One evening this past week, in a feeble attempt to avoid the ice cream calling my name, I filled a little bowl with some ‘colourful crackers’, as Ben calls them.  They are in fact, those little goldfish crackers. I buy the coloured ones because they seem more interesting.  As I sat in my chair, watching television and munching away, I found myself sorting through the crackers as I ate.  The yellow ones first, then the red, followed by the green. When I only had my most favourite ones left, the orange cheddar cheese ones, I started to chuckle to myself.  After all my careful sorting and eating in order, I couldn’t tell any difference at all between the tastes of the colours.  Had I been blindfolded, I wouldn’t have had a clue.  The truth of the matter is this.  I lost my sense of taste and smell almost four months ago.  Completely.

Not to panic.  This is not Covid.  And hopefully with the help of a good specialist this problem will have a resolution.   In the meantime, my favourite flavour is cold.  This I can discern.  Hence my tendency toward ice cream. 

I miss these two senses a lot.  I feel disarmed without them.  There are so many instances where I would have used my sense of taste or smell to guide me and I find myself less confident without them.  I cook familiar recipes because I can’t figure out if a new one tastes good enough to serve.  I double check that I’ve turned off things, and I set a timer when things are cooking because even smoke from this summer’s forest fires did not register with me.  It’s a small inconvenience compared to what many have to endure, yet I miss it just the same.

So many of our memories and feelings are connected to familiar tastes and smells; the smell of Fall, the taste of Christmas dinner, the smell of our grandmother’s house.  One of our son’s friends told me recently he remembered me ‘always’ making Sloppy Joes when he came over to play with Greg.  I had no recollection of this.   Sloppy Joes are not in my repertoire of things to cook, and yet, I must have made them a couple of times many years ago, for two hard-playing, fort-building boys.  He told me when he smells them, he thinks of the times he spent at our home.

A few weeks ago, I spent part of an afternoon with some of my favourite young women.  These girls and I go back a long way; back to the very early days of the creation of our project in Africa.  They were barely teenagers then, yet they propelled our project forward better than most adults could have.  Now accomplished adults, they continue to feel drawn to the project.  Their current contribution is finding ways to connect with the young girls in the school we founded, and to encourage them in self-confidence, in education, in celebrating being female, and in seeking opportunities that will lead them to the fulfillment of their dreams.

When we meet, we always spend a bit of time catching up on each others lives.  One of the girls was telling us about recent developments in her family.  Her parents, empty-nesters, decided to adopt a child.  About a year ago, they adopted a little boy, who is now about seven or eight years old.  Suffice it to say, that young boy, like so many children in foster care, did not arrive at their home by way of the Highway of Ease.  They have spent a challenging year trying to win his trust, helping figure out and resolve some of his challenges, and remaining steadfast in their love, even as he regularly tests their commitment.  The girl sharing the story told us of the following scene that unfolded at their dinner table one night.

The mother had made rice pudding for dessert.  It was the first time she had made it since the young boy had been adopted.  No one thought anything of it.  The little boy tasted it and burst into tears.  The mom, surprised, wondered what was wrong, and she asked the little boy if he could tell her. 


He asked, ‘What is this?’ 

‘Rice pudding’, she replied, unable to imagine how it was causing his anguish. 

‘This smells like my grandma’, he said.  ‘I’ve been searching my whole life for this smell.’

It turns out, his grandmother, who he was once close to, used to make rice pudding for him.  He had been missing this taste.  The taste of her love.

I’ve had this story on my mind regularly since the day we sat on our deck and heard it.  I had tears in my eyes then, as I do often when I think of it.  Most of us will never know this little boy’s longing for the taste of love.  Most of us, are fortunate to have bits of our history available to us.  Most of us taste love regularly.

In this time of the Covid pandemic, each of us needs just a bit more taste of love, and each of us has the capacity to provide it for others.  It does not need to be in the form of food.  These days, in my world, food cannot give me the taste of love.  I get my tastes of love from walks in the mountains with friends, from smiles and phone calls, from texts from my sisters and brothers, from visits with our children, from Zoom dancing lessons and book club, from outdoor picnics, and from secret handshakes with Ben. 

It doesn’t take much to create the taste of love.  I hope your upcoming week is filled with its flavour.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What taste of love can I give?’
​
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 add the taste of love to your life and work.
 

There was once a Seinfeld episode where Kramer famously slammed his money on the counter and loudly announced, “I’m OUT!”  The details of what the actual bet was aren’t the important issue here, although they did make the episode hilarious.

If I could find the right counter and the exact right amount of money, and if the bet was about whether I could face a long winter of Covid worries and restrictions, I would be the first in line to slap my money down and declare, “I’m OUT!”   I can do it; I just don’t want to.

I have spoken to so many people who feel like they just want to yell, enough.  I’ve watched the news report that over 25% of the population is suffering from severe anxiety and depression over this virus.  I also know that people tend to underreport symptoms of anxiety and depression, so I’m pretty sure plenty more people are suffering than we know.  I’ve heard normally calm people have snippy responses.  I’ve seen drivers furious with other drivers trying to merge.  I’ve heard stories of children worrying themselves sick.  I’ve felt the sting of tears myself.  It’s been a tough year.

No matter.  It may be that we are done with Covid, but as it has been said, Covid is not done with us.  So, we need to find ways not only to exist and persist, but to thrive and fully live during this upcoming winter.  I refuse to believe we won’t see some relief by March.  I’m putting money on it.

