I’ve spent some time this week working on a project I’ve been meaning to get to for over ten years.  It was around the time that both our kids were graduating from University (for the first time!) that I spent many evenings scanning all the pictures I’d taken since they were born and putting them into photo books.  Each book covered a five-year period.  I made four books in all, covering from 1985 to 2005.  

They were thrilled with them, and so was I.  Instead of having about a dozen of those old, heavy, thick photo albums, with yellowing pages, we now had sleek photo books that in total occupy only about eight centimetres on our shelves.  When I finally finished those books and breathed a sigh of accomplishment, Jim asked if I was going to do the other years too.

Let’s just say my response was not favourable.  And yet, for the past many years, this project has been hanging on a hook in my brain, occupying space that I could easily have used for other things.  This week, knowing we are choosing to be in self-isolation, and knowing I find having a schedule to be comforting, I put this project on my list along with several others like quilting, knitting, cribbage, walks, ukulele, meditating and using up what we have in the pantry.

When we moved to this house five years ago, all those extra albums, the pre 1985 ones, and the post 2005 ones, were boxed up and moved with us.  They have remained in those boxes on shelves since then.  On the weekend I went to the basement and hauled them out so I could at least see what I was facing.  It was overwhelming.  And yet I knew, the journey of a thousand photos….

What started as a daunting project soon became one I looked forward to spending time with each day.  As I’d open each album, peel back the clear, sticky cellophane, thought to be a wonder product in its day, and gently pry each individual photo off the page, before measuring, scanning and saving it, I found myself engrossed in the story of our life as told in the pages of these books.

What has simply astounded me, is how many details of our story I have forgotten.   Or at least have not bothered to include in the story in my mind.  I can only assume I took pictures of places and people and events that were important to me.  And yet, these are not all remembered with the same amount of clarity. 

This idea of what becomes the story, after the details of it have had some years to filter into their spots in history, has struck a chord with me this week.  The Covid-19 story is being written as we go.  None of us knows the ending.  Today, the pictures that are being taken are many.  I am so grateful these will all be of the digital kind and will never have to be pried from old albums.  We have pictures of hospital corridors in Italy, lined with patients; some lying on the floor.  We see the military patrolling the streets of Spain.  We see the empty streets in a normally over-crowded India.  We see young adults frolicking carelessly on beaches in Florida.  We see friends posts of clean cupboards, and of piles of things waiting to be donated. 

These things are, of course, all important parts of the story.  Certainly, we should have pictures of these in our albums commemorating these times. 

But there are other photos that are being taken too.  There are photos of friends ‘visiting’ over Zoom chats.  There are pictures of groceries being dropped off on doorsteps.  There are shots of people singing on balconies, and of others cheering on the front-line workers from their front doors.  There are pictures of small children taking neighbourhood walks to wave to their friends through windows.  There are even rumours of politicians of opposing views, coming together to work for the good of the city, province and country.  There are professional athletes choosing to cover the wages of stadium workers.

These too, are important parts of the story and these pictures too will go into our albums.  The question will be, if, like with my albums, the brain only remembers a story in a certain way, which way will each of us remember this time?

Research tells us that the strongest memories are formed when they are linked to strong feelings.  This is why we easily remember things like the birth of our children, events where we really connected with others, events that frightened us or ones that made us come alive.  I suspect that whatever feelings we have in these weeks and months we are navigating, will be the ones that help us form our memories.  I’m going to try to create feelings over these weeks that will foster the kinds of memories I want to have.  I’m not afraid of losing my memory about how bad or frightening or lonely a time this is.  I will certainly remember how hard it is to not see our children and little Ben.  It is important for me to remember these things.  And yet, there are other things I want to remember too.

I want to remember how nice it has been to go out into the country for a walk with Jim each day.  Just being in our old neck of the woods has been very comforting to me.  Not needing to rush home for anything is a rare treat.  I want to remember how I rushed out to the door of the garage today to film the garbage truck picking up our recycling.  Garbage trucks are Ben’s absolute favourite thing, so I can send him this little video as a way to connect.  I want to remember how nice it was to see my book club friends on a group chat, and my dancing friends on a separate one and that in both groups, being able to talk about our fears and thoughts brings us closer.  I want to remember what fine people our children are; how they are making the best possible choices to both care for their own families and to do everything possible to see to it that we are safe too.

I want to remember what it is like to miss doing the things I love, so that when the restrictions are lifted, and the axis of the world rights itself, I will never again dismiss simple pleasures or be so entitled as to think I can assume the things and people I love today will still be available to me tomorrow.

For now, I’m going to keep on scanning 1983.  I’ll also keep creating new pictures for the book of 2020.  I’m going to assume it will have a most miraculous ending.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What memories am I creating?’
​
Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations.  Contact Elizabeth to develop skills needed for navigating uncharted waters.
 

I usually write my blog before the days end Thursday each week, and last week was no different.  I wrote it Wednesday.  At the time of that writing, we knew COVID-19 was on the way, it had even made a few appearances, and I had decided to change some of my habits and appointments, but its true force had not revealed itself.

Then Thursday arrived.

On Thursday morning, I saw a message from our former acreage neighbour, Elizabeth, that one of their dogs had been chasing a fox and had not returned home the night before.  Elizabeth was house and dog sitting for her parents who were away on the end of a two-week trip.  I knew she would be worried and I also knew that looking for Max in the rolling Foothills was not something anyone could do alone.  Even with a group it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.  I offered that Jim and I would come out to help her. 

Between the time I read Elizabeth’s message, and the time I returned home, it felt like the earth had lost her axis.  Max hadn’t been found, but we had followed his tracks and he eventually arrived safely home in the evening.  As I drove home, mid-afternoon, the ten-minute news cycle on the local AM radio station, which usually gets repetitive after two cycles, had continuous new updates about Covid - 19.  It was hard to process it all.

