We had a most incredible hike this week.  As is often the case in our province at this time of year, we experienced sunshine, bare paths, snow covered trails, cloud, warm sun, cool breezes, frozen creeks and babbling brooks all within a few hours.  It’s never boring! 

This week, due to the variable weather we experienced, we chose to stay away from routes taking us to the peaks of mountains, or to exposed ridges.  Instead, we opted for a beautiful, moderate route, in between two mountain ranges.  We followed a creek up the lower west range, then took a connecting trail to the eastern mountain, and followed its creek back.  It was a great choice.  While I most often yearn for the views from up high, this week I was completely content with the beauty of the valley. 

The trail linking the two creek beds gave us a bit of a hill to climb, and to the surprise of absolutely no one, the snow we’d received the day before still lingered here, protected by the huge forest trees.  From the look of the footprints we could see, only three other people had travelled this way since the storm.  One set of larger footprints had traveled both directions across the link, and two other sets appeared to have walked together.  While I’d be happy to not see anymore snow for this season, I do love hiking in it.  There are so many tracks and footprints, each telling their own story.

As we chatted about some animal tracks we couldn’t readily identify until we got back and set them before our expert, Don, who immediately knew they belonged to a cougar, Lynne stepped in one of the large human tracks and immediately slipped a bit. 

“Those aren’t the tracks for me”, she said.  “Sometimes the footprints in front of us are perfect and sometimes it’s best to stay as far away from them as possible.” 

Just like in life, I thought.

With the deep snow having fallen about forty-eight hours earlier, followed by a warm day, then a cool night, the impression made by the hiker who had come before us had been clear to see and to step into.  However, the base of the print, the part Lynne put her foot in, was a solid sheet of ice.  Lynne knew immediately this was no place for her feet.

Sometimes in life it’s best to follow the tracks someone else has made.  We don’t all need to figure out new ways to solve a formula or make chocolate chip cookies if there is a perfectly good recipe before us.  I often love to follow an existing set of footprints when I’m trying something new.  If someone else has laid a path for me, I don’t need to break the trail for myself.  I don’t need to expend energy thinking about every single step.  If we’re starting a new company, or working on our first project, or raising our first child, having a guide with footprints to walk in is so helpful. 

On the other hand, sometimes following in someone else’s footsteps makes our journey more difficult.  Sometimes the actual prints have turned to ice, making each step slippery at best, and unsafe at worst.  Those steps that were once perfect for someone, have become old and outdated.  Sometimes others’ footprints are too far apart, or too close together to be comfortable for us.  They throw our gait off, and we spend our energy trying to stay upright rather than on where we are going.  We find ourselves out of synch with ourselves; even our bodies can respond by getting out of alignment.  We have no creativity in this place.

Brenda and I, having hiked many times in the snow, have occasionally found ourselves grateful to follow footprints when the snow has been knee deep and higher. It greatly cuts down on our effort.  Yet, we’ve also discovered that even when these footprints are invaluable to propel us forward, sometimes after following them for a time, we’ve looked up only to discover they have not led us to where we had hoped to go!

We all have good instincts when we give ourselves the gift of trust.  I’ve found when I trust myself and use all the tools I’ve acquired on my own journey, I can find my perfect rhythm.   Sometimes it involves gratefully walking along in the footsteps of others.  Sometimes I need to break my own trail.  Sometimes I just need to walk beside footsteps that have come before me, or sometimes along side those being created at the same time as mine.

I also know this.  Looking back gives me great feedback.  It helps me notice my path, see my missteps and offers advice for my next journey.  So too, I’ve learned that whether I’m following someone else’s steps or making brand new ones of my own, I need to glance up occasionally to make sure that when I’m finished, I’ve arrived where I’d imagined I’d be.
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I also try to remember that someday, these footsteps of mine, might be followed by someone else as they are journeying.  I hope to leave some steps worth following.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What footprints am I following?’
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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to create footprints worth following.
 

Sorry.  I couldn’t resist the title.  Sometimes a girl’s just got to have some fun!

A few weeks ago, Ben asked Jim to show him how he could juggle.  Kaitlyn had been telling Ben Grampa could juggle, after they had seen a picture of it in a book they were reading together.  When Ben came over for a visit, he was curious as to what juggling looked like in real life.  Don’t be so quick to want to learn, I thought to myself.  Someday you too will have many things to juggle.  Ben of course, was delighted with what he watched.  Jim made a fine production of tossing the three balls in the air in a manner fitting a Vegas act.  Or at least a driveway performance.

I can’t remember exactly what prompted Jim to learn to juggle many years ago, but I do remember him having a book, and a set of juggling balls.  I remember him learning the first very basic juggling trick, and then day by day, expanding his repertoire until he had a good number of tricks in his pocket.

Juggling can be broadly defined as the ability to manipulate more objects than you have hands for.  Juggling three balls is considered to be the entry point for juggling.  With a bit of practice, four, five and even more balls can be added.  The surprising thing about juggling is this, it’s not dependent on being ‘smart’.  It’s one hundred percent a motor skill activity.  In fact, thinking gets in the way of good juggling.  The trick is to let your body memorize the feel and pattern.  The body does all the work.  You can simply enjoy being an observer of yourself and your skill, rather than a critic or worrier.

As you are learning to juggle, the actual item you juggle is important.  Using bouncy balls, for instance, simply leads to endless frustration.   After all, there is going to be some ball dropping in the early stages, and if you have to run around trying to grab your precious balls as they bounce away, the fun soon runs out.  Jim began with squarish-shaped balls.  They had the same feel as bean bags and they landed right at his feet if they fell.