Over the last week or so, I’ve done a lot of thinking about what I’m willing to surrender during this incredibly unusual pandemic.  Being a rule follower, I’m more than willing to comply with all regulations recommended by our health professionals.  I’m willing to surrender some of my comforts, like the comfort of not wearing a mask, and of gathering indoors with large groups.  I’m willing to answer Covid questions and not enter public spaces if I exhibit symptoms.  I’m willing to dry my hands out with sanitizer, and use my elbow to press buttons.

What I’m not willing to do is to look back on these months of pandemic and realize that I was only surviving.  I won’t mind looking back and recognizing I had to make a lot of changes.  But I really want to be able to look back and feel as if I’m still creating a rich and full life.  We only get one trip through this world.  I do not want to have an erase mark through these pandemic years on the timeline of my life.

What I’ve noticed is I have absolutely no trouble filling my days.  In fact, the other day I was lamenting that my days are going too fast.  I have more interesting projects than time to complete them.  Don’t worry, I am not wishing for the pandemic to be longer.  But I know myself well enough that I could fill my days in solitary comfort, completing my interesting projects and not come out of this feeling very accomplished.  My observations these past weeks have reminded me my best days are the ones where I include a splash of the unexpected, a splash of colour.

Colour in my life is appearing in many forms.   Colour is what interrupts my routine just enough to give me new things to think about.  Colour is a hike on a new trail with friends.  Colour is looking forward to a cleaned-out garage, knowing it is where we might be able to sit, doors open and heaters on, when my brother arrives in town next week and comes for a little visit.  Colour is thinking about what favourite foods of his I might serve.  Colour is decorating the tube Jim bought for us to shoot chocolate bars down to the trick-or-treaters on Halloween.  Colour is choosing a new quilt to make; one out of my comfort zone, but that I’m excited to try.  Colour is thinking about what cycling adventure I can take next summer, Covid or not.  Colour is talking to my friend, Brenda, about new courses each of us might be interested in exploring and about planning once per week hikes for the winter.  Colour is visiting my friend Betty and wandering together around her property, admiring the garlic hanging in the barn and the newly planted spruce trees.

Last weekend we celebrated Thanksgiving.  Usually we cook a turkey, prepare mashed and sweet potatoes, make homemade buns, cook a variety of vegetables including Matt’s favourite broccoli casserole, break open the homemade pickles, bake some pies and decorate the table.  We invite not only our children but our nephew and his partner, my brother and sister-in-law, and Matt’s sister and her fiancé.    This year, we knew this familiar tradition was not what was being asked of us.  It also turned out that some of these people were not available.  Instead, of trying to figure out how to keep it the same while making it completely different, we chose just to paint the whole scene a new colour.  We did cook a turkey, but instead of a feasting in our dining room, we packed up a cooler with buns and cranberry sauce, divided the food into separate containers for each family joining us, and headed out to feast on a lunch of turkey sandwiches and Kaitlyn’s pumpkin cupcakes, at the foot of the majestic Rockies. 

On this particular day, as it so often is in life, colour wasn’t just handed to us.  Most of the fall leaves had been blown off the trees.  A cool wind warned of the upcoming forecast of snow.  The sky was as grey as the river rocks we walked on.  Still, walking across the rocks with Ben, on our way to toss stones in the water, after a wonderful safe visit with the others, I was glad we had painted the day in our own way.

As winter sets in here in Alberta, I plan to add colour to each of my weeks.  I’m not known for my artistic flair, but I’m learning that a splash of unexpected colour can make all the difference.

My inquiry for you this week is ‘What colour can I add?’
​
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 add some colour to your day.
 

Jim has finally tackled the daunting job of cleaning out the garage.  I say finally, because while we moved into this home half a decade ago, the huge volume of ‘garage stuff’ we brought from the acreage has been quite content to sit where we planted it; in some cases, it even grew!  Although the garage is usable, whenever I head out there to find a simple tool, I start to understand why we often have five or six of the many standard items.  It’s sometimes just easier to buy a new one than find the old one!

If I said that Jim loves tools, it would be an understatement.  He browses the flyers arriving at the front door, and finds that his car steers into a Canadian Tire or Lee Valley store in much the same way mine can’t seem to go past a Baskin Robbins Ice Cream shop.   There is no cure.  I’m learning to embrace it (or at least starting to appreciate some of the hidden benefits of this terrible affliction of tool collecting).

Last week, late one morning when Jim and I were both working in our home offices, our front door bell rang.  Over the past 6 months, we could count on one hand the number of times this has rung.  Suffice it to say, it immediately captured both our attention.  Jim got to the door first and upon opening it, found our across-the-street neighbour standing at the bottom of the steps.  We do not really know this neighbour.  We have said a friendly hello to her and her husband when we have walked past their house, and once we even stopped for a little chat.  Other than that, we don’t know them at all.  For the purposes of this blog, let’s call them Ellen and Bob.  We do now know their actual names.

Jim didn’t have to dig too deeply to figure out the purpose of the call.  Ellen quickly explained to Jim that they were having a problem with squirrels at their home.  With the squirrels having decided to take up residence underneath the front porch, Ellen, worried they would eventually make it into the house, had decided to install some wire netting that would make it tough for them to find a comfortable home there.  As she tried to figure out a solution, she found herself at the local Home Depot where the sales person sold her some chicken wire and a tool to cut it.

She said she had been working on it all morning and she finally thought she needed to ask for help.  She’d seen Jim outside working on various projects and thought he might be able to lend her a more appropriate tool and give her some tips for the job.  She said she broke down and asked when her hands were just too sore to continue.  She also mentioned her husband was mortified that he did not know what to do either. 