And then I got home and found out there was even more news to process.

Our daughter texted to ask, “Mom, did you hear?  Ken King died.”

To be very, very clear, Ken, the former President and CEO of the Calgary Flames, and recently Vice Chairman of CSEC, was not my best friend.  He may not even have been able to pick me out of a line up.  But he has had a lasting impact on me.  And the news of his death, while not a surprise, hit much harder than I had been expecting.

Two years ago, my friend Rhonda and I decided to bike in the Ride to Conquer Cancer.  Rhonda’s husband, John worked with Ken, as did our friend, Coralie.  I only knew Ken through the media and through their connection with him.  I did know he had been diagnosed with cancer.  Ken’s brother, Ray, and Ray’s wife, Francine, were going to ride in the Ride, and we were invited to join the team of King’s Road Warriors.  I was pleased to have been asked.  In my mind, there would be an army of us riding on that team.  I was picturing our massive team at the start line and hoping I could keep up.

As with many of our imaginings, real life looks quite different.  We arrived at the starting place in the predawn.  Thousands of cyclists were assembling under a smoke-filled sky.  The first people we saw were Ken, who was going to ride as far as he could, Ray and Francine who were joining us, Ken’s wife Marilyn, one of his daughters and several of his grandchildren who were there to cheer us on as we started.  It turns out Ray, Francine, Rhonda, myself and Ken, were the entire team.  I felt some pressure.

I knew Ken was not feeling well.  I’d been told he did not want the spotlight on him, that he would not want us to ‘slow down’ for him, that he wouldn’t like talking about his cancer, and basically that it was biking business as usual.  Most of us had tears running down our faces as the National Anthem played.  And then we were off.

We all biked along pretty gently for the first couple of kilometres.  We had been told it was an easy route, with gently rolling hills.  That may have been a slight stretch.  No more than a few kilometres into the ride the first hill loomed in front of us.  I think it was Ray who said we should just bike up it like normal, that Ken would do his best to navigate it at his own speed. 

I could not bear it.

I was behind the group so I slowed my pace thinking I could stay behind Ken without him knowing.  I was a little concerned he might topple off his bike and I couldn’t stand the idea of him being alone.  We hadn’t climbed one-quarter of the hill when he got slower and slower and slower until I could no longer stay pedalling.  Neither could he.   We stepped off our bikes and started to walk side by side.  I said not one word.  Eventually he started to talk.  With labouring breath, he told me about his cancer.  He told me about his prognosis.  He told me about his reduced lung capacity.  He told me how frustrated he was at his body.  We chatted easily together. 

We climbed the hill together.

I had hoped that the money we raised could save Ken, and all the others we biked for.  It did not.  Some have experienced a cure.  Others, have had many more months and years than they would have without the research and new treatments.

What I learned from that first hill on the Ride is helping me this week as we all face uncharted waters with COVID -19.  There is not one person who is not hill climbing right now.  Hill climbing looks like worrying about money, like feeling forgotten, like not knowing what to do with our days, like guilt over not being at work, like guilt over being at work, like being far from family, like being close to family but not being able to see them, like second guessing ourselves, like having no control, like feeling helpless.

Often, we think we can, and perhaps even that we want, to climb our hills alone.  We don’t want to be a bother.  Here is what I know.  All hill-climbing people make it to the top more easily when they have someone to climb along side them.  We don’t need answers.  We don’t need matching stories.  We don’t need witty comebacks.  We don’t even need to talk.
We need simply to walk beside.

Each of us can find an opportunity to walk beside.  Walking beside looks like making phone calls, checking in with people who live alone, and with those whose pantry shelves my not look as full as ours.  It looks like letting go, for a while, of some of the things we thought defined us.  It looks like caring, and random acts of kindness.  It looks like smiling from a distance, and saying thank you to health care professionals and politicians.   It looks like listening.   
 
It looks like walking up a hill with Ken King. 
 
My wish for you during this challenging time is that you find friends and not-yet friends with whom to do some hill-walking.  You’ll both feel better at the top.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How can I walk beside?’
​
Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to become a hill-walker.

Wash your hands.  This is the new battle cry against the 2020 Covid-19 virus.  This virus, only months ago unheard of, has people around the globe on edge.  For good reason, too.  To watch the exhausted medical staff in Italy work around the clock, hospitals overflowing and new patients still arriving, makes all of us recognize ‘there but for the grace of God go I’.

It turns out this pesky, but mighty, little virus is spread not only when droplets of bodily fluid are shared through coughing or sneezing, but also when someone who is infected with it touches a surface with their fingers.  In doing so, they deposit live germs on it.  Then, along comes an unsuspecting potential victim who also touches the surface with their fingers.  Not realizing they may have been infected they carry on with their day, possibly touching their face, which happens to have just the right kind of openings for the virus to enter the body.

It's enough to make a person terrified to go about regular life.  It also seems to bring on a strange fixation with toilet paper, but that’s a whole different issue!  It certainly has shone a spotlight on the idea of fingerprints, and as always, once something is brought to my attention, I see evidence of it everywhere.  I’ve been seeing fingerprints this week.

Jim serves on the Board of Directors at the Leighton Art Centre.  The Leighton Art Centre, situated in the beautiful foothills of the Rocky Mountains, provides a place for artists, budding artists, art lovers and nature lovers to gather to celebrate and share not only their talents, but also the beauty of the place itself.  One of the offerings Jim has made to the centre, is to invite the public to come to the Centre to participate in one of his nature workshops.  This weekend he had planned to offer Stories in the Snow.  Jim is very at home in nature and he has spent countless hours, days and years noticing and learning about animals, about how to identify them, how they interact with their environment, and what makes them interesting and special.  He’s developed a sharp eye for evidence of their presence. 

