shadow. I'm afraid of others. The fear, its a reflection of myself. I see in others, what I see in myself, unknown power. I am afraid of myself. I have been afraid for a long time. I am not afraid of the darkness, the darkness is comforting. It’s the light that I’ve hidden, its the light that frightens me most. Maybe love is the original fear. Its so abundant, I had to protect it. Whatever is in me now, its always been in me, and I’ve always
been afraid of it. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> So I’ve hid, I’ve pretended. I’ve searched.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve
searched for myself in so many things – sports, school, words, stories, relationships, yoga.
I’ve searched in so many places, I’ve been all over the globe, and I’ve never
found myself. The search, the seeking, its my excuse, my distraction. The idea
that there is something to find in life, that’s the distortion. There isn’t
anything to find. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t lost
anything. I’ve shrouded myself in layers, in forms, in expectations, only so I
could keep the pretense that something was lost. It’s not lost, its just buried
deep inside of me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yoga is not the answer; doing is not the answer; winning is not the
answer, running is not the answer; even love, is not the answer. Life has no
answers</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">.</span></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am alive,
and that is sort of wonderful. I could spend all my time searching for answers
that don’t exist, or I could explore what does exist, and exploration sounds
fun. It makes life sound like an adventure. A change in words, a
momentous shift in perspective. It’s so simple. It cuts through the layers. Maybe I've found the button. I'll unbutton it, and when the wind comes, I'll let my layers fall away. I'll let myself be naked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-51426427937752737992013-11-25T18:19:00.000-08:002015-08-28T17:55:57.078-07:00Introducing FH REVOLUTION<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="459" src="//e.issuu.com/embed.html#9551900/5762074" width="650"></iframe></span>Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423633049870662861.post-53314757419121673482013-07-28T13:24:00.001-07:002015-08-28T17:55:57.083-07:00The Ball GameI'm not sure what it is about baseball but I love it. I love the sound of it - the slow hum that cascades imperceptibly into a crescendo of action; the sharp clash of wood beating leather and the strong snap of the glove catching a fly ball. I love the cheers of the crowd and the buzz of the lights. Oh, the crackle of the radio in the dark heat of summer; how I love those old, deep voices that bring to life the story of the game; that open our hearts to the humble heroes of America's game - the original ball players.Rachel Dawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11662504855913410012noreply@blogger.com0