As I relived this memory about juggling and thought about Ben’s fascination with it, I couldn’t help but think about how each of us is a juggler.    Mothers especially, are fine jugglers.  Almost every Mom in the world has said, or thought, ‘I feel like I’m trying to juggle too many things.’  Often this thought is followed by, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to drop something.’

Here’s the thing.

We do try to juggle a lot of things.  Lots of times, we carefully think out exactly what we can manage, and then life happens, and we find ourselves with more balls in the air than we feel confident with.  In keeping them all moving, which is the only way to prevent them from falling, we have not one second to consider which ones are the most important.

Some of the balls we juggle are pretty durable.  These ones might land at our feet, but they don’t shatter.  Most often, we can leave them where they lie, or we can pick them up once we have a free hand, or we can let someone else pick them up and add them to their cascade.  But some of the balls we juggle are made of the finest crystal.  These ones are irreplicable.  If we should drop one of these, there is no turning back.

When we think about our life-juggling, the trick is not to pick all the balls out of the bag and try to keep them in the air, but to identify the most precious ones and make sure we keep those ones from ever hitting the floor. 

For me, the most precious balls are my relationships with Jim, our children and grandchildren.  I also treasure my relationships with my siblings, and friends and other family members.  My health has been a precious part of my life, and I try hard not to drop this ball.  At times my work commitments are precious, and in the years since I left teaching, dancing and hiking and singing have joined my precious-list.  Once in a while, I have to set one of these balls down, but I pick them right back up once I have the others under control.  Chores and doing things to please others have a lower priority, sometimes these balls not only drop, but roll away. I don’t chase them.  An important thing I’ve learned about precious balls is it isn’t the amount of time they are in the air that is important, rather it is the way in which I handle them.  When I toss and catch them gently and with care, they don’t seem to mind that they are not always part of my juggling act.  On the other hand, when they feel like they are just lumped in with every other commitment and activity I do, they lose their feeling of preciousness.

This weekend is Mother’s Day.  I’m planning to only juggle my most precious balls this weekend.  I know I’m lucky to have so many of these in my bag.  My wish for you is that you recognize and make time to treasure your most precious balls too.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mamas!  Grab your precious balls.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What balls are most precious?’
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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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to identify precious balls.
 

Our hiking group doubled in size this week.  Ok, it really only increased by 1/3, since Lynne officially joined three weeks ago.  This week we welcomed Pam.  We know for sure these two are great additions due to the fact we’ve picked some challenging terrain and still managed to have a great time together.

Having more members in our group not only helps discourage bears and other critters from coming too close, it also creates new friendships and opens our minds to new stories and ideas.   Our hike this week was close to six hours, so we had plenty of time to get past the pleasantries and onto some more interesting topics.

Pam is a great outdoors enthusiast.  She didn’t share everything she does, but we could easily tell from her additions to the conversation that not much moss grows under her feet!  She did share she is a sticker enthusiast, and in her words, ‘Give me a sticker, and I’ll do anything!’.  She keeps a calendar of the things she does to keep active.  At a quick glance, she can tell when she’s a bit short on stretching or strength building.  She doesn’t put pressure on herself to do a certain amount of anything.  But I strongly suspect that not one week, likely not many days, go by without a rainbow of different coloured stickers being put on her calendar!

It shouldn’t have been a surprise then to find out about the gift she created for her brother to celebrate his retirement.  He had told her what he was looking forward to once his work commitments ended.  He wanted to spend more time skiing for pleasure, after having been a ski instructor for years.  In fact, he wanted to ski fifty times in the first season.  He wanted to golf fifty games in one year.  He wanted to hike fifty times.  And he wanted to enjoy the beautiful sunsets and holiday in one of his favourite southern states.

So, Pam gave him a large jar, and four bags, each containing fifty different coloured poker chips.  Each time he participated in one of his chosen activities, he added the poker chip of the corresponding colour to his jar.  In theory, by the end of the year, the little bags would be empty, and the jar would be full of colourful chips!  It came as no surprise to me that it was.

Since our Tuesday hike, I’ve been imagining a jar on my desk.  First, as a little data gathering experiment, I thought it might be interesting to simply set it out and let it reflect what I am currently doing.  I could add different coloured beads or poker chips to represent things I do.  Then, seeing the visual of the life I’m creating, I could make adjustments.  As I pondered my plan, I could already get an image in my mind.  It wasn’t very pretty!

I was imagining how my jar would fill up quite quickly.  The trouble was, there would be an awfully lot of ‘neutrals’ in there.  There are a lot of things I need to do in a week that don’t fall into the category of fun.  Some of them even feel, and look, like work.  I would likely use dull colours to represent these.  I’d hate to use a turquoise blue bead to represent dishes! As I continued to think of all the ‘boring’ beads I would put in my jar, I recognized that while I’d end up with a full jar, I’d missed the point Pam so eloquently made.

Every one of us has more jobs, responsibilities, and obligations than we have hours in the day.  These, while completely necessary and important, are not the things that fill our jar.  The jar-fillers that Pam recognized for her brother, are the things that give our days joy.  They are the things that bring us closer to who we long to be deep down.  For some of us, a beautiful bead might represent an entry in a journal, or a dessert created.  For one man I know, a blue bead in his jar would represent time spent with the gorgeous bluebirds he bands and monitors.  My dad would have had a fish shaped bead for every day he was able to put his rod in the river.  My sister might have a musical note-shaped bead for every day she has the chance to sing.  There was a time, not so long ago, I would have loved to put a running shoe-shaped bead in every time I completed a run.

I’ve wisely given up the idea of using a jar to get a snapshot of my current life.  I don’t need it.  I will, of course, continue to do my ‘must do’s’.  Instead, I want to borrow a page from Pam’s book of stickers, and her poker chip jar for her brother, and find a way to document the ways I honour the bead-worthy things in my life.  Whereas my jar of jobs depleted my enthusiasm, the idea of a jar to document the time I spend honouring my passions is exciting.  It’s also a system for keeping me accountable to myself.  If these things really are my passions, it would be nice if my life could reflect this.

