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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Thursday arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could not bear it.

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

We climbed the hill together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I taught for thirty-three years. 

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

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

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

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

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

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