When she mentioned her sore hands, Jim looked at them and couldn’t believe his eyes.  Her hands were cut up and bruised from trying to cut the wire with the tool she’d been sold.  Jim’s comment?  ‘I can help.  Meet me in the garage.’
Jim immediately knew of a much more effective tool he had that she could use, and amazingly he knew exactly where it was located in the garage!  He disappeared from home for about an hour and when he returned, he was able to report she now had a good handle on the tool he suggested and was well on her way to finishing her repair.  He was less than amused that she had been sold not only a useless tool, but one that was more harmful than good in this circumstance.

I’m not a gadget or tool person.  My collection is small and purposeful.  If I had a theory about physical tools it would be if I’m not going to use it regularly, I likely don’t need it.  However, as the events with our neighbour, Ellen, unfolded, I had time to think about other tools we use in life.  Tools I do have.

Each of us has a different assortment of tools, an additional collection to that of our physical tools.  We have tools to help us navigate difficult personalities, tools to help us get our way, tools for relationships, tools to help us with resilience, tools for planning and for setting goals.  Often, we use the right tool for the situation we find ourselves in, and we can successfully navigate our way forward.  However, sometimes we find ourselves in a situation like Ellen’s.  We try to solve the problem at hand with the closest tool nearby.  We forget there are other tools to choose from.  When we don’t have success, we just forge ahead, with more force and determination.  We may not have chosen the right tool, but we’ve chosen a comfortable one, and one we are used to.  We can end up doing more harm than good. 

Each of us is resourceful, capable and whole.  We have all the tools we need to live our most successful and satisfying life.   Ellen and Jim’s interaction taught me a few things about tools.  The tool Ellen had from the store was of no use to her.   Someone else thought they knew what she needed and imparted their ‘help’ on her.  However, in her own tool box, the one she has clearly filled throughout her life, she had exactly the right tool, and she knew exactly how to use it.  She knew she needed help, she knew where to find help, and she knew she had to override both the probable inner voice chiding her for wanting to knock on our door, and the very real voice of her husband who was simply feeling embarrassed.  Ellen had the perfect tool of resilience and she used it.

Jim too has a box of tools he’s collected over the years.  He also knew just what tool would be most effective that day.  Of course, he knew which garage tool would be most helpful to Ellen and he loaned it to her.  He also had some other tools he used.  He told Ellen how delighted he was she had come across the street to ask.  He told her the problem would be easy to fix.  He went across the street to her house and showed her what to do.  I know Jim would have loved to have just done the job for Ellen.  He could easily have taken over and demonstrated his skill, of which he has plenty.  However, Jim recognized this wouldn’t have been the right tool to use at the time.  Ellen had already been sold the wrong tool without her even knowing.  The last thing she needed was for someone else to undermine her.  Jim, understanding that Ellen really needed to be able to complete this job on her own, stayed long enough to show her how to use the tool properly and safely, explained how and what to do, watched to see she could competently do it, and then left her to finish the job she clearly wanted to do on her own.  He did not take away her power or her confidence.  Instead, she gained in both. 

Each of us naturally reach into our toolboxes many times each week.  Sometimes, like Ellen, we grab the wrong tool.  We use stubbornness when patience would better serve us.  We use patience when instead we could advocate for ourselves.  We remain victims when instead we could draw upon our ability to use honesty about ourselves and our fears.   Sometimes, like Ellen, we need to re-evaluate, return the tool that is not best for the situation, and consciously choose one that serves us best. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What tool will serve me best?’
​
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 choose the right tool for the job.

I had an idea for a new winter project this week.  With the pandemic showing no signs of retreating just yet, I’m trying to think of a few nice things that will both keep me amused, and make me feel proud to have accomplished something over the coming months.  I don’t need a make work project.  I do want something creative and interesting.

I found a pattern for a beautiful quilt.  It has six colourful giraffes, all of different heights, standing in a row.  I loved the idea of the giraffes, reminding me of our first trip to Kenya, where we were simply stunned by their beauty, grace and size.  I also loved the bright colours.  Although at first glance I had no idea how detailed the pattern was, after taking a good look at it, and then taking a few deep breaths, I know it will be a great challenge for me.

Walking into a quilt shop can be overwhelming.  Surrounded by thousands of bolts of every possible type, colour, hue, print, texture and tone of fabric, it’s a formidable task figuring out where to begin.  I knew I needed a light and dark version of six different colours, so I got to work using that as my beginning step.

As I selected a light and dark red, a light and dark orange, a light and dark purple, the bolts became too cumbersome to lug around so I found a small table, just waiting for me to lay out my fabrics.  Carrying on I found my yellows, blues and greens.  While I had a nice contrast in each of the colours, when I lay them side by side, something felt off.  Each pair was fine on its own, but together something was not right.  My brain was working far too hard.  Our brains like to make sense of things.  When things are ‘right’, our brains can relax.  There is no puzzle to solve.  But when something is off, our brains kick into high gear.  My brain was working far too hard.