I will find coloured beads to represent dancing, hiking, and singing.  I’ll have special beads for the days when I am lucky to have time with Ben and Andy.  Now that the weather is turning to spring, I’ll pick a bead to represent biking.  I'll have one for reading.  And sewing.  One for quilt-creating and one for kitting. And one for meditating, camping and adventure- seeking. I’ll need a bead for days spent in nature. And a particularly beautiful one to represent time spent with our children. And another for time with people who fill my bucket. 
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I loved that Pam’s brother knew how many times he’d like to do each activity.  I don’t know this exact number for any of my activities.  However, I think there is substantial value in choosing some number, rather than just allowing my life to unfold, and hoping I am sprinkling in nice beads.  I’ve noticed the years slip by when I’m not paying attention.  I think I’d rather have to buy a bigger jar, than get to the end of the year and notice the beads in my jar look lonely.

Oh yes, I’m also, absolutely going to buy a few extra beads, some not assigned to any particular activity.  They will be a spectacular colour.  These will be for my yet-to-be-discovered passions, and perhaps for those I thought I was too old for.  What a year I will have had if I see some of these beauties sprinkled throughout the collection in my jar.  

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What beads will fill my jar?’

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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to choose the beads for your jar.
 
 

Our neighbourhood sits on the edge of a major thoroughfare.   As we leave the neighbourhood to travel east or north, we have to cross over the beautiful Bow River.  The Bow is the major river flowing through our city.  It’s easy to understand why early settlers would have stopped here and made this place home.  The river, winding its way through the modern city is beautiful.  In every season it delights residents here with its changing beauty.  It also makes for challenging travel, especially when old bridges that once safely moved traffic of all kinds from one side to the other, need to be replaced.  This is the situation at our end of the city.

There are two bridges crossing the Bow in our location, one for vehicles going east and one for those going west.  The east bound bridge was the original.  When it was first built it was designed for two-way traffic. Then a few years ago, the bridge was twinned, making the original bridge for eastbound traffic only, and the new one for those heading west.  For the past year, the east bound bridge, the original one, has been under construction.  The old bridge has been removed, and sometime in the next year or two, a new one will take its place.  Meanwhile, the westbound bridge is working overtime to allow traffic to flow in both directions.  As with all road construction projects, there is pain involved for commuters.   The speed limit is diminished, the lanes are narrow, and alas, the drivers have not become any more patient.

Mostly, this project provides us with minimal disruption.  If I happen to have to use it right at the peak of the rush, in either the morning or evening, I can figure on adding a few minutes to my trip.  Mostly, I’m unaffected, except on the days when I’ve had Ben and Andy here for a day of joy.  On those days, no matter how hard I try to plan, we manage to just get everyone out the door and buckled in, only to find we are driving down the on-ramp, trying to merge, just as the rest of the city is trying to get home after a long workday.

Normally, Jim and I would sigh.  Perhaps even complain.  We might wonder aloud, ‘How long does it take to build a bridge?!’  Yet on these days, these joy-days, we are lucky to be exposed to a new perspective.

Ben LOVES vehicles.  He loves them.  He loves every single kind of vehicle.  He makes no judgement about brand, or status, or cost.  He simply appreciates each of them.  And so, if Ben is in the car when we start down the ramp onto the backed-up highway, while our instinct is to moan, his is to take delight in how many wonderful, different vehicles he notices.  A flatbed carrying an ambulance?!  You don’t see that everyday!  A jeep with the wheel on the back!?  Perfection!
When Ben is in the car, we fill our time with noticing and pointing out interesting vehicles. When he is not with me, I’ve begun to enjoy not only seeing interesting vehicles that I might tell him about, ones I’d never had given a second thought about before, but I also now find myself thinking about bridge building.  Not just the concrete and rebar-enforced type of bridges, but all the kinds of bridges we build, and cross, and cross back, and sometimes destroy, in our lives.

When I first began to think of bridge-building in this new way, I conjectured the pandemic hasn’t been a time that has encouraged bridge building.  We’ve each found ourselves on islands, trying to figure out how to keep ourselves and our families safe.  If we didn’t completely destroy the bridges leading to and from ourselves, most of us figured out how to at least pull up the drawbridge and keep it up for some time.

As I let that thought sink in, knowing isolation is not good for we humans, I worried I might have carelessly wasted precious years of my life, having my drawbridges fixed in the up position.  But I also realized that while my people drawbridges (those old familiar well-worn paths) may have been up for awhile, I’ve built and crossed many, many new bridges during this time. 

Bridges are built every time we try a new activity or learn a new skill.  Bridges are built when we have new thoughts.  They are built when we meet someone new.  They are built when we try a new style or attempt a new project.  They are built when we call, text or email a friend or colleague, or a not-yet-friend or colleague.  They are built when we hike a new trail, or hike with new people.  They are built when we take a new course.  Or wave at our neighbour.  Or have days of joy with our grandsons.  They are built when we do something kind for someone else with no motive of getting something in return.  Or when we overlook an imperfection.  All these things lead us to new, often beautiful, places, accessed only by crossing bridges.  Sometimes we build the flimsiest of bridges to start.  We lay a two-by-four, or log over the chasm, balance our way across and check to see if what was on the other side was as enticing as we had thought it had looked from our vantage point.  If it turns out we love what we see, we cross more and more often, eventually building a sturdy bridge.   Before long, we don’t even think about balancing as we go, we travel sure-footed and with confidence.

