Jim and I stole away for a few days this past week.  We flew to beautiful Victoria, where we found the Spring that Calgary has been missing.  Victoria has had a late spring this year too.  Fortunately for us this meant we arrived in perfect time to see cherry blossoms, tulips, daffodils, rhododendrons, magnolias, and all sorts of other plants producing not only visual beauty but filling the air with the aroma of hope. 

We had very loose plans for this trip.  Read this to be we had flights and accommodation booked.  Other that that, we were freewheeling.    We’ve come to love trips like this; no schedules, no pressure, no deadlines.

We’d read and heard about possible places to visit but we had no firm plans.  I knew I’d love a visit to the famous Butchart Gardens.  We’d last been there about thirty years ago, when we spent the better part of a summer camping on Vancouver Island with our then small children.  I had some vague memories of it but was curious to see the gardens again.  They did not disappoint. 

As we entered the grounds and began to get our bearings I saw a little path off to our left.  It was not special in any way, and no sign marked it’s destination.  It was much narrower than the wide paved path, that travels through the upper gardens. Why not, we thought, never having a clue about what magic was awaiting us as we made our sharp turn to the left.

As soon as we made the turn and took a few steps, we found ourselves in a tunnel of beauty.  Majestic cedar trees dwarfed us on both sides, providing us a grand archway of muted light as we walked along the small path through the woodland.  We could clearly see an opening ahead, and we made our way toward it.  The vista awaiting our arrival was breathtaking.  We had stumbled upon the Sunken Garden.  The Sunken Garden, like the rest of Butchart Gardens, was built upon an old quarry. 

In the centre of the Garden rose a limestone mound, offering a lookout point.  From there we could marvel at the winding paths traveling past the flower beds, the Ross Fountain at the end of it, and the green cloaked walls of the original quarry.   I was captivated.  While we wound our way through the Sunken Gardens, not only once, but again at the end of our day, I couldn’t help but think about our little decision to take that left hand turn onto an unexceptional path early in the day. 

Of course we would have eventually found the Sunken Garden, after all, we did have a map of the Gardens to follow.  And clearly, the Sunken Garden is not a secret garden.  It is one of the highlights of this National Historic Site.  Yet at the moment when the little path opened up to it, and for days later, I couldn’t help but think about the possibilities that await us in the least expected places.

I’m a girl who, for most of her life, has loved predictability. I might go so far to say I have thrived on it.  I wouldn’t say I’m a huge risk taker, and yet others, hearing about some of the things I do,  consider me to be quite adventuresome, even brave.  What they likely don’t know, is that in all my adventures, I have a careful plan.  I don’t think of marathoning as brave for instance.  After all, I know the distance, I know the date of the race, and I know how to put together a training plan that will give me the highest chance of success.  It’s the same with bike races, the same with workshops, the same with helping organizations with strategic planning, the same with entertaining.  For the vast majority of things I do in life, I’m a risk minimizer, not really a risk-taker at all. 

A decent psychologist, or even just a thinking person, wouldn’t take very long to sort out the why of this. When you lose a parent at an early age, figuring out a way to maintain safety, to gain some control, is paramount.  Without realizing, or planning, it becomes a way of being.  Being in control feels good.  The tricky part is this, we are never in control of life.  We can only be in control over our response to it.

In the last couple of decades, I’ve finally figured out that I can trust myself to handle the unexpected.  That taking unmarked paths, paths without clear signage or detailed instructions, can provide some of the most beautiful moments in life.  Sometimes when we let ourselves take a chance, try something new, go a different way, open ourselves to new thoughts, learn a new skill, or take a carefully unplanned vacation, the results are far, far more incredible than anything we could have scripted for ourselves. 

When I look back on some of the chances I’ve taken, I know this to be true.  Jim and I moving to Alberta to take new teaching jobs was one of these.  With only a second-hand car, an unseen one room apartment over a meat market, and a job at a school I had never seen with a principal and staff I’d not met, we took a chance.  It turned out to be one of the absolute best decisions of my life.

When we embarked upon our project in Africa, I had absolutely no idea, not one, of how to raise funds, how to safely transfer funds, how to make connections, or how to build a school.  And yet, there was this little unmarked path inviting me to walk along it, and to invite others to join me.  As Life is wont to do, she provided exactly the right people at just the right time to make this one of the most satisfying ventures I have ever committed to.  I had no way of mapping out a plan, and even if I had, I could never have planned this as well as it turned out.  