In Stories in the Snow, he guides his group around the Leighton Art Centre property, finding and pointing out tracks in the snow, made by the many deer, skunks, elk, mice, moose, birds, weasels and even the rare cougar that call the LAC home.  When there is snow on the ground, there is no way these animals can go about their lives without leaving prints behind.  By studying the tracks, or fingerprints, of these animals, it is easy to discover how they travel, what they eat, who they may fear, what size of groups they move in and more.  Sometimes their tracks are purposeful.  When one deer or elk leads the herd across a field, the ones following use his or her footprints as their path too.  The deliberate steps make travel easier for everyone following behind.  Other times, the tracks are simply an unintended consequence of daily living.
On Friday, when Jim was putting the finishing touches on his workshop, we had little Ben visiting.  Ben’s mind seems to expand more each week than mine has in the last ten years.  This week he had been helping me make muffins and he had evidence of the main ingredient, chocolate chips, on his face.  I sent him to the mirror in the hallway to take a look.  Later, as is often the case after he has been by for a visit, I noticed tiny hand prints on the mirror.  I never rush to remove these.  They just bring such a smile to my face when I see them, I’m content to let them stay put.

We, like the animals Jim studies, all leave hundreds and hundreds of ‘fingerprints’ in our wake as we travel about our lives.  Just like those left by patients who are carrying the Covid-19 virus, we don’t necessarily realize we are leaving them, and we certainly don’t think about what some of the possible unintended consequences of them are.  Ben has no ideas his fingerprints just look like love to me.

We leave fingerprints with our words.  We leave fingerprints with our actions, with our promises, with our smiles, with our acceptance, with our efforts, with our talents, with our moods, with our meals, with our traditions, with our presence.  We leave fingerprints when we listen, when we frown, when we smile, when we engage and when we don’t.  Some of these are the kind we never want to wash off, others are the ones like those I find on my glasses; ones I can’t seem to clean away no matter how hard I try.

We’re told our best defence against this quickly spreading Covid-19 virus is to wash our hands. Up until now, I’ve been assuming that I need to wash my hands because of what I may be picking up.  I now recognize that I put down as many fingerprints as I pick up.  I also recognize that every single time I come into contact with someone, I leave a fingerprint.  I want to believe that I only leave clean, even helpful fingerprints.  But I know it is not so.  I know some of my fingerprints not only leave a mark, they leave marks that aren’t nearly as cute as Ben’s, or nearly as beautiful as the ones left in the snow by the animals.

To avoid spreading Covid -19, we are to wash our hands; to wash them frequently and for the proper length of time; about twenty seconds.  This week, because I’m trying to not only avoid Covid-19, but also to practice meditation, as I wash my hands, I am thinking about all of the fingerprints I will no doubt create before my next handwashing.  I am focusing on leaving only the most love-filled, kindest ones behind. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What fingerprints am I leaving?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to wash your hands.
 
 

Last week I attended the funeral of one of my former students, Jarod.  I also learned of the death of the father of my friend, Marguerite.  One was forty-four years old, the other one hundred.  While Jarod’s death felt like a life cut very short, Marguerite’s dad, Daniel’s, long time on this planet felt like something to be celebrated.  And yet, neither death was sadder than the other.  Both left behind grieving families and friends.  As I most often do when I hear of a death, I read both Jarod and Daniel’s obituaries.  When I read that of Daniel, I learned that his mother had died when he was a very little boy, in the days shortly after the birth of his brother.  No doubt it was in these very early years he first began to develop his resilience. Reading Jarod’s I learned of his incredible love of his family’s cabin on Kootenay Lake. 

The day following Jarod’s funeral, I met with one of Jarod’s classmates from our school, now a good friend of mine, Mark.  Mark and I never lack for conversation.  We always tackle the big issues and leave the rest for the others.  We don’t spend much time chit chatting about the price of oil, or the weather, or gossiping about others.  We do ponder things that matter to us; things like whether we are spending our lives in ways that are satisfying, and if we are being who we want to be, and for that matter trying to figure out just who it is exactly we want to be.  It sounds deep, but to us it feels normal, and from my perspective, even comforting.

Usually Mark and I ‘meet’ through email, but on Saturday we were able to enjoy a rare face to face visit over coffee in a local coffee shop.  During the conversation Mark was telling me he is considering his next steps career wise.  I immediately felt I could relate to his sense of importance about this.   Although I had the luxury of spending a long, very satisfying career in teaching, before taking the leap (ok, more like a series of small hops) into coaching, I could easily remember all the feelings that came with my decision to leave a profession I had so dearly loved, and that had been so very rewarding to me.

One of the things I said to Mark was that although decisions like this feel overwhelming, and as though we need to get them right we won’t ruin our lives if we do not.  I told him about how I now talk about my 33-year teaching career.  It has been boiled down to one sentence.  “I taught for thirty-three years.”

Even I am shocked.  How, I wonder, can something that filled every waking thought of mine for all that time be boiled down into such a small, simple sentence.  I spent many hours trying to make good decisions in my career.  I thought of ways to make lessons interesting.  I agonized over trying to make each student feel welcome and safe, and spent sleepless nights when I had a hunch I might be missing something.  I searched for ways to help students discover their greatness.  I poured myself willingly into it.  I loved it.  And even after all of that, it is a simple sentence.  I taught for thirty-three years.

I have found this to be liberating in many ways, and at the same time very sobering.  If my beloved career is now one sentence, then so are, and will be, the other things in my life.  If I make some decisions that don’t turn out to be fueling my passions, I likely won’t include them in my sentence collection.  I’m realizing that most of us, if we are lucky, get about ten good sentences in life. 

