Last night I had a dream.  I cannot, for the life of me, remember it.  I woke up either during it or just after.  I guess it must have been after, during makes no sense.  At the time, it was crystal clear, as are many of my wonderful middle-of-the-night thoughts!  At the time I thought for sure I would remember it come morning.  Alas, I have not one single hint of what it was about.

I don’t often have dreams.  And when I do, it is only on rare occasion that I remember them. 

As I’ve went about my business today, writing the content for an upcoming workshop, driving to a dance performance, doing yoga, I keep thinking it will pop back into my head.  Sort of like what happens when I can’t think of a name or a word, and then suddenly, when I least expect it, there it is.  But no, this dream seems to have vanished.

As I spent time, off and on, today thinking about dreams, I began to consider the concept of dreams.  Not just the sleeping kind, but also the real-life kind of dreams; the kind where I hear people say, “This is just like I dreamed it would be” or “I always dreamed I’d have this job”.  The more thought I gave to dreams, the more concerned I became with myself. 

Am I simply not a dreamer?

I didn’t want to think this could possibly be true. It’s a bit sad to think I don’t have dreams.  But I know I don’t have many night time dreams, and I know I don’t spend a lot of time in the light of day dreaming about what ‘could be’.  When I hear someone say, ‘I’ve dreamed about how my wedding would be since I was a little girl’, I cannot relate. I never spent time dreaming about this.  
 
These thoughts flitted in and out of my head and I assumed they would either simply end, or I would eventually make some sense out of them.   This seems to be how my mind works.  I let the ideas find their own way around.  The more I try to ‘be the boss of them’, the more they resist.  Once I let them have free roam, they sort themselves out.

Today, the sorting happened during the dance performance at a senior’s centre. 

We danced in a lovely facility today.  It was fresh and clean and very new, and the residents were happy to have a mid-week Oktoberfest performance to watch.  All our performances at the senior’s centres are themed, so today found us in our lederhosen, black knee socks and suspenders.  While the crowd was happy to have us, they were quiet, as is sometimes the case.  When this happens, it takes more effort on our part to keep the energy alive.  Luckily, we usually have such a good time among ourselves this isn’t really a problem!

In the front row, sat a very lovely, regal-looking woman.  She had snow white hair, and a clean new-looking outfit.  She sat up straight and I could imagine she had seen some elegant events in her life.  I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying the show; her face wasn’t smiling, and yet she didn’t appear to be unsettled either.  She had a blue blanket draped over her legs and she held a light cane in her hand.  As we are taught to do, I smiled as I danced, catching her eye whenever I’d twirl past.  She did not return the smile, but she also did not take her eyes off the dancers.

One of my favourite parts of our Oktoberfest performances is dancing to the song Edelweiss.  When our theme is Oktoberfest, all of our music is Bavarian styled, but we throw in this one beautiful Austrian waltz, as it always seems to be a crowd favourite.  It is gentle and familiar, without the high energy of the rest of the music.  We ask the crowd to sing along with us as we dance.  This day was no exception.  The residents loved it and so did we.

As we performed Edelweiss close to the end of the performance, we only had a couple of dances left before we were finished.  Just before our final song, a woman asked if we would be able to do Edelweiss again at the end.  An encore, I thought!  This is a first!  Of course we could!

As we gently waltzed and sang our way through the song, I noticed our white-haired lady, in the front row proudly singing along with us.  She had tears in her eyes and a most lovely smile on her face.  It made my day.  Clearly, she was content, and pleased, and happy and peaceful.  There was something about watching her feel whatever it was she was feeling with this song, to help my put my thoughts about dreams into order.

I don’t believe this woman ever dreamt  about living in senior’s home, watching other women, dressed up in lederhosen, dance for her.  I can’t imagine this would be anyone’s dream.  But I do think, that something about the feeling of the particular moment of the performance, something about the gentleness of Edelweiss, spoke to a feeling she had, a familiar, comfortable, deeply at-home feeling, that allowed her to feel something she had been longing for.

This, I can relate to.  This is what I feel in place of what others may call dreams.  I am a better feeler than thinker.  When a situation feels just right, it is as though I am satisfying a longing.  While others are thinking about their dreams, I am feeling my longings.

Longings are inside each one of us.  Sometimes they are buried deeply.  Sometimes they are but an ember.  We do not often speak about them, but they are as much a part of us as our beating hearts.  We know we are satisfying longings when we feel peace and contentment.   Dancing satisfies one of my longings.  Watching our performance satisfied a longing of at least one of our audience members.  Based on the joy on the faces of the other residents, and on the request of the repeat of Edelwiess, I suspect it did the same for many others.

