Last week I was driving down Macleod Trail, one of the main north/south routes through Calgary, when I heard the familiar sound of an ambulance approaching from behind.  The road was not terribly busy, and I was easily able to find my way to the right hand side of the road where I waited the few seconds it took to pass.  As it did, I felt the familiar sting of tears in my eyes.  Every time I hear the siren of an ambulance when I’ve driving,  I have this same reaction.  It’s been happening for almost ten years.

Just over nine years ago, toward the end of August, Jim had a heart attack.  I wasn’t home that evening.  This was very rare for me, but several girlfriends and I were acknowledging the end of summer with a dinner out.  Trying to be present, and in the moment, I turned off the sound to my phone.  When it was time for us to head home, I took out my phone to send my standard ‘On my way’ text to Jim, when I saw I had 18 missed text messages.  At that time in my life, if I had one or two texts per day, I felt popular, so seeing 18 texts instantly gave me the feeling something was wrong.

As I quickly scrolled through them, I got the gist of the messages quickly.  Something was happening with Jim’s heart, he had called an ambulance, the responders had arrived, and due to the miracle of modern technology were linked directly with a cardiologist at the Foothills hospital who were giving instructions on the exact drugs to be delivered.  When I read Jim’s text, ‘This is not a heart attack’, I knew immediately that, in fact, it was. 

I was able to talk on the phone to Jim as he was put in the ambulance.  Once I knew where they were headed with him, I told him I would meet him at the hospital.  Jim was at home on the acreage, about a 40-minute drive from the hospital, and I was about 20 minutes away from both home in one direction and the hospital in the other.  When I arrived at the hospital, I stood outside on the sidewalk near where the ambulances would arrive.  My friends Coralie and Gina stood with me.  I wasn’t there long when I heard the wail of a siren.  Instinctively, I knew it was Jim who was the patient inside.  The lights were flashing, the siren was on, and the vehicle was moving very quickly.

I went inside and was told he had just arrived and would be taken directly upstairs.  It would be several more hours before I got any word of Jim’s condition.  At about two in the morning, as I waited by myself in a small room on the Cardiac ICU floor, Jim was wheeled past.   The kind health practitioners transporting him stopped so I could see him, and they filled me in on his condition.  I learned he had indeed had a heart attack and needed quadruple bypass surgery as soon as possible. 

If you’re a regular reader, you know by now Jim’s eventual outcome has been excellent.  For that reason, I’ll skip all the details of the next weeks.  However, one thing Jim told me was that once he was in the ambulance, the attending paramedic told the other who was driving, ‘Once we get off this side road and on to the secondary road, Light ‘Er Up.’

Light ‘Er Up they must have done for they reached the hospital in roughly the same number of minutes it took me.

Ever since then, when I’m in traffic and see or hear an ambulance in which the driver is following the ‘Light ‘er Up’ command, I think back to the night Jim was the patient.  I know that as his ambulance sped on its way to the hospital, other drivers must have pulled over to the side of the road to let him pass by.  All those drivers were helping the paramedics achieve their goal. 

In our society, we have been trained this way.  We know we can best help by moving to the side of the road and leaving a clear path for an emergency vehicle to attend to its duties.  In those moments it’s as if we are part of the achievement of the goal. We want the paramedics to achieve success.  We want them to reach their goal.

A couple of weeks ago, Kaitlyn and Matt decided to redecorate little Benjamin’s room.  As Ben says, he’s ‘really into cars’, so they chose a car theme.  Kaitlyn had the idea of collecting licence plates from every province and territory across Canada.   She reached out through social media, and within a couple of days she and the boys were driving around the city picking up licence plates people had offered her.  In the mail others began to arrive, coming from friends and relatives, and friends of friends and relatives, across the country.  Two days later she was featured in an interview on CBC radio. In less than a week, the room was completely redone, complete with the licence plate collection, a refurbished race car bed, and a wheel mirror.  All that’s left is to find is a coveted plate from Nunavut. 

People generally want to see others achieve their goals.  We love to see people succeed.  And yet often, we set goals and keep them to ourselves.  I’ve often wondered what goals might actually be able to be achieved if we were willing to ‘Light ‘er Up’.   What could happen if we were brave enough to tell others our goal, and then watch in wonder as they helped clear paths for us?