I taught for thirty-three years. 

If we only get about ten of these, give or take, we need to make them all sentences worth writing.  More importantly, when we say them, we should be stirred.  Our English teachers would have, no doubt, wanted us to create interesting sentences; sentences that conveyed a feeling or ones that described a series of events in vivid detail. They would have wanted us to use a variety of sentence structures.  And sometimes even to surprise our readers.  My sentences are none of this.  But when I say them, I hope whoever is listening can see the sparkle in my eyes and hear the deep satisfaction and love in my voice. 

When reading the obituaries of both Daniel, 100, and Jarod, 44, it was easy to find the sparkles.  And after many conversations with Mark, I’m sure his recent work with the Invictus games will end up being one of his sparking sentences.  For my part, I’m challenging myself to have ten solid, eye sparkling sentences of my own to share.

I know I have most likely written more than half my sentences.  Knowing this helps me be more discerning about how, and with whom, I choose to create my next sentences.  It’s kind of my new litmus test.  I’ve already tried it out this week.  Rhonda told me she was going to ride in this summer’s Ride to Conquer Cancer and asked if I was going to join her.  Will I sparkle, I wondered for a second?  And then I signed up.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What sparkling sentence am I writing?’

To read more about my ride, or to donate, click here.

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to create sparkling sentences.

In a week when the news has been filled with emotionally charged stories, from pipeline protests, to the Covid-19 virus, to the Weinstein trial, it seems the one story everyone can find magic in, is the that of the Zamboni driver turned NHL goalie from last weekend.  Thank heavens for David Ayres.  We needed him this week. In case you missed the story, last weekend, during a hockey game in Toronto between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Carolina Hurricanes, both Hurricane goalies were injured and could not mind the net.  It turns out that each franchise, when hosting a home game, is required to have on standby, a back-up goalie.  This back-up goalie must fill in for either team should their two goalies be unable to play. 

Introducing, David Ayres.

David is no stranger to hockey.  But he had never been a goalie in the NHL.  In his younger years, Ayres now 42, played in the Allan Cup Hockey League as a goalie.  More recently, he served as a backup to both the Toronto Marlies and the Charlotte Checkers in the American Hockey League.  In 2004 David became ill and required a kidney transplant.  His donor was his mom, Mary.

For a number of years, he worked at Ricoh Coliseum, now Coca-Cola Coliseum, home of the Toronto Marlies.  As manager, he was occasionally required to do maintenance and sometimes operated the ice resurfacer, hence the nick name, Zamboni driver.  While working at the Ricoh Coliseum one of the equipment men found out he was a goalie and the head coach of the Marlies started using him as a goaltender at practice when an extra man was needed, as did the Maple Leafs.

These days, he works at Mattamy Athletic Centre, the old Maple Leaf Gardens, as the building’s operations manager.  And he is on call just in case.  Just in case the almost impossible situation arises; both goalies from the one of the teams are injured and he is needed to fill in. On Saturday night, it just happened that the goalies who were injured were both from the opposing team – the Hurricanes.

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone that he arrived on the ice wearing a Marlies helmet and pads, and a Maple Leaf’s t-shirt under his equipment.  And yet the job he was asked to do was to help Carolina win.  To make matters even tougher for him, he knew full well that the odds were stacked against him.  The NHL is a big step up.  Despite having taken his fair share of shots fired from Maple Leaf players in practice, facing them in a game, where they were now the opposition couldn’t have been easy.

His ‘new’ team, the Hurricanes, were up 3-1 when he entered.  I’m thinking the Leafs saw an easy opportunity for them to catch up and take the lead, especially after he allowed two of their early shots to go in, tying the game.

But somewhere between the second and third period, he found his stride.  Players from both teams, recognizing the difficult position he had been placed in, gave him encouragement.  When players from the Hurricanes told him to not worry about it, and that they were going to play hard to help him, he reached deep down and dug out the dream he must have carried for years.  The Carolina Hurricanes managed a 6 – 3 win.  After the first two goals scored on him, Ayres never let another shot hit the back of the net.

So often in life we are told to live in the moment.  To not be looking behind ourselves, longing for the good old days, nor looking too far forward to days that may not come.  And yet, I’m beginning to think we need a blend of at least two of these.  It is of course important that we live in the moment.  But we also need to have a slightly wider-angle lens available.  We need to be able to see where we might like to be heading, who we want to be when we get there, and what we need to do today to help make it happen.  And at the same time, to do what is even more difficult; to live in the moments we are given. 

I think the David Ayres story is a perfect example of this.  While Disney may be able to stretch the Zamboni driving angle to make it seem like David was just contentedly going about his life as an ice resurfacer, and then from nowhere was plunked into goal in an NHL game, the more truthful story is he had been preparing his whole life for this opportunity.  An even more amazing truth is that when his moment presented itself, against all odds, he was able to step right into the middle of it and turn it into exactly what he must have dreamed about.

I love so many things about this story.  I especially love that even though Mr. Ayres had his dream of being an NHL goaltender sidelined for what he must have thought would be forever, and that he faced an enormous health challenge, he tucked his dream in his jacket pocket and still managed to carry it with him, keeping it warm, as he went about more mundane tasks in his life, like volunteering to coach younger players and driving a Zamboni.

All of us have dreams.  Sometimes they become faded, sort of trapped in the surface of the ice as the Zamboni of life applies layer after layer of water on top of them.  Sometimes we stop doing the little things that propel our dream forward, or at least keep it alive.  The story this week of David Ayres, serves as a wonderful reminder to us to scratch back the ice that may have covered our dream, to find a way to give it a bit of nourishment, and above all, to recognize and be brave enough to seize our moment when it happens to come our way.  In the meantime, we’d be well-advised to fully enjoy the experience of driving our Zamboni around our own little ice rink of life.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where is your Zamboni taking you?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to steer your Zamboni toward your dream.
 