I’m now ok with not having many dreams.  But I never, ever want to stop seeking the feelings I have when I satisfy my longings.

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

When Jim and I were in Ontario, our travels took us on a driving trip from London to Ottawa and then back again.  Other than having to navigate the maze of freeways on our way past Toronto, the vast majority of the trip led us through beautiful countryside and farmland.  This is where I feel most at home.  I love the openness.  I love the trees, shamelessly showing off their colours.  I love the idea of peacefulness I find here.  And I love seeing the old barns that adorn the landscape.

Things in Ontario are older than they are here in Alberta, including the barns.  Many of them have been restored over the years, allowing them to continue to function as valuable parts of the farms they stand on.  I’m guessing people often identified the owners of farms based on the barn that was on the property.  These unique buildings serve as landmarks to the locals.

I’m not sure where my fascination with barns started but I’m guessing it goes back to spending our summer holidays in New Brunswick, on Uncle Roy and Aunt Muriel’s farm, where the dairy barn was a central feature.  We had a lot of adventures and made a lot of memories in that barn.  We ‘helped’ milk the cows in the days when my Grampy still milked by hand, sitting on his sturdy, little milking stool.  We helped put hay into the hayloft.  We found new batches of kittens.  We watched new calves enter the world.  And every summer, at least once, we attempted a sleep-out in the barn. 

I remember hearing stories from my Grammie about events in the barn.  She told me about the time she was raising her family and one day went into the barn.  As she entered the big door to the hayloft, she spotted one of her boys (either my dad or one of my uncles) walking across a beam, high above the barn floor.  She explained how, although she felt panicked and terrified, she knew that if she called out to them to tell them to get down, they might lose their balance and fall.   She stepped back outside the door and held her breath as they finished their dare-devil feat.  I’m guessing there may have been some words exchanged once the danger had passed but I loved hearing this story and having the feeling that the barn was like one of the characters in my family.
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As we passed some of the beautiful barns last week, I could just imagine some of the stories that could have been told by them if they could talk.  Once in a while, especially in places when we turned off Hwy 401 into a smaller community, we would see an abandoned barn.  Often, finding itself empty, the barn would have begun to sag and even fall.
I mentioned this to my brother and he said, ‘Yes, barns don’t do well when they are empty’.
I wondered why this was so.  The barn is, after all, a non-living thing.  It is an object.  And yet, it serves a vital purpose on a farm.  It is used to give shelter to animals.  It is a place to store hay and straw, both needed for those animals’ livelihood.  It provides a space for machinery to be stored and repaired.  It is a birthplace for so much new life.  I think if barns could talk, they could reveal some of the most secret thoughts and dreams of farmers and their visiting nieces; they are wonderful keepers of secrets.
It is as if when it is being used, when it feels needed, a barn takes on almost a human quality.  It stands proud. It wants to hold up its part of the relationship.  It is as if the barn might say, as long as you continue to fill me up, I will support you too.  There is a beautiful tension between the barn and the life it holds; each supporting the other. 
There is a similar tension in other parts of our lives too; in the more visibly human parts.  Every single one of our relationships holds up best when there is an equal giving and taking from each partner.  When one partner counts on the other for support, the support is almost always available.  And when the roles are reversed, the same is true.  But as soon as one partner stops ‘filling the barn’, when the relationship becomes empty, the barn becomes less stable.  And as time goes on, and the barn recognizes it is no longer needed, it ceases to stand strong.
So too it is with promises.  When we say we will do something and we carry through with our commitment, we strengthen the trust between us and others.  When we regularly stop fulfilling our promises, when they become empty, so too do the relationships they once supported.
And whatever the word is for the part of us that gives or helps others, when that part of us is busy giving and helping, it somehow keeps us upright and strong and proud.  When we cease to believe we have anything left to give, when our barn feels empty, it is much harder to believe we have an important role in this world.
I stand most upright, strong and proud when I recognize my value in my little world.  I am at my best when I stand in integrity, when I participate fully in relationships, when I give to others and when I accept from others. I feel best when I know I can be of support to others who might need support.  And I feel great comfort when I know I can count on the support of others.  This farm girls understands that people, like barns, do best when the tension is perfect; when the give and take dance in perfect unison.
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the state of my barn?’
Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and 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 and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to keep your barn standing proudly.
 