I’ve looked at enough fabric and colours over time to know that one effective little trick is to walk away for a few minutes, then come back and take a fresh look.  Often the problem will immediately reveal itself.  My little trick did not fail me this time.  After a quick sweep of the store, returning to the table I could see the problem.  It was the blues.  The light and dark colours looked good together, but their tone did not compliment the others.  Had I used it, it may have ended up looking ok, but I know each time I looked at it, my brain would not be able to just relax and enjoy the whole image; it would be busily trying to ‘solve’ something.  It would not have been communicating the feeling I was hoping to achieve.
Tone is a critical part of communication.  The most inspiring words can be completely lost when the tone used to deliver them is ‘off’.  As thought there is a disconnect between what is heard, and what is felt or sensed, the listener is unable to focus on the message when their brain is busy tryng to sort out what to focus on, the words or the tone.

Tone most often wins.

The same day I made my fabric purchase, Jim and I watched the American Presidential Debate.  I’m sure there were some excellent facts each candidate had rehearsed in preparation.  I’m sure they had practiced their responses to the questions in great detail.  Sadly, I can’t recall any of the facts, or the details or statistics.  I can only recall the tone of the entire debacle; the tone of intolerance, condescension, arrogance and disdain.
 
Still, this embarrassment of a debate comes as a gift to the rest of us.  What a perfect reminder of the power of our tone.  Most of us navigate the conversations in our lives on our own.  We don’t have speech writers.  We don’t have staff on whom we can practice our comments and our responses.  We don’t have test audiences to check how our comments will land.  What we do now have is the understanding of how important it is for us to consider carefully, perhaps even more carefully than we choose our words, our tone.

So often when we have something important to say, we spend a significant amount of time considering our words.  We choose each word carefully, wanting to convey just the perfect message.  Sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we are left wondering what went wrong.  When we are the listener, often when we hear a moving speech or answer or comment, we are more moved by the tone than the words.  We’ve all heard people say, I didn’t think about my words, I just spoke from my heart.  These moments almost always resonate.  It turns out it is a lot easier to forgive a misspoken word, when we clearly hear the intent through the tone.

When our words and tone are out of alignment, the listener has to engage their problem-solving brain to figure out which thing is true.  Are the words true or is the tone true?  The brain can always figure out when one of these is off; when the blues don’t quite go with the yellows, oranges, greens, purples and reds.  Since tone links to feelings, and since feelings guide us, if the tone is off, the speaker will never accurately communicate their message.

We all have important-to-us things we want to say, and to have others hear.  I’m wondering what would happen if, as we prepared to speak, we spent longer figuring out the tone we want to convey with our message, the feeling we want to impart, and less time worrying about our perfect vocabulary.  I’m guessing we’d end up with a few nicer quilts in our lives.
​
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How’s my tone?’

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 recognize the power of your tone.
 
 

People are longing for before; before Covid.  Before Covid, we had no idea how wonderful and free our lives were.  We were free to socialize without giving it a second thought.  We hugged and kissed.  We ran into stores to pick up single items without ever considering putting on a mask.  We stood in lineups, sometimes even making small talk with those in front or behind us.  We planned trips.  We smiled and others could see our smile.  We flew on planes.  We drove in cars with friends.  We went to weddings and celebrations of life.  We sang and danced with reckless abandon.

Before.

Before is a dividing line in our lives.  It clearly separates our lives into two very distinct sections.  We talk about before kids, before we had this job, before we knew each other, before we moved, before that was said, before Dad died.
Sometimes before is better.  Sometimes it is worse.  Sometimes we recognize when we are stepping across the line from before into after, but often we don’t notice we’ve made the journey until we look back and see that very clear line.

This past week I had a before moment.  Little Benjamin, figured out his ‘gr’ sound.  He now says Grampa and Grandma and Uncle Greg.  Before, we were Mamma, Mampa and Uncle Legg.  Ben was thrilled with his new consonant blend.  He loves to talk and he is delighted that he can communicate his thoughts and ideas.  We too were thrilled when he called to share his new little skill.

But then I realized I would never hear Mamma again.  Mamma was before.  The line had been crossed.  And as we know, once we cross the before line, there is no turning back.

I love being witness to the new life stages of little Ben.  Often one just morphs into the next and I don’t even realize we’ve stepped into a new phase.  All parents will recognize this.  Parents are so up close to the changes, it’s hard to see them.  Like one of those collage pictures made up of hundreds and thousands of miniature pictures, you can’t see the big image until you get a bit of distance from the details. 

Life is like this too.  We are each in the mess of the details of our lives.  It is so rare we get the chance to stand back and notice how those details are creating the story of our lives.  Our ‘gr’ moment was one of those.  Up close it was just another thing.  Seen from a step or two back, it was a milestone, never to be returned to.  It was such a perfect reminder to cherish each of those special mini pictures, each utterance of Mamma.

As I’ve pondered this before concept, I recognize that before is not always what has transpired in our past.  I notice when I look at that line on the ground, the before line, I am facing backward.  This is the line separating the before from where we are now.  There is though, also a second line.  This line separates where we are now from what is before us.

This new before line is different from the other.  It too is permanent.  But it is not a closed chapter or completed phase.  It does not signify an ending, but rather a beginning.  It gives us a glimpse of what is before us.  It is expansive and open-ended and full of possibility.  When we step across this line, we step into a place of creation.  We have the opportunity to design our next mini picture, the one we will one day stand back from and say, ‘Oh, that was before…..’

I’m going to miss my before I was Grandma, when I was Mamma.  I have many, many other befores I also miss.  I remind myself how lucky I am to have had so many things in my life worth missing.  I know that for every before I see when I look back, when I face forward there are an equal number of befores before me. 

Covid has been awful.  Awful.  Yet, someday it will simply be a mini picture in my collage of life.  I’m remembering this as I look before me, to all the ways I can create a rich and satisfying life in the midst of the awfulness of it. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is before me?’
​
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 recognize your opportunities at before.
 