 
 
 

There was a simple, not-really-even-news-worthy, story on the evening news this week.  Later, I saw the same story on social media.  It seems a long-time, superfan of Jann Arden, Rita Gordon, had been wanting to see her in concert.  When Rita heard that Jann Arden was doing a big Canadian tour this year, she hoped to be able to buy a ticket to go see her idol.  When she went on line to purchase the ticket, she realized that the tickets, while available, were still out of her budget.

Feeling disappointed, she tweeted out to the singer, ‘My 1st tweet goes to @jannarden . I am 30, was totally willing to go sit in the back by myself at your concert in Wpg, but when I saw the price of the cheapest tickets.. where can I sell my kidney. Your fan since 1995, Rita Gordon! Xoxo

To clarify, this was Rita’s first ever tweet.  To further clarify, she was not trying to criticize Arden, or the prices of the concert.  She simply wanted her favourite performer to know that she was her fan, and that she was disappointed to not be able to afford a ticket.

Hundreds of thousands of tweets are sent in a day.  Whoops.  I just looked it up.  Five million tweets are sent per day!  Statistically, this one, lonely tweet should have been sent, and then been absorbed into twitterland without another so much as a retweet or comment or cute emoji attached.

It just so happened that when the tweet was sent, it was read by another Jann Arden fan, Pauline Ehle, from Lloydminster, Alberta.  When Pauline saw the tweet, she empathized with Rita.  Pauline knew what it felt like to not have the money to go to see a concert featuring someone she really enjoyed.  She said she had been in the same situation in the 1990’s when she was a new Arden fan.  Pauline said, “At that time, I couldn’t afford to go to one of her concerts, so now I thought, ‘Well, I’m having a good month, why not?”  Pauline bought a fourth row ticket and gave it to Rita!

Why not?

Why not has been in the air this week.  Jim and I went shopping to buy Jim some new dress pants.  He needed to have the pants altered in length before bringing them home.  The salesperson, when ringing us through the cash, asked if Jim wanted to have, for a small cost, a permanent crease put in the front and back of the pant leg.  “Sure”, replied Jim.  “Why not?”

Little Ben has been all over this expression too.  In his case he really doesn’t fully understand it, but he when he has said a firm, ‘No’ to his dad, Matt often asks, ‘Why not?’  So now, if we ask Ben if he wants something and he does not, is answer is a firm, “No!”, followed immediately by a firm, “Why Not!”  Jim and I have taken to using this expression too – NO, Why Not!

I loved the story about the Jann Arden fans.  I loved it even more when I heard that when Jann Arden was made aware of the story, she immediately reached out to Pauline Ehle, and suggested they meet each other at her concert in Saskatoon.  I’m imagining she might have thought, ‘Why not?’

There were so many possible things that Pauline Ehle could have done when she read the tweet by Rita Gordon.  I simply loved that she not only had the idea she could buy and gift a ticket, but that she also thought, ‘Why not?’ and did it.

Clearly there are times in life when we think of a possibility and the answer needs to be no. But, there are so, so many other times in our lives when we have the opportunity to change the course of the ship we, or someone else is on.  At those times, the answer could be, ‘Why not?’ Most times it doesn’t even require us to open our wallets.  Usually, we won’t even have to go very far out of our way.  Most often, we won’t make the news with our ‘why not’.  But almost always, we’ll feel a bit lighter, a bit more like the better part of our self is steering the ship, and like we have some control over a small part of our life.

I’m trying to ‘why not’ this week.  Why not let that signalling car into the lane in front of me?  Why not send a message to a friend who has been on my mind?  Why not risk applying for that position or program? Why not wear that flashy outfit? Why not try five minutes of meditation?  Why not smile at a stranger?  Why not smile at a friend or family member?  Why not look into that adventure that has been calling?  Why not?

Why not gets us out of our routine.  It expands our world.  It opens the door ever so slightly for the chance of something wonderful to happen.  Before Rita Gordon pressed send on her tweet, I’ll bet she went back and forth and then thought, ‘Why not?’  I’ll be Pauline Ehle did the same before she thought ‘Why not?’ and bought the ticket.  I bet Jann Arden, when hearing about it and thinking about what to do, thought, ‘Why not?’ 

None of them could possibly have known that responding to this niggling little question, ‘Why not?’ would impact so many people. 

And yet, ‘Why not?

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Why not?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   Elizabeth works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. If you are thinking of contacting Elizabeth, why not?
 

I had a Benjamin day on Monday.  My usual day is Friday, but his caregiver, Kayley, and I switched for this week.  Over the weekend I was thinking about what we might do together.  Usually we have an early morning at his house and then once the sun is up and shining, we’ll head off to do a hike in the park, feed the birds or do some other exploring.  Because Ben is so enamoured with cars and trucks and things that go, I wondered if he might like a ride on our C-train. 

The C-train is the light rail transit system that transports thousands of commuters around Calgary.  Ben and I had noticed one while we were out last week.  He was fairly impressed with the ‘city train’.  So, on Monday morning, we got ourselves ready, stopped by our house to pick up Jim, and headed to the station.  Ben was wide-eyed and interested.

My loose plan was to see how long he would be willing to sit still on the train, and then take it from there. I assumed we might go a few stops, get off, and ride the train back.  It turns out that Benjamin might have a bit of my maternal grandfather’s blood in him.  Grampy worked for the railroad when I was a young girl.  I’m sure if Ben thought he could be hired, he’d be down at the station putting in his application!