I was working in Ontario last week in a pretty little town in Middlesex County.  My work there this time spanned a few days.  A quaint boutique hotel, The Clock Tower Inn, had been recommended to me and, hoping to support the local economy and community, I made my reservation.

The hotel did not disappoint.  Once home to the Federal Postal Office, the historic, 1889 building has been restored to its former glory.  Currently it is a perfect blend of modern luxury and history.  Each of the eight rooms has an individual character.  Each is named for a member of royalty.  I found myself residing on the third and top floor in the Prince of Wales room. 

Following one of the days of work, I decided to take a drive around town to pick up a few things I needed for the following days’ workshops.  My motives were threefold;  I needed the items, the sky was quickly darkening with threatening storm clouds making the prospect of a later run unappealing, and by making the stops on the way back to the hotel, I could avoid too many trips up and down the fifty stairs that led to my room!

My timing was not perfect and I ended up dodging the rain as I ran from the car to the inn, but for the most part, I managed to stay fairly dry.  Later in the evening, warm and dry in my room, all preparations made for the following day, I tucked in to bed.  The rain had stopped but there was a steady drip, drip, drip that I could hear outside.  When I exited the building in the morning, I could see that the dripping had eventually filled up one of the downspouts that eventually overflowed creating quite a lake in the parking lot. 

It dawned on me that while one drip doesn’t pack much of a punch, a steady drip, drip, drip can have significant results.

When the business part of my trip was complete, Jim joined me and we headed to Ottawa to visit with my brother who has recently made that city his home.  Our weekend was filled with touring some of the incredible museums and seeing the sights our Capital city has to offer.  One highlight for all of us was a surprise my brother had planned.  His current office is situated on grounds shared by the stables and training facility for the famous RCMP Musical Ride.  Little had we known, that one of the jobs assigned to the magnificent horses of the musical ride, is to pull the carriage used when members of the Royal Family visit Canada.  My brother arranged for us to be passengers in the carriage on one of the training rides.  The horses need to be disciplined to not only manage crowds of people, but to remain perfectly still as people board and disembark from the carriage.  As the driver of the carriage told us, ‘It wouldn’t do for the horses to startle as the queen was climbing aboard’! 

As we were driven through the incredible winding streets of Rockcliffe Park, gazing at magnificent homes occupied by ambassadors from around the world, I observed our driver’s interactions with everyone he met.  Each time we met a vehicle, whether it was simply passing us or it had pulled to the side of the road to give the horses a wide berth, (and also to snap a picture) the driver raised his crop, waved, smiled and said thank you.  Drip, drip, drip.  With every single encounter, our driver added a drop of goodwill to the reputation of the RCMP.  With each encounter I witnessed the smiles and I could feel the approval of everyone we met; approval for the beautiful sight of the black horses and the carriage, but also the approval of this well-known symbol of Canadian ambassadorship.  

As we drove along for close to an hour and a half, we chit chatted to the driver about many things.  Jim asked him if he ever experienced any drivers who were frustrated with the presence of the horses.  In his response, I’m sure the driver could have told us of several less than polite encounters.  Yet, his response continued to give evidence of the conscious way he chose to represent his organization, the RCMP.  “Most people just love to see us”, he replied.  Not once did he ever hint that his job was less than rewarding. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Each of us is steadily dripping.  We are dripping messages about how we value ourselves, how we like to be treated, how we react to the unexpected, how we feel about issues.  We drip with our faces, with our body language, with our words, with our integrity, with our behaviour and with our values.  When we drip a ‘no’ often enough, others will assume that we most often drip no’s.  When we give and give and give and are never willing to receive, most people will stop trying to give back to us.  When we show up on time, when we say we will, most people will assume we drip reliability.  Most people, upon observing us, won’t jump to a conclusion about us after only one drip.  But once they observe a stream of drip, drip, drip, they will quickly jump to their own conclusions. 

Teenagers are famous for dripping eye rolls and heavy sighs.  For the most part, these are forgivable; they are, after all, still trying to figure out who they want to be when they grow up.  For the rest of us, those who are already grown up, the luxury of being careless with our drips is not one most of us can afford.  It’s hard to convince someone we really are not dripping after the lake has suddenly formed.

The parking lot lake at the Inn, formed by the drip, drip, drips, did not create a permanent geological formation in the ground.  On the other hand, the driver of the carriage, Scott, likely did create some permanent impressions in the people he met.  He certainly left a wonderful impression on us.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I dripping?’
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Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and 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 and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to locate and maximize your drips!