This week I was lucky to have an extra day with little Benjamin.  I usually get to spend one day each week with him, but this week I got a bonus.  Our days together have a familiar routine.  The mornings are spent mostly outside, followed by lunch where homemade macaroni is the most requested item on the menu.  The early afternoon involves a nap for Ben and an hour to ‘get stuff done’ for me.  We round out the day with a hopsicle (popsicle) on the deck, then a little ‘driving’ time for Ben as he sits in the driver’s seat of my SUV delighting in turning on every possible function available on the dashboard, before I take the wheel and drive him back home.

No matter where we go on our morning outing, either to the park or the lake or on some other excursion, if Ben sees other children, he loves to ‘play’ with them.  Being only two-and-a-half, and having been cooped up like the rest of us since Covid hit, he really has very little idea of what it might mean to play with other children.  For now, he thinks that playing in a park with another child means chasing them.  Sometimes they are aware he is doing it, other times they too are only about two or three years old, are wrapped up in their own world, and have absolutely no idea he is chasing them.

Recognizing that we are in our very last precious weeks of summer, Jim and I have been trying to take Ben to the lake as much as possible.  We’re stretching this outdoor season out just as far as we can, understanding there is a long, bubble-filled, winter ahead of us.  Recently, while at the lake, Ben and I wandered down the beach.  There was a young boy, around nine or ten years old, there with his mom.  Ben saw him and said to me, ‘I’m going to chase him’.   I gave the young boy a questioning look to make sure it was ok and not receiving an immediate negative response, Ben was off.  You can just picture this little chase.   Ben’s little legs just turning over and the older boy not really having to move much at all. 

The little boy was simply amazing.  He didn’t have any more clue what to do than Ben did but he so kindly indulged Benjamin in his chasing.  Ben was in his glory, running after the boy who would simply get a few steps ahead, change direction and wait.  When it was all over, less than ten minutes after it started, Ben had never ‘caught’ the boy.  I thanked the boy for his kindness, complimented his mother on her remarkable son and Ben and I returned to our spot on the beach where we drove his trucks in the sand and splashed in the water.

Ben continues to talk about the chase.  He loved it!

I’ve been thinking about it too.  Not so much about the actual chase, the one where the little boy was so kind to Ben, but about chases I’ve been on in my own life.  I always thought I was someone who prefers the completion of an activity or task, prefers the check mark on the list when an item is complete, rather than being the person who lives for the actual doing of the thing; the chase.  Yet as I really think objectively about my life, it turns out I might be someone who loves the chase.  I hope I am.

In the biggest chase of our life, no one is really that keen to be first to the finish line.  It’s kind of final.  And we only get one chance at it.  So, assuming all of us can say this isn’t the chase we want to win, we are left looking at all the other little things we will find ourselves chasing in our lives. 

As teenagers, we chase adulthood, imagining all the freedom and excitement that comes with it.  As adults, we wonder why we didn’t enjoy that chase a bit more; the shine wears off the ‘freedom’, and the reality of being responsible sets in.  In our jobs, some of us chase promotions, imagining the joy we’ll feel upon receiving them.  Sometimes we are right; the new promotion really does bring us joy.  Sometimes, we wonder how we could have forgotten to enjoy the job we just left.  As middle age approaches, many of us chase retirement, imagining all the carefree, travel filled, health improved years we will have.  Sometimes, the shock of having no one relying on us, of recognizing how quickly we were replaced, and of spending some of our newfound freedom noticing new aches and pains, we wonder if we might have been wiser to enjoy the chase more. 

If we look even more microscopically, we’ll notice we have little things to chase each day.   Sometimes we’re just chasing the day away, waiting for evening when we can relax.  Sometimes we’re chasing through meetings with friends, knowing we can put our feet up at the end of it all.  Sometimes we’re chasing through traffic, trying to arrive somewhere.  Or chasing through winter waiting for spring.  Often, we overlook the joy we could be having during the chase, as we aim at the finish line.

I never chase away my days with Ben.  Nor do I chase away my days cycling in the mountains or spending time with our children.  I don’t chase away opportunities to develop new workshops, nor do I chase away spending time on our project in Kenya.  I don’t chase away visits with friends or time spent with Jim.  This week I was putting some details on a little quilt I’m making for Ben.  I noticed I am in no hurry to finish it.  I’m loving adding some special finishing touches.  I recognize how lucky I am to have fingers that still work well enough to do some fine sewing, and how even luckier I am to have a grandson to sew for.

I’m trying to take a page from Ben’s book.  He loved the chase.  He never once mentioned that he didn’t catch the boy; for him, that was never the purpose.  It was the sheer joy of being in the chase.

My inquiry for you is, ‘How much am I enjoying my chase?’
​
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 maximize your chase.
 
 

When I was a little girl, my grandfather, Grampy, my mother’s father, would arrive on the train from Newcastle, New Brunswick to spend time with us each year.  From my perspective, these visits were just filled with love.  He spent his time doing everything he could to lighten my mother’s load and to have fun with us.  I can picture him standing in the kitchen making dinner and then doing dishes, in his grey dress pants, suspenders, and white pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  He had lots of funny expressions that he used to treat us to.

