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.