If an ambulance could ‘Light ‘er Up’ and stop entire roads of traffic to get Jim safely to help, and if Kaitlyn could ‘Light ‘er Up’ to create the perfect room for Ben, then perhaps the rest of us too can use this magic phrase for our goals.  We need to be careful though.  ‘Light er Up’ tells others we mean business; it means we are coming through.  When we say it, we should be ready to watch with wonder as others spring into action to help us. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What goal is calling me to ‘Light ‘er Up’?
​
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 to set goals worthy of ‘Lighting ‘er Up’.

Last week, I was talking with a client about how fast time flies.  This client is much younger than I.  They were thinking about how as the years pass, there seems to be a sense of urgency to do things; things that might not be available to do later.  I completely relate to this, and at the same time I’m learning to grab the moment I’m in, and to relish it.  Carpe Diem, as they say.

When we were hiking last week, the weather was less than ideal.  It would have been an easy day to convince ourselves to stay home.  After all, there was snow forecast for higher elevations and it was to higher elevations we were going!  Luckily for me, I have the perfect structure in place to make sure little things like cold and snow don’t make it easy for me to stay home.  I know others are counting on me to be there.  So, if I say no, I’m not only saying no to cold and snow, I’m saying no to friends.  The stakes are higher here.

As we hiked up toward the top of the mountain, the snow began to fall.  It was absolutely beautiful.  We were wearing layers and had extra layers in our packs, so we stopped to put on a waterproof outer layer.  Feeling more comfortable, we continued upward.  The lack of traffic on the trail was a surprise to us.  This is a very popular trail, especially in the Fall when the larch trees are in full colour.  But on this day the only other hikers we saw were a younger couple who passed us in the first half of the climb.  When we got to a place where the path forked, there was a sign with a picture of a hiker on it pointing us in the right direction.  On top of the sign, the couple in front of us had built a miniature snowman, complete with sticks for arms and a little face.  It was so unexpected and so charming.  Even though we had just stopped moments earlier to take pictures, and even though my camera was tucked away out of the precipitation, I still knew we needed to stop and capture the moment.

Except for the fact I had the image of the little snowman in my mind as we wandered, I didn’t think much more of it.  We climbed to the top, where it was very windy and took refuge beside a nice grove of trees as we rested and ate lunch.  On the way down we met several other hardy hikers heading up; we patted ourselves on our backs for our early start, commenting to each other on how much windier it might be for them at the top. The elevation lessened as we travelled down the same path we had taken up, and soon the temperature rose by a few degrees.  When we got to the sign with the hiker on it, we were dismayed to see that our little snowman friend had met his demise – he had melted just enough to fall off his little perch atop the sign.  It was such a little thing, a nothing really, and yet it was the perfect reminder for me to seize the moment.

We could easily not have stopped to take the picture on the way up.  We could have said we would stop on the way down.  There will be time later, we might have reasoned.  And we would have been wrong.  We would have missed the moment.

I’ve had Mr. Snowman in my head this week.  It’s not that I’m particularly fond of snow or snowmen.  It’s not that I can’t build myself another one.  In fact, there will be dozens I can build this winter if I like.  But none of them will capture the magical feeling of that hiking day: the first snowfall of the season, the beautiful light on the mountains, the crisp air, the easy conversation, the absolute silence, and the unexpected little snowman.

Jim and I took Ben camping in those same mountains for a few days this past week.   Ben LOVES camping.  He loves tramping in the woods, he loves helping set up, he loves his little camping cereals, and playing Go Fish.  I always try to be fully present with Ben and on this trip, thinking of the little snowman, I was even more so.  This was our last camping trip of the season.  Of course, we hope to have many more trips in other years.  But none will be with this precious little three-year-old boy, who calls out at 6:30 in the morning to see if it’s time for him to come and snuggle in with us.  In the blink of an eye, he’ll lose interest in helping place the wheel chocks as we set up and Go Fish won’t hold his attention.  There will be new moments to treasure, but I’d be fooling myself to believe I can squander these moments, and then expect them to be waiting for me later. 