He loved to treat us to new clothes and he would often give us some money to buy a new outfit.  It seems impossible, but my sister, Mary, only three years older than me, would most often take me on a shopping excursion with our money to get something.  Mary couldn’t have been older than eleven or twelve when this was happening.  Grampy would walk us to the door as we headed out on our venture and when we thanked him for the money, with a twinkle in his eye, he’d say, ‘Don’t spend it all in one place!’  When he served us supper, he would laugh as he cleared the table.  If most of what he had made was eaten he’d say, ‘That sold well!’  Looking back, I think my favourite expression of his was “Well that will give you ‘something to write home about’.” He used this one when we told him about something interesting in our day, or when we were excited about something, or going somewhere special, or sometimes just to tease us when we were making a mountain out of a mole hill. 

‘Something to write home about.’ 

I haven’t heard this expression used in a long time (other than by me or one of my siblings!) but I read it the other day in a blog written by Tara Mohr.  It has really stirred my memory.  I recognize how lucky I am to live a life where so often I have something to write home about.

Growing up this expression made complete sense to me.  After all, we had both sets of grandparents, and all of our cousins, living on the East Coast, while we lived in Ontario.  We were used to writing letters.  My parents called the East Coast, home.  When they would describe where we were going they called it ‘down home’.   I always felt like my letters were being sent home.  I wrote to both sets of my grandparents until their deaths.  Grampy lived long enough to celebrate that I had two children, even though he did not have the chance to meet them in person.  He and I wrote each other one letter each week.  I set aside Sunday afternoons to write my letters, and I usually received one back from him sometime toward the end of the week, so I can only guess this is when he wrote his too.  When he was too frail to write in his own hand, his housekeeper did the writing for him.  I grew up taking notice of my world; watching for something to write home about.

Reading Tara’s blog last week, reminded me of the significance of this writing home.  In days gone by, when telephones were only used long-distance in absolute emergencies, and when news took a long time to travel, it wasn’t easy to update those in our lives, those at home.  I, like my parents before me, left my home province and travelled away to live.  And like my parents before me, I saw and experienced things the rest of my family had never seen.  These things became things to ‘write home about’.

I have a treasured letter, written by my mother to her sister, where my mother, facing terminal cancer, tells her sister about her week.  There was nothing earth shattering in the letter.  Mom had not been on a fancy trip, nor had she bought anything new.  But she was reflecting on each of her children and my dad, and trying to face her diagnosis with courage.  This certainly, was something to write home about.  We ‘write home’ when we see new sights, and experience new things.  We also write home when we discover something new about ourselves, about our beliefs and values and about what is important to us.  We might write home when we are afraid, or trying to make sense of our world.

This week, as I pondered writing home, and what might make it into a letter if I were still spending Sunday afternoons doing so, I went on a short, early afternoon bike ride.  As I rode along the Bow River, watching the sun sparkling on the water, and the fishermen standing in their hip waders casting their flies, I came upon two men; one who looked to be middle aged, and the other who I assume was his father.  The father was in a wheelchair.  They were about two kilometres from the nearest parking lot so I knew the son had wheeled his dad to this spot.  They were eating lunch together.  The Dad was holding what looked to be a nice homemade sandwich in his shaky hand.  The son was standing beside him eating his sandwich too.  They were not talking when I cycled past.  They were peacefully looking out over the river, caught up in a moment of contentment, peace and love.  If I was a photographer, I might have been able to capture the image I have of these two in my mind.  It was most certainly something to write home about.

I could imagine the son writing home about this most precious afternoon he spent quietly with his aging father.  I could imagine the father writing home about his gratitude for not only the time with his son, but for the thought and effort put into the outing.  I could imagine them both writing home about how perfectly right this moment felt.  There was something about the flowing river, the passage of time, and the fleetingness of it all that was etched into my mind as I watched them for just a small moment.

Most of us don’t write too many letters anymore.  Nor do we need to.  We might however, re-institute the habit of not only watching for things to write home about, but also of creating such things.

May your upcoming week be filled with the best of things to write home about.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What will I write home about this week?’
​
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 notice and create things to write home about.
 
 

I’ve had school on my mind all week.  Perhaps it’s the news, the regular updates on the opening of schools, the absence of a perfect solution to whether schools should open or not, and of course, the sighting of the little ones as they arrive at the school at the end of our street, decked out in their ‘back to school’ outfits.  It’s also likely that it’s just September.  When you’ve marked the beginning of your year with going back to school for as many years as I have, this time of year always feels exciting, like a fresh page, just waiting for me.

I heard the most wonderful back-to-school story this week.  One of my daughter’s students, on the very first day back, upon being welcomed by Kaitlyn, said, ‘Mrs. Hanson, I am so glad to be back.  I was afraid my parents wouldn’t let me come.’  The student was so earnest, and clearly delighted to be back that Kaitlyn followed up asking if the parents had been considering keeping their child at home.

The student confirmed that yes, she had been lying in bed one night in August, as the decision date loomed, and she could hear her parents discussing the matter.  To her young ears, it sounded like the decision may not land in her favour, which was to return to school.  She could not sleep.  When she felt her parents were safely tucked in for the night, she got up, turned on her computer and created a PowerPoint presentation, outlining the merits of her returning to the school she loves. 

This little story might be the perfect snapshot of the conundrum surrounding school openings this year.  Each side has sound, thoughtful, correct, compelling reasons for either attending or not.  We will never know which side is ‘right’.  This makes it very difficult.  To make matters worse, there is fear involved.  There is fear on both sides; fear that if children return to school, the spread of Covid 19 will be exacerbated, and fear that if children do not return to some kind of normalcy, their mental and academic health will suffer, as will our economy.