Sometimes what we check out doesn’t match our dream or our need.  In those cases, we return to the original side, either leaving the bridge in place for someone else to use as we move on, or tearing it down.  Either way, we grow for having crossed it at all.

We have endless opportunities to build bridges in our lives.  The building of them can be slow and often cause disruption to the familiar pattern of our life.  And yet, the finished project, the smooth travel across the newly constructed bridge, leads to yet more possible bridges and holds endless potential gifts.

And so, it has come to pass, I’ve taken a whole new view toward this bridge building project near my home.  Where I once saw this bridge building as a nuisance, I now appreciate its value.  I enjoy my leisurely trips across it.  I am excited to discover the unconsidered possibility on the other side. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What bridge are you building?’
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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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to build bridges.

We had an unexpected, off-schedule week this week.  Kaitlyn returned to work after her maternity leave with all systems in place for care for Ben and Andy.  What could go wrong, asks no parent anywhere who has ever returned to work.  Tuesday morning, Ben arrived at preschool, having been dropped off by his caregiver.  He was his normal cheerful self, ready to see his friends and have a great morning.  By mid-morning the call arrived.  Ben was throwing up.

The correct systems were put into place, and Ben’s dad, Matt arrived quickly to take him home.  Not knowing exactly what was wrong, Matt stayed home and let their caregiver go home, in hopes she had not caught whatever this bug was.  Kaitlyn stayed at work, and Matt dealt with the endless rounds of vomiting.  Finally in the evening, things settled.  With a negative Covid test in the books, and a stomach that seemed like it might cooperate, we felt it was safe for us to have our regular day with the boys on Wednesday.

Wednesday was far from regular, with Ben having no energy, but he was certainly better than he had been on Tuesday.  We decided to have him again on Thursday, figuring if he had something contagious, we’d have already been exposed and we might as well spare their caregiver.  Luckily, things are back to normal with everyone feeling pretty good. 

I know I won’t forget the feeling I had of worry about Ben and what he might have.  It’s terrible feeling so helpless, especially when a little one is involved.  Yet even though I’ll keep this memory, there is another one that I know will also remain in my mind.  Ben is crazy about all things involving vehicles.  He can name every brand of car, and most specific makes.  He knows about all the construction vehicles, skinstruction vehicles he calls them.  He’s curious about speed limits and construction zones, about speeding tickets and engines and tires.  I guess I should not have been surprised then.  Surprised that he, when he was so sick and on one instance did not make it to the bathroom on time, was still thinking about all things cars.  His parents had wiped up and then washed the spot on the carpet and Ben could see, from his vantage point on the couch, it was still wet.  He got up, found his little ten-inch orange caution cones he uses for his bike and for car play, and set them up around the wet spot.  He wanted to make sure everyone knew there was a hazard to avoid.

It's precious, really.

About the same time the call would have come from the preschool, I was high in the Foothills on my regular Tuesday hike.  Lynne and I had just come to the top of the ridge and were excited to see the view.  Lynne had not been to this area since the wicked windstorms of late November so this was her first chance to see the damage up close.  It was good for me to revisit this through her eyes.  Brenda and I have become used to it as we hike the area weekly.  I’d forgotten just how shocking it really is.  When we reached the top, we were shocked to see the trail was blocked off, not by trees, but by caution tape.  The forestry people have been clearing for months, but the tape indicated they had not finished the piece of the ridge in this particular area.  We were surprised to think there had not been a warning at the beginning of the trail; it was much farther to turn around than it would have been had we been able to go forward.  As we pondered what to do, we saw small bits of the same colour tape tied to trees on a side trail.  Understanding this could be a detour, we followed them.  To our complete amazement and delight, the new trail took us onto a horse trail on the opposite side of the ridge, exposing us to a most spectacular view of the Rockie Mountains.  It wound around to join the blocked off trail on the opposite side.

I found it interesting there had been two examples of caution signs on the very same day, the one on the trail, and Ben’s homemade one in his living room.  Of course, most of us are used to seeing caution cones or signs when there is construction around or a hazard on a roadway.  We are far less seeing them in our personal lives.  I think we might be missing something here.

Each of us has times when the people in our lives could be of better service to us, if only they knew how.  Often, they don’t even realize support or help is needed.  So many times, we struggle internally and try to keep the impact on others to a minimum.  Alas, it rarely works.  It leaks out of us, sometimes causing the impact on others to be even worse as they create stories in their minds about what is going on.

I’ve been picturing me putting up cones with signs on them.  “Caution, I’m worrying about a friend. I might not be at my best.  I could use a good pair of ears.” 

Or “Caution, I’m ready to make a huge change!  Get out of my way! I may not be as attentive as I could.”

Or “Caution, I’m at this gathering, but I’m not yet fully comfortable with ‘normal’ yet.”

Or maybe just a tiny little one at the front door, indicating, “Just a little extra kindness is needed, please.”

When we allow others some insight into our intentions, into what’s going on behind the scenes in our lives, the result is they also understand our behaviour and don’t have to create stories around what the behaviour means.  It prevents misunderstanding.

Little Ben got it right.  Most of us don’t dream about having construction cones laid out as part of our home décor.  It would be easy to be annoyed at seeing this if we had no insight.  But knowing his love of cars, and understanding his innocence and purity of purpose, the message was received exactly the way it was intended.  And during a time of worry, the thoughtfulness of it warmed a few hearts too.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What cone is needed here?’

Next week is Easter weekend.  I’ll be taking some time off.  See you later in the spring!
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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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to place your construction cones.

After a week away, I’ve been thrilled to be back out in nature this week.  Missing it while I was away working, gave way to even more appreciation this past week.