When I think about the rushing of time, about how days and weeks and years fly by, and the urgency of it all, I’m no longer worried I’ll miss out on big opportunities.  I know there are still plenty of opportunities coming my way and I’m planning to seize the ones that call my name.  But more than being concerned with seizing opportunities, or jobs, or invitations, I’m concentrating on seizing the little moments.  Of being fully present.  Of running the mile I’m in.  Of recognizing it only takes a few degrees and a few hours for a magical moment with a snowman to disappear.
​
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How can I seize this moment?’

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 seize moments.
 
 
 
 
 

Last Sunday, in Sudbury, Ontario, thirty-nine miners were trapped underground.  The workers were stuck in Trotten Mine in the Worthington area of Sudbury when a scoop bucket being sent underground detached and blocked the mine shaft.  This accident damaged the elevator, known as a cage, that normally carries the miners in and out of the mine.
The workers were stuck at levels between 914m and 1219m underground.

When we first heard the news story about this on Monday, none of the miners had been rescued but all of them were safely in a room, an underground refuge station, created for such an emergency.  As I followed the story for the next two days, until Wednesday when the last miner safely surfaced, I couldn’t help but think of what must have gone through the miners’ minds as they sat together in the refuge station waiting for rescue.

In my imagination, they first assessed the possibilities for their rescue.  Since they were never cut off from the surface by phone, I assumed they received encouraging news telling them there was a viable rescue plan in place.  I also assumed they had been trained for such an emergency.  And yet, I could imagine them, imagining all the possibilities.  When you are over a kilometer beneath the surface of the earth and your regular route out is blocked, I’m guessing all the assurance in the world does not quiet the mind.

I watched a video interview with Henry Bertrand, one of the trapped miners.  He described how, when the accident occurred, there was an ‘All Stations’ alarm.  The workers made their way to the refuge station where they waited to hear from control.  Henry said it had lights and communication.  He also said that during the three days the miners were below surface, food was brought down to the trapped miners by rescue workers from Ontario Mine Rescue and from Vale Mine Rescue.  Some of the men needed medication, and that too, was brought down.

In the first hours, Henry said they passed the time with light conversation, trying to keep morale high.  He said later they got to know each other much better.  He did not elaborate on the exact details of the conversation, but as an observer of people, it was easy to see he had been impacted by those conversations and by the time underground.  I can’t help but think that as the hours and days passed, their thoughts might have turned to, “When I get out of here….”.  Or perhaps, “I wish I had….”  Or perhaps, “If I get another chance…”

Most of us will never work in a mine.  Nor will we even be inside one.  None of us would choose being trapped underground, not even in a refuge station.  Yet all of us can relate to what these men must have been going through.  Perhaps not to the details, but certainly to the idea of being on our own, thinking about our lives.  I’ve been picturing that refuge station.  It was a safe place to wait.  It was not an assurance of a safe return to normal life.  But as it was so aptly named, it gave refuge. 

Every single one of us needs places of refuge; places we can go to ponder our situation, perhaps to talk it over with trusted others.  Places where we can consider who we want to be when we return to our normal lives.  Young mothers often jokingly say the bathroom is such a place.  It’s the one place they can hear themselves think and remind themselves of the mother they wish to be.  Some people find refuge on a walk or run or bike ride.  Some find it in their church community.  Some in quiet meditation.  Some in the company of a good friend, or in a warm embrace.  Some find it while cooking or knitting or working creatively in other ways.  Some find it in groups and some alone.

I find refuge in nature.  It’s there I release the demands of daily living. I release the tumbling thoughts of what I could or should be doing. I give myself permission to appreciate my life and to ponder the person I strive to be.  I’m lucky.  I have good friends to ponder with.  We don’t always have good solutions, but we provide the space for thoughts to be voiced.  Sometimes that’s enough. 

The miners did not just get lucky and happen to have a refuge station at their disposal on Sunday when they became trapped.  Their place of refuge was carefully planned and named.  I also don’t believe any one of the thirty-nine of them signed up for the job just to have the possibility of pondering life waiting for rescue in a refuge station.  But I suspect now they are all safely above ground, each of them will be grateful for the thoughts they were able to have.