What I absolutely love about this anecdote, is the advocacy demonstrated by this young student.  She had so many options available to her.  She decided to forego having a tantrum, forego being helpless, forego ignoring the issue, forego indifference, forego manipulation and instead chose advocacy for herself.   Not only did she advocate for herself, she did it in a way that left all the players in the situation, with full dignity intact.

It is something I could do better.

I’ve been thinking about how and when, during the span of my life, I have and have not advocated for myself.  I’ve been thinking about what kind of PowerPoint presentations I might have made that might have helped me do such advocating.  

PowerPoint is used most effectively when the creator of the slides sticks to a few basic rules.  The most powerful PowerPoint presentations include slides containing as few words as possible.  The same can be said for advocating for ourselves.   Once we get crystal clear about what we really want or need, there is no need to start our advocacy with a review of every past missed opportunity or every slight we have endured. 

It’s advised we avoid using all capital letters on any slide.  I’m thinking this might be a good rule for self-advocacy too. When we are typing in all caps, it is the equivalent of yelling at our audience.   This very rarely elicits the response we are hoping for.  Calm, clear, rational thoughts rarely force the listener into a defensive mode.

When preparing our convincing presentations, our slides shouldn’t overuse special effects such as animations, sounds and flashy transitions such as fly-ins either.  Same in life.  Drama, theatrics, crying, yelling and finger pointing very rarely get us what we want.  On the rare occasion they do, we end up feeling so badly about our own behaviour, the victory seems hollow. 

The young student in Kaitlyn’s class has given me a new tool to use.  I happen to have a few upcoming places where I will need to advocate for myself.  I’m going to start imagining exactly what I might put on my PowerPoint presentations for these occasions.  I’m also going to imagine how I want to present myself; hopefully showcasing me at my best, most integrous, thoughtful and intelligent.  I also think this idea will give me a very good litmus test for what exactly I will find important enough to advocate for.  If I can’t be bothered making a slide presentation, perhaps I might reconsider how much value I actually place on the issue at hand.

I don’t plan on showing up anywhere in the next weeks with my lap top and power cord in hand.   I do however, think I’ll be imagining myself giving some real award-winning presentations.  I can only hope to achieve the same kind of results as Kaitlyn’s young student.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What will serve me best in my presentation?’
​
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 the fine points of PowerPoint.
 
 
 
 

On Tuesday, late in the sunny morning, I pedalled into St. John’s, Newfoundland, ending my 4800km bike ride across Canada.  In reality, I was in my local Provincial Park in Calgary, still fifteen kilometres from home.  There was no band, nor was there flag waving.  But I was imagining being by the Terry Fox statue gracing the Atlantic shoreline in St. John’s.  No matter what, this moment marked the end to my summer cycling adventure; the virtual Cross Canada Challenge.  Mission accomplished.

I’d noticed in the last three or four days of the ride I’d been dragging my feet.  I still set my alarm every night, and clipped on my bright flashing red bike light in the early hours of dawn every morning.  I still had plenty of energy, plenty of get up and go, and I still felt good while I was on those two wheels of mine.  I still had lots left in the tank to carry on with my normal day after my ride.  But something felt a bit off.

A bit of soul searching revealed the answer; I didn’t want the adventure to end.  Turns out, I love the journey.

This surprised me a bit.  After all, I’m the list girl.  I get such satisfaction from completing a task and checking it off my list.  My lists give structure to my days, and keep me moving forward.  And yet, I was hesitant to put a check mark beside this particular item on my list.  Usually when I need to unscramble my thoughts, and allow quieter ones to come to the fore, I go for a ride.  But since I promised myself a couple of days off, I’ve spent the last few days doing some things I haven’t had time for while riding, and hoping my thoughts would organize themselves.

I’m not sure my mind has been able to process this as well as if I’d been biking or running, but I have managed some clarity.  As best as I’ve been able to figure out, I think I love lists because they are my ‘doing’.  They remind me of what I need to accomplish.  These are the tangible things in my life.  These are the things I can report on.  When someone asks, what have you been up to, I can turn to my list to account for my time.

Things that never make my list are the parts of my life that are my ‘being’.  I have never added to a list things like:

• Enjoy the afternoon with Benjamin
• Talk to Jim’s mom
• Visit with the kids at dinner
• Watch the sun rise
• Cycle through the mountains
• Connect with my sister in the evening

 
These things are part of my days.  Perhaps they are on some kind of mental list, but they are not on the check-it-off-the-list, kind of list.  These feel different.  The bike riding felt like it could be on this non-list.  These are the things I don’t want to end.  Each one of them ends, of course, each time, but I don’t want the chance to have these moments to end.  These are the rich, memory-making moments for me.

I was reading a book this week.  In it a little girl, who was invited to a small birthday party for an older man, asked the man, ‘Has it been fun getting to 81?’  This stopped me in my tracks.  How would I answer this, I wondered?

I know my idea of fun isn’t exactly what it might be for some others. I rarely have days filled with side-splitting laughter.  I haven’t been screaming with joy while cliff-diving.  No one has ever wondered where I was last partying.  Using these measures of fun, I am a dismal failure.  Since I know this isn’t true, I can only conclude that while I love this question, and I think I even need it, it is not the exact right question for me.  I don’t think the question that needs asking to me is ‘Has it been fun getting to your age?’  I think a better question for me is, ‘Have you been able to accomplish your mission?’