As the train headed out, Ben was thrilled to see us passing another train.  The ride only got better and better as we noticed all the city traffic out the window.  A banner day it was, as we saw garbage trucks, fire engines, big white trucks and all sorts of other gems.  Pulling into each station, the train would start to slow.  Worried the trip might be finished, as Ben felt the train slowing to a stop he would sharply say, “Go!”.  I explained to him that we needed to let the people off, then let the people on, and then we could go.  He began to understand the rhythm of the trip.  Go, stop, people off, people on, go.

Little Ben never made any motion to try to get up off his seat, nor did he ever seem disinterested with his wonderful adventure.  As I sat beside him, I found myself completely engrossed in the ride.  My mind was fully in the moment.  Go, stop, people off, people on, go.

We rode all the way to the city centre, got off, walked about a block to City Hall, all the while taking in the wonderful array of passing vehicles.  Then we turned around, headed back to the station, hopped back on the train and made the return trip.  Go, stop, people off, people on, go.

I’ve had a few days to think about our little adventure on the train.  I was surprised at how much I liked the rhythm of the ride.  Normally, when I am on the train, my mind is filled with what I am headed to, how I might navigate the next part of the journey, what I left undone at home, what is waiting for me on my desk at home and so forth.  But on this trip, I very contentedly relaxed into what felt almost like a meditation. Go, stop, people off, people on, go.

Each of us gets our ticket to ride when we are born.  The trip ends with our death.  In the middle of it all, it really comes down to go, stop, people off, people on, go.  My little ride with Ben has caused me to think about my own train trip.  A couple of things are standing out for me.

I sometimes get so busy, all I think about is “Go!”.  I pretend that life will slow down once I finish this next project, once I accomplish a goal, or once some milestone has been reached.  But the truth is, every time my train has hinted at slowing down, just as Ben did, I call out, “Go!”   I know I have sometimes forgotten to find the enjoyment of the stopping at each station, at the close of each event.   I’ve forgotten to take that moment to breath in and out, to think about where I have come from, and what I have accomplished or experienced.  I’ve forgotten to take time to consider what could have made my little trip better.  And to appreciate how good it was.

The other stand out thing for me was the movement of people on and off the train.  This too, seemed to resonate with my life.  In each little segment of my life there are different people.  Some people stay on the train with me for several stops.   Some for just a short distance.  Some are on for a while, then get off, then back on for some more travelling together.  Sometimes there is plenty of room on the train for all of us.  Other times we have to move over, to make room for others to sit down.   On the trip with Ben, the train came to a complete stop at each station, giving people time to safely board and get off.  I have a feeling that my train has not always come to a full stop.  Sometimes I’m so busy trying to get to the next station, I forget to fully thank people who have journeyed with me; to acknowledge their contribution to my life. 

A couple of days after my trip on the train, I met my friend Rhonda for a coffee and a visit.  She and I were each hurrying to arrive at our agreed upon meeting place.  We had a wonderful visit, catching up on the past couple of weeks, and planning our next cycling adventure together.  Suddenly we looked at the time, quickly hugged goodbye and were off to the next stop in our day.  As I drove home my phone chimed with an incoming text.  When I got home, I saw that Rhonda had texted to say thank you for the visit, and that she was looking so forward to our upcoming adventure.

Go, stop, people off, people on, go.  Rhonda made a little revision and got it right.  She made room between the go and the stop, between the people off, people on, to take a moment to acknowledge how precious our small encounters are, how lucky we are to have people to travel with, and how special each little train trip can be.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Go, stop, people off, people on… what part of my journey needs my attention?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn when to ‘Go, stop, people off, people on, go’.
 

What a week.  I knew it was going to be a busy one and I should have been watching for a curve ball but…. 
I’d been creating a workshop for Anova, an organization in London, ON, providing safe places, shelter, support, counselling and resources for abused women, their children, and all oppressed individuals, to find a new start.  Knowing this organization has gone through significant change in the past few years as they merged the Women’s Shelter and the Sexual Assault Centre to create Anova, and that those who work and volunteer here live right at the edge of emotional exhaustion, I was keenly aware of the task laid out before me.  I wanted to lead them through a process to not only develop their Strategic Plan, but to help unify the team, and give them a renewed energy and enthusiasm with which to return to work.

As I was leaving the house, heading to the airport for my flight and feeling comfortable with the work I’d prepared, I received a text from my sister, Margaret, who had received a text from our sister Shelley, telling her that Mom had fallen, broken her hip and was awaiting surgery.

To say I was stunned would be an understatement.  Yes, my stepmother is 87 years old.  Yes, broken hips are common in seniors.  But Mom is in great health, walks regularly, lives independently and for the most part takes very good care of herself.  So even though the statistics should have warned me, the reality was tough to absorb.

Mom’s fall was bad.  To put it in perspective, the average surgical time to repair a broken hip is between 1 ½ - 2 hours.  Mom’s surgery, which took place about thirty-six hours after her fall, took five hours.  Her hip had multiple fractures and was badly splintered. 

As I walked through the airport toward the departure gate, thinking about Mom, I heard someone behind me, clearly in distress, yelling out, ‘Oh, oh, oh….!!!’  I turned just in time to see a man, roughly my age, hit the floor.  The crutches that were meant to take pressure off his injured leg (my best diagnosis based on his hip-to-ankle brace was that he had injured his knee), had slipped on the floor and he had lost his balance.  What I had heard was his failed attempt to regain his balance as he found himself falling.

As I turned back toward him, I quickly saw my help wasn’t needed.  He was immediately surrounded by a group of men who had been walking behind him.  About ten minutes later, I noticed two of the young men gently accompany him to our boarding area, reassuring him and helping him get settled.

Whoa!  Two falls in such a short time?  I assumed there was some learning here for me.