Neither do the rest of us want to have the need for refuge.  Nor do we have refuge stations placed randomly in our lives.  Occasionally we do find ourselves in an unplanned place of refuge, and we recognize the feeling there, but most often, we need to think about what provides us the best refuge and plan some time for it into our lives. 

Just like the miners, once we are back in our ‘real’ lives, we may not be able to implement all our thoughts pondered in our place of refuge.  But if we regularly give ourselves short periods of refuge, our thoughts soon become our habits, and we grow closer to who we long to become.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where is my refuge?’
​
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 to create refuge.
 
 
 

Brenda and I headed out on our Tuesday Trek in our usual fashion this week; no muss, no fuss, no fanfare.  We had our lunches packed, our route downloaded, our water and emergency gear onboard,  our intended route left with Jim and Daryl, and with a beautiful full moon setting in the west as we approached the trailhead.
We were hiking a trail I had not done before but that we’d talked about doing since early in the season.  It’s a good late-in-the-season hike because of its difficulty.  It takes until this time of the hiking season for our legs to be ready for the climbing.

Brenda had done this one years prior and we’d both admired Forgetmenot Mountain throughout the season as we’d hiked trails nearby.

As we started up the fairly steep ascent, we checked in with each other to make sure we were each still a ‘GO’.  We agreed the sescent would be hard but we’d be fine if we went slowly.  Once we got above the tree line and began crossing the scree slope (an expanse of broken, loose rocks) it was hard to find the trail.  The great news was there was a wide area to navigate within and we could see the general direction of the next climb where we were headed.

The other wonderful thing was that hikers who had come months and years before us had erected cairns to mark the way.  These guideposts, piles of rock really, can be found on almost every mountain hike.  They mark spots where a change in direction might be required, or where a potentially hard to spot trail might be hiding, or, in our case, they were there just to keep us headed in the right direction across the wide ridge.

I’ve learned to watch for and be thankful for these cairns.  Hikers protocol asks us to add a rock to each pile as we pass by.  This is both a practical and symbolic gesture.  It helps those coming from behind and it reminds us all that we are in this walk of life together.

As we hiked along on Tuesday, I had plenty of time to think about guideposts.  We benefitted from several that day.
At the far end of the ridge was another tall outcropping of rock which would become our second ascent.  There is a ‘path’ pointing to the top, but once the sparce grass of a meadow ended, the path disappeared in the rock.  Two other hikers happened along as we were pondering our next move.  They had both been there before, were clearly very experienced hikers and they offered that we could follow them up.  They also knew of the gentler way down.  Brenda had heard about this way, and in fact had travelled it before but could not recall where to find its beginning.   We’d been hoping it would be obvious once we were at the top.

Brenda and I weighed our options and decided to follow Marek and Peter.  They were excellent guides, steering us safely up the side of the rocks.  Traverse to the left, Marek would call down.  You’ll get better footing there.

At the top we all stopped and enjoyed our lunches.  We sat protected from the fierce wind by a ten (ish) foot wall of rock.  No matter how comfortable we were, we couldn’t help but wonder where exactly the easier way down was.  It turned out it wasn’t far away at all; just about 100 metres on the other side of the outcrop.  The challenge?  We had to make our way around the cliffside to get to it.

To understate, neither of us is fond of heights.  I would also admit to being low on the ‘careless’ scale.  We decided to give it a look.  It took very few steps, for us to realize we had to rethink our plan.  The rocky non-path led us along jagged rocks, with a wall of stone on our left, and a several hundred foot drop on our right.

The guideposts leading us to our moment of decision had been great.  The cairns steered us in the right direction, and the two hikers, Marek and Peter, had led us to the possible easier descent.  Yet as we realized we simply were not willing to risk walking around the side of the cliff, we had to look for guideposts elsewhere.  We found them exactly where we knew they would be.  Inside ourselves.

It's perfect when your partner and you agree on how difficult decisions should be made.  Brenda and I are a great team in this regard.  We asked each other only one question.

“What is the safest choice we can make?”