My experience with dance has been the same.  I found this little dance group on line.  No experience needed, said the website.  I did not know one person in this group, and I definitely had no experience.  My heart pounded as I drove to the venue on the first evening.  I got lost on the way and wanted to turn back.  A little voice whispered, ‘Keep going.  Take a chance.’  That little path to dance led me to incredible friendships, to a new confidence, to unbelievable opportunities, and has made my world infinitely rich.

Life is filled with unexpected little paths, little invitations, even whispers, calling to us.  ‘Give it a try’ it might quietly nudge.  Sometimes the paths I choose begin with a bit of uncertainty inside of me.  But I know I’m on the right path when I feel my heart filling and a gentleness settling in my soul.

I wish for you the discovery of beautiful, unexpected paths.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What path is awaiting me?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups and has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to explore unremarkable paths.
 
  

I’ve been studying space the last few weeks.  There was of course, the incredible announcement that a Canadian astronaut, Jeremy Hansen, was named as one of four astronauts who will be aboard the Artemis II Mission.  For those of us who were alive when the first astronauts landed on the moon, feelings of excitement and wonder were reignited.  Those early days gave us a sense that anything was possible; it really was incredible to have witnessed some of the magic of that time.

Closer to home, space has been a headline in my personal life.  In my last blog I mentioned I had pneumonia and would take a week away from writing to help my body breathe.  If only it had been so simple.  Before the first round of antibiotics could even be finished, I woke up with a burning on my skin, on one side of my torso only.  With no medical training whatsoever, it took me absolutely no time to know I had just added shingles to the list of things my body had to deal with.  The doctor also took no time at all to make the diagnosis.  Despite the fact I was fully vaccinated against shingles, my body, already fighting one infection, had made space for another.  How thoughtful:)

So, for several weeks now, I have been making space.  Perhaps more importantly, I’ve been trying to hold space.  Making space is easier.  In the early stages of each virus, I physically removed myself from the space of other people.  No one feels comfortable hearing someone cough, even when it is not contagious, so I chose to not add stress to an already stressed world.  Shingles aren’t particularly contagious but the mention of them has people standing well back, so I stayed home with my two unwelcome companions, until all possibility of passing on the viruses had passed.  We had plenty of space around us. 

I also found I needed to, and continue to need to, make some space even closer to myself.  My shingles do not like any contact, even the contact of clothing, so I’ve been trying to put some space between my skin and the softest, most loose-fitting shirts I own.  When I drive, I remind myself of a person of a certain age who doesn’t feel safe sitting back against the seat, but needs to lean toward the steering wheel as she drives.  From now on, I’m going to be less judgmental of these people; I’ll just assume they all are recovering from shingles:)

These of course, are just the practical parts of space I’ve been navigating.  The more challenging part of my space research has been not making space, but rather holding space, for myself, and for these two frustrating viruses.  It has not been lost on me that as usual, our little micro-lives are great petri dishes for understanding life in a broader sense. 

Making space, is easier than holding space.  Most of us have quite a bit of practice at making space. When we make room at our table, be it professionally or at home or in our friendship circles, we are making space.  We all squeeze together a bit, or add another chair, or welcome a new perspective.  We make space for someone else, or for some new idea, to fit into our already well established order.   When we hear ourselves say that someone fits well with our group, what we mean is that we didn’t have to change much on our end for them to join.  We simply stretched the edge of our circle a bit, but really didn’t change the dynamic or shape in any significant way.  We made space. 

Holding space is completely different.  Holding space does not come naturally for most of us.  It can be uncomfortable.  When we hold space, we choose to do nothing.  Except.  Except opening ourselves to something or someone, and walking beside that thing or person, without offering judgement or opinion, donating our ears and heart without wanting anything in return. We hold space for them to be exactly who they are.  In my case, I tried to hold space, without judgement, for pneumonia and shingles as they ran their natural course. I also tried to hold space for myself, for me to heal, and for my body to do what it needed to do.

I failed.

A lot. 

And sometimes I succeeded.

I recognized how much I judge myself, and how quickly others are to make judgement.  We all love to make order in our little worlds, so judging is really just our attempt to find logical reasons for things.  But sometimes there is no logic.  There is no blame.  There is nothing to fix.  There is no magic bullet.  What we need in times like this is for someone to simply hold space for us and our circumstance, to make time for us, and to walk along side us without judgement.  When we hold space, we offer the opportunity for others to be seen and heard fully.  When we hold space, we put our needs and opinions aside, allowing someone, to just be. 