As I flew, caught my second flight, arrived, got settled and began my work with Anova, the notion of falling was rattling around in my head.  With Valentine’s Day around the corner, and advertising for it in every shop, the expression, ‘Falling in Love’ kept niggling at me.

Each of us falls.  In a lifetime, most of us will have too many falls to keep track of.  Hopefully, only a very few will be the literal kind, the kind like Mom’s and like ‘Airport Man’s’.  Most will be the other kind; the kind where we make a mistake, where we trip up on our planning, where we disappoint ourselves or others, where we fall from grace or where we fall apart.  There is no path through this world without falls.

The luckiest among us will fall in love.  Not in the romantic sense.  Rather in the way I observed falling this week. 

Mom fell in love.  She has a family who surrounded her and who will help her navigate her new way forward.  The floor where she landed was not soft.  But the landing was softened because of the container of love that caught her.

‘Airport Man’ hit a very hard surface.  But he was lucky enough to have been ‘caught’ by young men who understand the value of showing kindness, concern, help and yes, even love.  I noticed them again as we landed in Toronto, making sure he was safely delivered to who I assume was his wife.  Airport Man too, fell in love.

The women served by Anova have also experienced falls.  Some of these are falls of the kind I cannot even imagine.  When they step through the door of this organization, they too fall in love.  At first, they fall into the love of complete strangers.  Later it becomes the love of trusted allies and friends.

When Jim and I met, we fell in love.  I thought I understood it then.  It was magical and had that sense of perfect bliss.  Now, decades later, we have over and over and over again, each fallen in love.  While I never imagined it could feel better than the original love, I was wrong.

To understand that I can mis-step, feel insecure, make mistakes, chase dreams, have my body fail me; that I am safe to fall, knowing that I am falling in love, gives me the chance to grow, experiment, take risks, widen my circle, and to fully become myself.

My wish for you this Valentine’s Day is not that you fall.  But that if you happen to slip or fall in your actions, words or deeds, that there is a soft place to land; that you fall in love.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Who needs to fall in my love?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to create spaces where it is safe to fall.
 
 

A few months before Christmas, my friend, Coralie, told me about a young father, Joel, who died after a brief visit from Cancer.  This man’s wife is the best friend of Coralie’s friend and neighbour.  He left behind two children; a little boy, eight, and a five-year-old daughter.  Although I did not know this family, it felt like a heartbreaking loss. 

About a month after the funeral, Coralie told me she had talked to Joel’s wife, and had offered to take Joel’s t-shirts and make two quilts out of them, one for each of the children.  Joel’s wife was so touched by the offer and she readily accepted.  She gathered up bags full of the children’s dad’s t-shirts and gave them to Coralie.  When Coralie told me about her project, I was trying to imagine how she would do it.  I had never done this kind of quilt.  I couldn’t picture how the t-shirts would be cut, how they could be assembled and how much work it would be.

Not many days later, I met with my own little group of quilting friends; we are four in number.  I mentioned Coralie’s quilting project to them, and wondered aloud if we thought we might like to, and might be able to help Coralie.  Everyone hopped on board very quickly!  We love chances to quilt together; this project felt like it would be a great one to help with.  So I asked Coralie if she would like some help and she was most grateful.

And so, it came to pass that this past Tuesday, we found ourselves gathered around my kitchen table sorting a young father’s t-shirts into two piles. One for his little girl’s quilt, and one for the quilt for his son.  At first, the piles seemed overwhelming.  But bit by bit, we figured out what the general design could be, what materials we needed to run out and get, and how to get organized.

By noon, we were well on our way, and at 4:49, Brenda called out, ‘Only one more seam to go!’  It was an amazing day. 
I know the children will love their quilts.  I imagine they will appreciate them more and more as they get older.  It is so special that Coralie realized that they need a physical reminder of their Dad, and that she figured out how to create one. 

I learned a couple of lessons on Tuesday.  One was an old lesson; more a reminder to me.  When someone is grieving, they often do not know exactly what it is they need.  One thing we can do, is to offer to do something very specific.  They can then choose to accept or not. This is what Coralie did.  Joel’s grieving wife may never have thought of the idea of a quilt.  But she most certainly would have had to deal with her husband’s clothing at some point.  And she absolutely loved the idea when she heard it.

The second thing I learned is a bit less easy to state succinctly.  I’ll give it a shot.  Because I did not know Joel at all, as we sorted through the t-shirts, I was trying to get an image of him as a person, as a father, as a husband, as a fellow traveller.  The only clues I had were literally the messages I could read on the t-shirts I had in front of me.  I’m not convinced I had the whole story about Joel.  I began to think about the things I lay in front of other people, about myself, that they will use to form ideas, stories really, about who I am.  And I’m not convinced that they will know my whole story either.

With my slightly off-beat sense of humour, I could picture people sorting through my clothes, one black shirt at a time, and coming to the conclusion that I am extremely conservative, boring, clearly lacking creativity, and also, perhaps a bit depressed! Yikes!

The reality is, people can only know about us, what we show them.  I know people can see the clothing I wear.  And perhaps my clothing will never perfectly reflect myself, although I think I am improving in this area.   But what I really hope is that people can see the other things I am wearing.  Things that are so much more important to me than my clothing.   I hope they can see me proudly wearing my love of family.  I hope they see my passion for music, for song and dance – although I suspect many may not. I hope what I wear reflects the calm I feel when I am in nature, when I have an open sky above me. 

I hope they notice me wearing my adventuresome side.  And the side of me that might downplay things; things that are in fact close to my heart.  I hope some of my clothes reflect my bravery, loyalty and acceptance. I hope I wear the ability to see several sides of an issue.  I hope I wear some kind of safety clothing – not the kind that protects me, rather the kind that lets others know they are safe with me.  I hope people see my silly wardrobe too. 