As I hiked this week, and yes, I did sneak in an extra, shorter hike one morning, along with our long one on Tuesday, I had to be mindful of footing for many of the steps taken.  The trails have been travelled all winter, and as such, the snow on the trails has been packed down over the months.  Once the warmer daytime temperatures arrived, snow began to melt.  The snow in the forest, mostly untouched, melted quickly.  The packed snow on the trails, however, simply melted on the top.  Then each night, as the temperature dropped, this became ice.  This cycle repeated over and over throughout March, leading to the interesting pattern of forest floors ranging from snow covered to bare, with very icy trails running through them. 

Because of the footing, my gaze didn’t stray too far as I walked.  Mostly, it was aimed toward the ground and at the things within close range.   With this close-up view, I noted most of the trees were imperfect.  Many had one side, most often the side receiving the wind, that was flat, or that had shorter branches than the other side.  Some of the trees had no top at all.  Others, due to the damaging windstorm in November, had split trunks.  Far too many had toppled right over.  I don’t think we ever saw one tree that was perfect.  None of them would look too good on a front lawn.

And yet, put together, all these imperfect timbers create the most breathtaking scenes.  I can’t count how often we remark on the beauty of the places we walk.  Not a week goes by, likely not an hour during any hike, when either Brenda or I don’t say, “Isn’t this incredible?”, or “Isn’t this just beautiful?”.  We always agree that it is indeed both incredible and beautiful.  And perfectly imperfect.

I’ve pondered this.  Nature mirrors life, or perhaps life mirrors nature.  Either way, this phenomenon plays out again and again in life.  I can’t think of any group I’m part of, not even small groups, not even groups of two, where any one member is perfect.  Yet, I know I’m part of some perfectly imperfect groups.  Somehow it happens, that even though when each of us is examined up close, when we are zoomed in on, we are imperfect, yet when we take our place in our group, beauty and perfection are found.  The little imperfections, and quirks, the parts of us that have been buffeted by the wind, bring the magic.  The tattered side of one of us is flanked by the fullness of another.

Having figured I’d solved the mystery of humans with my observation of the power of the group, I surprised myself on my shorter hike this week.  I proudly looked for evidence to support my theory about how individual trees and shrubs, while each of them imperfect, manage to form a perfect picture.  I told myself to zoom out, to not focus so much on individuals, where certainly I would find flaws.  To instead look for the bigger picture.  And then, right when I least expected it, there it was.  The contradiction to my theory.

We came across many large trees that had been felled by the storm last Fall.  The forest service has been out clearing the area. In the area we chose for our short hike, there was a sign saying they had cleared over three hundred trees.  We saw many freshly cut edges of fallen trees where the trees had been cleared from the path.  As I kept my focus on the big picture, on the zoom out, we noticed the sun shining on a freshly cut-in-half tree.  The air temperature was hardly above zero, but the warm sun warmed the flesh of the tree enough that the sap was being coaxed out.  I looked closer, zooming in. The sap wasn’t carelessly dripping out.  It had come out in a perfect circle, forming a ring of crystals, several centimetres wide, all around the log.  It was breathtaking.  And I realized then how wrong I had been.

I wasn’t wrong in thinking many imperfect trees, or humans, can create perfection.  What was wrong, was my thinking that any of the trees were imperfect to begin with.  Certainly, some did not resemble the perfect image we may see in a painting or on a Christmas card, or the carefully manicured ones we see on landscaped lawns.  But the closer I got to this imperfect, blown down tree, the more I zoomed in, the more I could see the absolute perfection within it. 

I recognized my mistake immediately. I had been judging the trees by their outward appearance.  I had judged them by some standard set on cards and in movies.  In doing so, I missed the complete perfection found within.

It’s the same with humans.  It turns out, we are perfect.  We are perfect just the way we are.  In fact, if we were all picture perfect in the over-filtered photograph kind of way, if we had no quirks and oddities, there would be nothing interesting about us.  It is only because we each bring our unique selves to our families, friendships and groups, not only what is on the outside but on the inside too, that we can add to the beauty and wonder of the forest of our lives. 

We’ve been through a tough slug these past couple of years.  We’ve been pretty battered by the wind.  May we each recognize the perfect imperfection within ourselves and those surrounding us.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What perfection do I see in the imperfection?’
​
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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to find the perfect imperfections in your life.
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 

Not yet.  It hasn’t happened.  Andy hasn’t taken his first steps.  Yet.  This past week, Kaitlyn took a beautiful short video of Andy ‘walking’, holding his Daddy’s hand in his right hand, and holding on to his left was his big brother, Ben.  This was the first time I’d seen this.  It’s possible they’ve done it previously, but this was my first glimpse.
Andy was delighted with himself, and Ben was oh, so proud.  Neither of them will likely remember this moment, but I hope I’ll never forget it.

Watching it, I realize it won’t be long before those first steps are taken.  I’m in no hurry but it’s an important milestone in the development of an almost one-year-old.

I happened to see this little ‘not-quite-first step’ when I was away on business.  I was working with an organization who are also preparing to take their first steps.  Their first steps will be so different than those of Andy.  In their case, the organization has been around for a long time.  They’ve taken steps before.  But somewhere along the way their very foundation was compromised.  It was no longer the sturdy base needed to support the important work trying to be done there.

The values upon which it was founded were all but forgotten, the leadership lost its roadmap and the discord felt throughout was toxic.

That was the mucky time, they told me.  Our time in hell.  Those are strong words.

When an organization or individual has come through a mucky time, a time from hell, it can be difficult to even think about a first step, and even more difficult to take it.

Often the impulse is to simply ‘leave all that behind us’ and start to build from here.  From the present.  After all, we can’t go back and change the past and there isn’t much to be said for dwelling on it, so we might as well spend our energy on forward movement.  Luckily, the leaders in this organization are not impulsive.  They are thoughtful, reflective and insightful.  They recognized that rebuilding on an unstable foundation would very likely set them up for failure.  I doubt they’d have landed in the same muck they were in before but certainly they would have landed in muck.