My mission has nothing to do with my check list.  It has everything to do with my other list; my non-list.  My longing for my bike adventure to not end was not about the physical part of the challenge.  I am more than happy to give my sore butt a break, and to sleep past 5:00am.  It was about being in nature, enjoying the feel of my body as it responded to getting stronger, and of sharing some of the rides with people I love, with my brother, Daniel, my son, Greg, my husband, Jim, my friends, Brenda, Daryl and Rhonda.  My mission is about connection, about caring for and taking time for, myself, for those I love, for those with whom I share this planet, and connection with nature itself.

As this ride has ended, my feelings remind me to fill my days with things that accomplish my mission.  I still need my list; this is how I get things done so I free up time for the important stuff, for the mission stuff.   After all, we can’t linger visiting after dinner if there isn’t a dinner to put on the table.  I must, however, also remember to do as many things as possible to get me to the place where I can proudly say I have accomplished my mission.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How am I accomplishing my mission?’
​
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 clarify your mission.
 
 
 

In the next week or so, thousands of small, and not so small, children will be heading off to school, carrying their backpacks.  This year, with the complications of Covid, those packs will likely contain not only the regular school supplies, but also some new essentials that I really wish kids didn’t have to think about at all.  Our new reality, however, is that these new things, the sanitizer, mask and endless reminders to physically distance, are necessary for everyone’s best chance of remaining in good health.  On the very first days of school, the packs will be much heavier than usual.   The new supplies for the new year fill the packs to overflowing and parents might need to lend a hand to make sure everything arrives safely the first day.  It’s nice to pick up a pack and carry it for someone else, especially when it looks like it must be heavy to manage.

I’ve been thinking a lot about heavy backpacks this week, and about how and when we help carry them for others. 
While not all of us are students or teachers returning to a classroom this fall, each of us still carries a backpack through our life.  We walk through the years of our time on this earth with a backpack firmly affixed every day.  Sometimes it is filled with treasures, so wonderful they feel light and effortless to bear.   In times like these, we can often not only easily manage our own pack, but we often feel as though we have enough strength left to reach out and help others with their loads too.

There are other times when our backpacks feel very, very full and heavy.  They can be weighed down with the burden of things needing to be done.  They can also be weighted with our thoughts and concerns.  I’m guessing those returning to schools next week will have things of both varieties in their packs.  I worry that the students will have filled the leftover nooks and crannies of their packs with their own variety of worries; worries about catching Covid, worries about ‘making Grandma and Grandpa sick’, worries about being behind in work, and all the regular worries of a new school year. 

I know our daughter and son-in-law, both teachers, will return to school with their packs stuffed full too; full of questions, new plans, worries about the students in their care, about themselves and what they could bring home, about the uncertainty of the school year, about the different skill levels of students they will encounter, and about smiling using only their eyes.  I would dearly love to sneak over to their house, and take a few things out of their packs, so they would be easier to carry.  I know, of course, this is not the right thing to do.

One of the most critical beliefs in coaching is that each of us is creative, resourceful and whole.  Each of us has the answers we need inside ourselves.  We are the experts on ourselves.  No one knows us as we know ourselves.  We are not broken, we don’t need to be fixed and deep down, we know how to best manage the challenges we face.  Each of us is the expert on our own backpack; on what is in it, on what we could remove, on what we need to keep tucked far at the bottom and on what little treasures are in each of the little secret pouches on the sides.

It’s really important that we are allowed to carry our own packs.  It’s important that we feel in control of ourselves. While we may not be able to choose all the things we have to carry, we certainly are capable of choosing how to manage them.  We are capable of choosing what things we might not want to manage right now, and what things we do want to focus on. 

When others take charge of our packs, they send us an unintentional, but clear message that we are not really capable.  We get the feeling that we can’t trust our own instincts and knowledge about ourselves.  So, what do we do then, when we notice someone struggling with their pack?  And what do we do when we need help with ours?

One of the most helpful things we can do for others is to simply acknowledge the weight of their pack.  Having someone be a witness to our struggles is incredibly load-lightening.  It is also helpful to have someone walk beside us.  We don’t need them in front of us leading us; we don’t need them behind us; we need them beside us, letting us know they are with us. 

A week-and-a-half ago, as I was trying to keep up with my self-imposed biking schedule to get me virtually across Canada, the person ahead of me, who I only knew to be Ironwill Justus, reached out on Facebook.  We had been able to see each other’s progress on the site of the ride, but we did not know anything about each other except for our names.  ‘Ironwill’ is really Bill, but Ironwill is perhaps more apt.  All I knew about him, I had learned through watching his mileage each day.  I could see he was the real deal.  I knew by his consistent numbers that he would arrive at the finish line days before me, but I still loved to do my best to keep him in my sights.  In his very first message he typed:

‘You rock lady.  My daughter is in Calgary.  When I get out there, we will have to meet. I’m going to finish this up in 10 days, then drop into a rest period for the big ride of the year; what would have been an Ironman!!  Keep it up. You’re impressive to say the least!’

Bill likely did not know it, but this was the perfect way to lighten my load without diminishing me in any way.  He acknowledged my effort.  He did not minimize his own.  He championed me.  And he made me feel like I had an ally; like he was by my side.  I felt supported and at the same time like I had full agency over myself – no advice, no suggestions, just support.  His much-appreciated words have been in my backpack since then. 

Over the next few weeks, we’ll encounter plenty of people with full backpacks.  How nice it is to know we don’t need to reach out and carry their back packs for them.  We simply need to get into step beside them for a bit to lessen the weight of their load.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Who needs me to walk beside them?’
​
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 navigate bumps in your road.