I need to remind myself, that having all of these clothes hanging in my dark closet will do me no good.  If I want to be known for these qualities, I need to not only have them in my closet, but I need to wear them regularly. 

Each of us is creating the bits and pieces for our own quilt.  No one piece of it will completely define us, but together it will tell our story.  I’m going to start choosing my clothing carefully.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How will this look on my quilt?’
​
Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to design your life quilt.
 
   
 
 

TheI’ve been ticked off this week.  Not enough to ruin the week or change any of my plans, but ticked off none the less.  Early in the week, I heard that the New York Times social media team tweeted that having Harry and Meghan move to Canada would provide some much-needed razzle dazzle to ‘a sprawling bone-chilling country’ that’s lacking in ‘razzle dazzle’. 
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I nearly drove off the road when I heard it.  And I was ticked. 

First of all, I was trying to get a mental image of the person who had written the post. I couldn’t imagine that they had ever even been to this ‘bone-chilling’ country.  I wasn’t amused they were so quick to judge a place they didn’t know. 
Then of course I realized, last week was bone-chilling. In Calgary, we set several temperature records for cold.  We hunkered down and avoided going out as much as possible.  And that simply added to my insult from our American cousins.  I had to concede that the ‘bone-chilling’ part had some merit.  But no razzle dazzle?  I could not agree with this.
So, I’ve spent my week trying to find some razzle dazzle.  Real razzle dazzle. 

Canadians have continued to mourn the loss of 57 of our citizens in the horrific plane crash that occurred the week before last.  The outpouring of support to the victims and their families was exactly what we have come to know in this country.  Our Prime Minister brought forth a motion to give $25 000 to each family affected to help them with immediate expenses they might incur as they navigate their overwhelming sorrow.  It wasn’t flashy, but it felt like the right thing to do.

On our west coast this week, Meghan arrived with their infant son, Archie, to start what will be the new ‘normal’ life of Harry and Meghan.  Harry joined her later in the week.  I noticed it didn’t take long for the paparazzi to arrive and attempt to provide exactly the atmosphere they’ve been trying escape.  One operator of a water taxi, a middle-aged man who looked like he had spent years on the water, said he was offered one hundred and fifty dollars to transport a photographer closer to their rental home so he could snap a picture.  He refused.  He said, ‘It’s not that I don’t need the money.  I do.  But I have to live with my decisions’.

That’s Canadian razzle dazzle.

While our west coast was pummeled with paparazzi, our most easterly province, Newfoundland, was also getting pummelled in her own way.  A blizzard, the likes of which none of us has ever seen, slammed into the province on Friday.  By early this week, residents were trying to peer out over literal mountains of snow.  The military was brought in to help shovel and clear roads.  Businesses were closed and residents only allowed to venture into stores for essentials; prescription drugs and the like.  Airports were closed.  By Tuesday, grocery stores were allowed to open and lineups snaked around parking lots and up sidewalks.  No one seemed upset.  Hundreds and hundreds of stories emerged about people checking in on one another and helping each other out.  People shared food and took care of each other as essential workers often worked for 50 hours in a row.  One little seven-year old boy, Matthew, wanted desperately to go outside and help the military men and women shovel snow.  But with Matthew’s cerebral palsy limiting his mobility, he was only able to watch.  The military heard about his wish, and decided if Matthew couldn’t come to help them, they could go to him. The tears in the eyes of the soldier who was interviewed about the meeting told the whole tale. 
Not only was the snow dazzling in Newfoundland this week, on every street in every little town, the people showed up with their own form of razzle dazzle too.

In my own little world, I’ve not had a fancy week, but it has certainly been full.  The weather cleared and we managed to get out for a walk, where Jim taught Ben to feed the birds.   Both were dazzled.  Our dance troupe performed at a senior’s centre on Monday.  We were celebrating Robbie Burns day a bit early.  We wore our kilts and danced to Scottish music.  Part way through our show, one of the residents of the centre, Kathleen, came to the front, flanked on one side by a health care worker, and on the other by one of the dancers.  Kathleen was originally from Scotland and she had been asked to read a poem, ‘To the Haggis’.  Kathleen had clearly prepared for the occasion.  She was dressed beautifully; she had clearly taken extra time with her hair and outfit.  Prior to the performance she had shown me her typed copy of the poem and had mentioned how frightened she was.  When she came to the front, leaving her walker behind, she started by saying, “I am both honoured and terrified.”  Kathleen did a magnificent job.  There wasn’t anyone in the room who wasn’t dazzled by her.  I don’t know why all the paparazzi were on the west coast.  They missed out on some real razzle dazzle.

In the 1970’s, a gadget, the BeDazzler, came on the market.  It was used to add rhinestones and studs to clothing and accessories.  It was a hit.  We BeDazzled everything.  All the ‘gems’ and glitter were fake of course.  No one ever pretended they were real.  We all seemed to understand that this little gadget could add some sparkle to the outside, but never change the inside of any item it ‘spruced up’.  As I’ve travelled through my week, looking for evidence that Canada is not a ‘sprawling bone-chilling country lacking in razzle dazzle’, I’ve recognized that we have exactly the kind of razzle dazzle we want.

We have the kind that’s on the inside.  The kind that doesn’t fall off.  The kind that may not be flashy, but sure makes an impact.  The kind that shows up in a nursing home and in a blizzard.  The kind that says welcome Harry and Meghan and Archie, we hope you find peace here.  The kind that reminds me of the importance of caring for each other.  Our thermometer may show bone-chilling temperatures at times, but we find ways to be both warm and dazzling.
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What’s your razzle dazzle?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to develop some real razzle dazzle.