I always miss living in the country, but at this time of year in particular, I long for the sights, sounds, smells, and most of all, the feel of the harvest season.

I love the warm afternoons and the cold crisp nights.  I love the colours of the morning sunrises and the splendor of the sunsets over the mountains.

I love the trees as they change from their summer wardrobe of green to their fall colours of yellows, oranges and reds.  I love the fall foods and the familiar smells of apples baking in pies, and soups simmering on stovetops.  Some years, when I am really on my game, I can transport myself back to my childhood, to my Grammie’s kitchen to the scent of beets being pickled and corn being made into relish. 

Even though the pace of this season can be hectic with activities and schools all celebrating their own New Year, there is still a sense of gentleness about us.  Cozy sweaters and jackets remind us to care for ourselves and to take time to examine our crops and our harvest.

When I was biking through the foothills last week, we crested a hill and were treated to a most spectacular vista; a rolling field, dotted with hundreds and hundreds of large round bales of hay.  There were three green tractors working together to finish off the fall job of baling hay.

This might be my most favourite sight of all; farmers, most likely neighbours and friends too, working together to reap what one of them had sown early in the spring.  No doubt when this field was finished, they’d have a little chat, maybe go up to the house for some lunch and then move on to the next field.  This picture of the tractors, bales of hay and fields, represents the best of what it means to be a friend, a co-worker a neighbour, a support and a fellow-traveller. 

I don’t know the word for this feeling.  Contentment comes to mind.  As do peace, community and kindness.

Farmers don’t have a lot of choice about when they will harvest their crop.  The weather of the seasons dictates the planting, the watering, the tending and the reaping.  During the Fall season farmers take the final tally of their year’s work.  Some years, despite every effort on their part, despite proper planting and watering, despite loving care, the crop does not fulfill all of its potential.  Other years, the farmer may not be as attentive and yet still yield an abundant crop.  Always, the farmer harvests what she can, considers possible changes and has gratitude for the fruits of her labour.

What a most valuable lesson for the rest of us.

We often get so busy with the quick pace of life we have created for ourselves, we forget to stop and notice the little seasons of our lives, and to give thanks for our abundant harvest.  Some of our seasons are obvious, like those in which we raise our families.  During these, there are some natural harvesting moments when we stop to look back; before a child enters school for the first time, when we hand over the keys to the family car to a sixteen year old, when a seven year old loses teeth, or when we accompany a daughter or son on their walk up the aisle.

However, many of the seasons we have are less obvious and it’s easy to let them pass us by without ever even getting on our tractors, taking a trip around the field and noticing the fruits of our labours.

When a friend unexpectedly drops by or gives us a call, it is easy to think about the interruption this is to our carefully planned day, instead of noticing that it is really the reaping of the seeds of friendship we have sown.

When a co-worker stops by our office to ask our advice, it is easy to let our minds wander to the idea of how we will have to work late to make up the time, rather than enjoy the harvest of trust we have planted. 

When we are invited to a social event, it is easy to imagine it as a command performance, one that is cutting into our precious personal time, rather than noticing that the connections we planted long ago, are only now bearing their fruit.
This past month, our son Greg put the finishing touches on his final thesis for his PhD.  He and Cara have moved back to Calgary. It has been a long, long time since Greg lived in our city.  Cara has never lived here.  As I was thinking about their arrival, and the wonderful change it will bring to our family, I ‘hopped on my tractor’ to take a little evening drive to look over my crops and appreciate our harvest. 

I am so grateful to have our whole little family nearby.  The seeds of this family were planted in many corners of our country, from Nova Scotia to Alberta.  For now, they have taken root and are growing here.  I am most grateful to be able to enjoy every part of this, both the parts I had a hand in watering, and the parts that have been most graciously shared with me.

Both of our children have married partners who are supportive, kind, loving and present.  Both come from families who have welcomed our children into their families. I will never have the words to express my gratitude to Cara’s mom and dad, Sharon and Dan, for becoming Greg’s family and for providing him with endless family moments to be part of while he lived close to them in Ontario.  This is a harvest I can take no credit for.   I did not plant the seeds of their kindness, but I am very, very blessed to get to share in the harvest of their love.

Sometimes we have an abundant harvest we can share with others; sometimes we cannot possibly harvest our whole crop by ourselves and we need help; sometimes we can help others get their crop in before the weather changes; sometimes we are lucky enough to allow others to share their harvest with us.

May you take the time to appreciate the yield of your crop this harvest season.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I harvesting?’
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Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and 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 and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to appreciate the harvest season.