Instead, they chose to spend some time re-building, reinforcing their damaged foundation, before striking off forward.  They had to take a step (or two) backward, in order to lay the solid path forward.

This organization is lucky to have such leadership.  They are lucky to have at the helm, a person who understands the importance of this foundational work.  They have leadership who also understand the wisdom that can be found in the staff who slogged through that muck.  They could clearly identify that backward-walking was needed before forward progress could be achieved.

Time and time again in our lives we are placed in a position of needing (or wanting) to take a first step.  It’s a scary place to live.  We know once we take that first step, things will certainly change.  We know we can be tempted to pretend we’re ready to move forward when in fact, if we’re standing on a shaky foundation, it usually indicates we’ve left some unfinished business behind.

It’s hard to know when it’s the right moment.  And it’s hard to know which direction to step.

Jim’s mom, now ninety-two, took a huge first step a couple of weeks ago.  She lives alone.  Throughout the pandemic she has recognized she misses the company of being with others, especially at mealtimes.  Knowing the solution to the problem was going to be difficult to solve within the four walls of her home, she decided to take a test drive, a trial run, of a brand-new senior’s residence.  Active Senior Living, it boasts on the outside sign. The two-week trial was designed to give her a chance to test the foundation of her decision.  It’s not up to me to give you her final decision, but if I were a betting human, I’d bet we’ll see a ‘for sale’ sign up on her old place before long.  That is, if my difficulty trying to reach her is indicative of what I suspect; she’s already made friends and is busy trying to decide which activities to enjoy!

Each of these three, almost one-year-old Andy, a middle-aged organization, and a 92 year old mother-in-law, has taken a first step.  Each has done it differently.  Andy stepped forward. The organization stepped back.  And Jim’s mother stepped sideways.  Yet they had something in common.  Each made sure supports were in place as they struck out.  Andy was literally flanked on either side by two loving supports.  The organization gathered their entire team, and together carefully planned how they could support one another as they boldly stepped backward and butted up the foundation in preparation for their steps ahead.  Jim’s mom has the love and support of her entire family as she has stepped sideways to test the waters of potential, knowing she will be supported in whatever choice she makes.

Occasionally each of us finds ourselves in a position to take a first step. May we stand on a solid foundation and be supported on both sides as we choose our direction.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What direction am I stepping?’

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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to decide on the direction of your first step.
 
 
 
 

​Our little Andy is soon going to turn one year old.  Last week Kaitlyn was telling me that he likely needs to have his hair cut soon.  Andy has beautiful blond hair and blue eyes.  His hair has some little curls on the top, adding to his angelic look.  He’s got the cheeriest disposition imaginable.  Kaitlyn said she doesn’t really want to have his hair cut. 

‘I don’t want Andy to lose his magic’, she said.

I understood this right away.  For of course, Andy is magic exactly how he is right now.  His delightful, now four-toothed, smile is magnetic.  His strong bare little legs climbing him up staircase after staircase are beautiful.  His sweet smile and almost daily new words are irresistible. And his hair, those sweet top-of-the head curls are adorable.  Andy is a baby, our ‘precious, precious, baby’ Ben calls him.  And he is magic.

There is something about a little one getting their first haircut that takes some of the baby out of them.  Suddenly, they look more like a little person.  So, I understood completely how Kaitlyn, Andy’s mom, wanted to hang on to every single second of his babyhood.

I suppose we all had magic to start with.  But somewhere between Andy and ninety, we either lose it, or forget we have it. 

I’ve been thinking about how and when we lose our magic.  To lose something, we have to have had it in the first place.  This idea gave me hope, since I know for sure babies have magic.  Ergo, we must all have had it. 

I don’t believe we lose it. I’ve seen too many examples of people with magic to believe this.  But I do suspect we stop believing that we, or others have it.   And I think, in the fast pace of our lives, we forget to notice it. 

It’s even difficult to clearly identify magic.  We know it when we see it, but it’s tough to define.  It’s really just a special quality or ability someone or something has, that seems too wonderful to be real.  That’s why it’s so easy to see in babies and so much harder to find in the rest of us. And it’s easy to feel like we have lost it. 

We lose our magic anytime it is scary to let go of one stage and move on to the next, fearing the magic will be left behind.  We lose our magic when we try something new.  We lose our magic when we are stuck; stuck in a job we no longer like, stuck behaving in ways we know don’t serve us or those around us, stuck in routines that no longer hold a sparkle for us.  We can lose our magic when we stop showing up as our best.  We lose our magic when we begin to feel invisible.

Yet, I also know this.  If we turn our eye away from a magic trick, even for a short moment, we miss it.  This is true whether the magic is performed on stage with theatrical music and a person with a black hat, or whether it is found in our office, or living room, or car, or classroom or hospital.  But the magic is there.  I’ve seen it.

I’ve seen magic in kind gestures.  I’ve seen magic in funny comments, as they lighten the mood of entire rooms.  I’ve seen magic in the scenery on our hikes.  I’ve seen magic shared in a glance.  I’ve seen magic as people have become more than they ever imagined.  I’ve seen magic when bravery was dared.  I’ve seen magic when a hand was held in comfort.  I’ve seen magic recently as countries have opened their doors to the refugees seeking shelter from a war, and as young mothers lined up empty strollers for the incoming mothers, fleeing the war, to use for their babies.

Just like at a magic show, the magician performs more and better to applause.  So too, it is in our lives.  If, when we see magic, we would not quickly turn away, but rather extend the moment by breathing it in, or noticing it out loud, or complementing it, or reflecting on it later, we would encourage more of it.  We would teach others to see it, so they too could encourage more of it.