Everyone in this world has a backpack full of challenges.  Some challenges are easy to see, some are almost invisible.  Every single one of us appreciates those precious moments when someone holds space for us, when they accept us exactly as we are and hold no agenda other than to be with us and to see us. 
 
It costs us nothing to hold space for others and yet it’s a priceless gift when we do it well.  The gift of holding space, of unconditional acceptance and belonging, is one of the most sought-after treasures in this world.  Some people spend a lifetime seeking it.

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

We all live for those special moments, the breathtaking ones.   We hear people use phrases like, ‘It was breathtaking!’.   I had my breath taken away last week.  This time, it was not a mountaintop sunrise, not a gift of jewels, nor an epic trip, just pneumonia.  Garden variety pneumonia.  And it really has been breathtaking.  Needless to say, this has given me some time to think.  My mind keeps rolling around this idea of breathtaking.

I understand our common use of this word to mean incredibly beautiful, or exciting or even surprising.  This week, because my view of the world was so biased, I began to think I would be alright without too many breathtaking times in my life.  What I’ve been craving are breath giving, life giving moments. 

Let me give you some background on me.  I’m not exciting.  I love routine.  I struggle with being surprised.  I love to be self-sufficient and competent.  I enjoy hard work.  I’m not the life of the party.  I don’t like crowds but I do love people.  I don’t crave danger and I don’t even like the edge, never mind living on it! And yet I love having my breath taken away.

I’ve been making a mental list of things that take my breath away.  Everyone has such a list. None of ours are exactly the same.  Breathtaking moments are so personal.  Some that make my list are:

 Standing in the silence of nature.

 Listening to a piece of music that makes tears roll down my cheeks.

Listening to Andy count to four this week. Four cows.  Lots of people can count to four.  But knowing he is healthy, and  happy, and achieving normal milestones, is overwhelmingly breathtaking.

Climbing a mountain and standing with our group, not saying a word, but breathing in the friendship, the beauty, and    the unspoken majesty.

Hearing Ben giggle uncontrollably when he hears a funny phrase, exactly the same way his mommy did a lifetime ago.
Singing with my sisters.

Listening to snippets of life stories of others, and understanding the value of the gift of their trust.

Being perfectly in-step with my dancing sisters as we execute one of our long-practiced dances.  Looking down the line  I’m in and catching the eye of another dancer as we joyfully delight in the fact that our bodies can still perform magic.    This is breathtaking.

A perfect moment in a classroom, with everyone focused together, the thoughts and sounds of the outside world silenced but for a moment.

Sitting at a crowded table with our family, sharing laughter and food together.

Crossing the finish line of a race with my son, Greg.

Sitting in a hospital room sharing memories, hopes, dreams and fears.

Sitting with my cousins in my cousin Brians barn.

Watching my children, now adults, enjoy each others company.

Going for a horse drawn sleigh ride in the Foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Holding a hand.  Sometimes the comfort of Jim’s large hand, sometimes the pure bliss of one much smaller.

A few minutes of conversation with Shirley as we wander around her farm.

Watching Kaitlyn navigate being a mother with such grace.

Biking with my brother.

These are but a few.  For me breathtaking moments have never cost much money.  They aren’t often showy.  Most often, a passerby would not know I was having my breath taken away. 

This week, even though I was resisting having my breath literally taken away from me, I understood why such moments are so important.  It is only when all the breath has been sucked out of our lungs, that the perfect conditions are created to fill them again, to renew us, to breathe in new life, to be filled up.

We were visiting Shirley this week with Ben and Andy.  We always take some cookies to share with the guys working there.  When it’s cookie time, we head to the shop and everyone takes time to have a cookie and visit with Ben and Andy.  As we were leaving, we said goodbye and thank you.  Tiny Andy, not quite two, is learning to string together two, sometimes three, words.  He needs to pause between each word, taking a little breath and making each quiet, little word distinct and important. Codey, who always has time to show Ben the latest project he’s working on, said goodbye.  Andy giving a little wave said, “Bye-bye             Codey”.  Such a sweet and gentle moment between a tiny boy and a kind, kind man.  Breathtaking.

I wish for you breathtaking moments in the upcoming weeks.  I’m going to take next week away from writing to fill my lungs and take time to notice the breathtaking moments in my world.

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 and has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to notice breathtaking moments.