We need magic.

Andy did get his hair cut.  Kaitlyn was right.  He looked so much more like he was becoming a little boy.  Two days after the hair cutting, I dropped Andy and Ben off at home after having played with them for the afternoon.  I said goodbye to Ben who responded, ‘Bye Gramma.  Thank you for the good day.’  Andy’s not able to say bye-bye yet but I said, ‘Bye Andy!’  And I waved.  He smiled his beautiful smile.  And then he waved.  For his very first time.

Andy’s still got his magic. 

So do the rest of us.

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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to find your magic.
 
 

Last week my blog, You Gotta Help People, received a lot of feedback.   It resonated with people for a variety of reasons.  Mostly, the simple message of helping one another is one we all relate to and appreciate.  Right now, watching what is being acted out on the world stage, this feeling is stronger than usual.  Most of us want to help the Ukranian people but have no quick way to do so. 

In the blog, I talked about two fathers, one named Papa, who coined this phrase, and the other named Dad, my father.  In the blog I wrote,

‘Every time there was a special occasion, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, we had a big beautiful healthy meal in our home.  The table was filled with all our own vegetables, and most often there was home- raised meat, or fresh turkey from a neighbour, in the oven.  On every special occasion, and on many regular Sundays, once our meal was fully prepared and ready to be served, Dad would ask for an extra plate.  He’d fill it, heaping full.  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes’, he would say.  I’ll just take this around to Mr. Dwyer.  We would wait the fifteen or so minutes this little trip would take, then sit down to eat together.’

One of the responses I received was this, ‘This is very touching.  I love that your dad delivered Mr. Dwyer his dinner before you all ate versus sending him the leftovers after’

This response, while really just restating what I had written, was incredibly insightful.  It has given me great pause this week, to think about the message we were being sent not only about helping people, but about how we help them.  I never once, until I read that comment, considered the timing of Dad’s delivery.  Nor had I thought deeply about leftovers.  I had always taken for granted that we were being served our dinner at that time, so it followed this would be the natural time for someone sharing our food to eat then too.  I also never once considered exactly what we were sending to Mr. Dwyer, leftovers, or the real meal.  I just knew that Dad heaped a plate full, enough for several meals, and he drove it over to Mr. Dwyer’s run-down house, came back, and then we sat together to eat.  However, reading the comment, and reflecting on it, I realized that the timing of Dad’s delivery was not accidental, and the impact it has had on me and my siblings has been lasting.

By definition, leftovers are something, especially food, remaining after the rest has been used or consumed.  This week though, when I’ve thought of leftovers, I haven’t been thinking of food at all.  I’ve thought of the definition this way:

Leftovers: something remaining after the rest has been used.

I don’t wonder why I’ve never considered Dad’s lesson about caring for others to be about food.  It was never about food.  I do wonder why, until now, I’ve never considered what the real lesson was.  It was about a way of showing up in this world.  Dad, though quiet about helping Mr. Dwyer, had opinions about many things.  It would have been around our dinner table he would have firmly told us, ‘You are no better, or worse, than anyone else in this world.  Don’t ever start to think you are.’  I think these were the words that sang in harmony with my dad’s actions of taking a plate to Mr. Dwyer before we ate.  Mr. Dwyer, although often drunk, and with vile language and shocking stories of his fights, with his mental illness and isolation and run-down shack of a home, was considered to be, by our father, no better or worse than us.  His behaviour was worse, and Dad never made excuses for that, but he, himself was not.  I suppose Dad could have said, ‘There but for the grace of God go I’ or something profound, but he never did.  He just delivered food; delicious, warm, well-made, freshly prepared, straight-from-the-oven, food.  The same food he served his own children.

Dad lived this way in all parts of his life.  He never brought leftovers anywhere.  He worked at a factory, in the boiler room of a large oil refinery.  He was a shift worker, and proud to do a good job there.  He took his job seriously and worried about the safety of the workers in the plant.  He showed up on time and stayed until he could safely turn his shift over to the next worker. He must have often been exhausted, trying to get a few hours sleep at home after a midnight shift, with the hustle and bustle of a big family around him.  And yet he did not show up to work bringing leftover energy.  He brought his best. 

The same was true for home. When he arrived home, there was a farm to run.  He never showed up with leftovers here either.  The work was hard and often timing was determined by Mother Nature, not his sleep schedule.  And yet, he showed up on the farm seeming fresh, not like he was managing to arrive with only his leftover energy.

The same could be said of his whole life.  He had more than his share of aches and pains, with serious life-threatening illness finding a home in him more than once, yet he continued to refuse to serve us leftovers.  We, our family and the entire community, got the best of him.  We did not get his leftovers.  If he was finished on the tractor, he could be found volunteering with the local Optimist Club, parking cars for full days on weekends at big events or serving hundreds at local beef barbeques.  I can still picture him in the kitchen in the evening, rubbing horse liniment on his hands to reduce the pain in his joints, all the while asking if we’d like to play cards.  No leftovers there.

There were ten children to feed around our table.  We were not rich.  I found out long after I had grown up that Dad had spent many, many hours worrying about money and how he could provide for us.  But we were not saddled with this burden.  Dad shared what he had as if he had had plenty to spare.  This was the action we witnessed and the message we clearly received.

Dad had no problem with leftovers, and neither do his kids.  His lunchbox was packed with them more often than not.  If there was food leftover after a meal, Dad often made it into some warm concoction for breakfast the next day, serving it up as if it were out of a gourmet magazine.  It was of course, not gourmet.  It was most often leftover fried potatoes with some green beans mixed in.  So, leftovers were not missing from our plates. 

We were, however, taught not to serve them as the main course of our lives.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I serving?’
​
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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn to show up serving your main course.

This week I attended the funeral of my friends’ father, Giovanni, or Papa as we all called him.  To be in a church, together with so many treasured faces, masked though we were, reminded me of how much I have to be thankful for.  It was a day for thanks.  Thanks for the life of this cherished man, adored by his girls, thanks for the ability to stand together and bear witness to this love, and thanks for the lesson about the gift of loving someone so much their loss feels unbearable.

During the eulogy, Reba J, one of Papa’s two daughters, told many stories about her precious father.  She brought his memory alive as she described how he knew everyone in the stores where he most enjoyed shopping, how he liked to be called Johnny Cash because he only used cash, how as a first-generation immigrant to Canada he proudly worked to support his family and how, whenever anyone was in need, he would immediately drop what he was doing and go to their aid.  When asked why he would do this he would simply reply, ‘You gotta help people’.

What a philosophy for life.

After the service, later in the day, I reflected on my own upbringing.  I don’t remember ever hearing the words, ‘You gotta help people’, but I did see them in action, daily.  We lived on a farm and in the summer months it was ‘all hands, on deck’.  My brothers had a market gardening business, taking fresh vegetables to three different outdoor markets each week.  All of us worked in the fields planting, weeding, and picking that beautiful produce. 

We had a neighbour, Mr. Dwyer, from whom Dad rented extra farmland, the back field, for us to use for growing the vegetables. When we talked about working ‘down in the back’, we all knew that meant we’d be spending the day on this rented land.  We also knew it meant we might have a visit from Mr. Dwyer.  The sound of his tractor always arrived before he did.  He had an ancient, sputtery tractor that he’d coax up the rocky hill as he came to visit us while we worked.  When one of us would hear that tractor, they’d sound the warning.  ‘Here comes Mr. Dwyer’. We were afraid of him.

His wild looks were like something out of a movie; hair unwashed and in need of a cut, old dirty jeans often held up by a long belt but sometimes by bailer twine, and worn-out boots, the kind you picture on a soldier.  That alone should have been enough to frighten us.  But then he’d hop off his tractor, come right up to us and start to tell us his ‘stories’.  Stories of how he’d get into bar fights, and ‘get ‘em in a headlock’.  He’d demonstrate using one arm to show how he’d hold someone and then hold up two fingers from the other hand as if he was going to poke his victim in the eyes.  Sure enough, he'd tell us with his loud, raspy voice, ‘I’d poke ‘im in the eye!’

We were terrified (and fascinated) and we knew we were always to be respectful.  We also knew we were supposed to be working, but Mr. Dwyer commanded our attention and we trusted Dad would understand.  Dad reassured us Mr. Dwyer wouldn’t hurt us.  As kids, although we fully understood his behaviour was not necessarily in his control, we didn’t have the vocabulary to accurately describe it.  As adults we understood that he must have been suffering greatly from mental illness. 

Every time there was a special occasion, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, we had a big beautiful healthy meal in our home.  The table was filled with all our own vegetables, and most often there was home- raised meat, or fresh turkey from a neighbour, in the oven.  On every special occasion, and on many regular Sundays, once our meal was fully prepared and ready to be served, Dad would ask for an extra plate.  He’d fill it, heaping full.  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes’, he would say.  I’ll just take this around to Mr. Dwyer.  We would wait the fifteen or so minutes this little trip would take, then sit down to eat together. 

Dad never made a big deal about his trips to Mr. Dwyers house.  Sometimes he'd fill us in on what he had seen; newspapers and other old junk piled high to the ceiling, with only a pathway to the table. We knew Mr. Dwyer didn’t wash his plate, but just put in the fridge until the next meal when he would use it again.  We were enthralled with these tidbits of insight.  I suspect Dad spared us from many of the other things he saw.

We knew Dad did other kindnesses for Mr. Dwyer too.  He always had time to help him with machinery and in his old barn, and he spent hours and hours listening to Mr. Dwyers’ stories.  He often took packages, gifts, over there that we never asked about.  Dad didn’t like to make a big deal about what he did.  Mr. Dwyer thought Dad was a saint. St. Murray, he called him.  But saint or not, those times spent with Mr. Dwyer couldn’t have been easy for Dad.  Mr. Dwyer was a challenging man.  Most of the neighbours steered clear of him and encouraged Dad to do the same.  And yet, Dad happily carried on his rituals of helping his neighbour for as long as Mr. Dwyer lived. If we’d asked my dad why he did it, Dad would have raised his shoulders and held his hands out, palms up, with a little smile on his face and a hint of a tear in his eyes. 

‘You gotta help people’, he might have said.

This week we are witnessing atrocities in Ukraine, unlike anything any of us could have envisioned.  The people of Ukraine are modeling bravery and showing both strength and love as they do what they must to protect themselves and their country.  Much of the rest of the world, despite the complexities of politics that seem to muddy all waters of common sense, are sending help in whatever form they can.  The rest of us, feeling powerless and heartbroken, don’t have a clear vision for how we might help. We can’t provide food or shelter or refuge.  I’ve heard about a local store, Calgary’s European Deli and Produce Market, who are donating half of their Saturday sales to the relief effort.  I don’t really need anything from this store, but you can be sure I’ll be stopping by to donate money.

You gotta help people.

As the crisis in Ukraine unfolds, most of us will continue our lives with the most minimal disruption.  And yet, around us, in our neighbourhoods, in our families, in our friends’ lives, in our workplaces, and at our dance studios, people will continue to face their own challenges.  May we not spend too much time pondering what we might do, and rather simply put ourselves into some kind of action.  After all, as Papa taught his girls, and as my father modeled for us,

You gotta help people.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Who needs my help?’
​
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 expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how helping others helps us all.