The answer was easy.  We needed to go down the way we came up.  Despite the fact this way would not be easy, and would involve first finding a possible way off the outcrop, then crab walking backward until we were off it, then navigating the steep but obvious path down, this was the way we knew for sure.  This would be where someone would look for us if for any reason we ran into trouble.  With the decision easily made, we headed down.

We’ve all benefitted from the experience of having guideposts, not just those on the trail, but those in our lives. Sometimes they come in the form of people. Sometimes we read just the right words at just the right time. Sometimes we see something we are sure is a sign sent from someone we love.  Sometimes we literally reach a roadblock and have to change direction.  These are all helpful and comforting ‘cairns’ to notice.

But the most important guidepost of all is one we always carry.  It is that of our inner voice.  Not the one that whispers tales of dread and potential disaster in our ears, but the one that reminds of us our values.  When we can clear out the noise and quietly get in tune with which guideposts we want to use to lead us through life, our decision making is suddenly very, very easy.  The steps we have to take may still be difficult, as they were for Brenda and I on Tuesday, but making the right decision was easy.  Almost always when we are clear about our values, and use them as our cairns, we find a feeling of peace within ourselves.  This too, is a sign we are on the right path.

Since Tuesday I’ve been mindful of trying to create the feeling of peace, that comes with living in full alignment with my values.  I still want to climb mountains and have adventures and live a rich and rewarding life.  The best way I know how to do this is to notice cairns on my path, add stones to the those I find on the way, thank living guides for their assistance, and to follow my own values.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What guidepost best serves me now?’
​
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 to recognize guideposts.
 

In the middle of July, on a weekend afternoon, just when the smoke was beginning to roll into Calgary, I spoke with my brother on the phone.  A year earlier, in June 2020, he and his partner, Victoria, my friend Rhonda and her husband John, and I, had planned to cycle the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia.  It’s been on my list for years.  We had been incredibly disappointed, but understanding, when we could not travel to do it last June.

My brother, Daniel, told me on the phone he had decided to do the trip one week from our conversation. His idea was to drive to Nova Scotia in one day, from his home in Ontario, stay overnight with our brother, Matt, then drive to the beginning of the trail, Baddeck, on Monday, where he would begin his cycling adventure.  He expected the three-hundred-kilometre trek to take him three days, meaning he’d be back at Matt’s by Thursday night, and home on Friday.  As we talked, I told him I was envious.  He asked, ‘Do you want to come?’

“YES!”

I told him I needed to check with Jim and to see if I could get a non-stop flight from Calgary to Halifax, and that once I’d done that, I’d get back to him.  Jim arrived home about an hour later and I told him about it.  ‘Go’, he said.  And then about one beat later he asked if we would like him to come and drive a support vehicle for us.  Since Dan’s truck would be available, this was doable.  I checked flights, called Daniel, and seven days later we landed in Halifax.  Our brother Matt and Jacki were home and happy to host us overnight coming and going.  The three places Daniel had booked for accommodation for him had rooms for Jim and me too.  The pieces just fell into place.

That five-day adventure was absolutely perfect.  It was so good to see Matt and Jacki, who we haven’t seen since they moved East.  The cycling itself was beyond incredible.  Daniel and I are compatible cyclists and Jim, the perfect support person.  We’d be up early in the morning, when the fog still blanketed the coast, and we’d begin our days.  Usually, we were soaked withing the hour.  We climbed hills longer and steeper than I thought possible as we made our way through the Highlands National Park.  Most days the fog would lift by noon, and we’d witness spectacular views of the ocean.  We stopped for plenty of photos, we sometimes chatted as we rode and often rode along quietly enjoying the physicality of the cycling itself.

On one occasion we came across a construction zone on the road.   Our lane was flagged through and as I cycled to the end of it the flagman there, holding traffic so we could pass, asked how I was.  I said I was good but would be better if he could tell me that the road flattened out soon.  His response was the best.  “I’d be lyin’ if I did”, he told me with a grin.  It was little interactions like this that reminded me why I love the East Coast and its people.  We ate sea food at night and listened to live fiddle music one evening.

We left Calgary at noon on a Sunday, and arrived home at noon five days later, having completed the three-hundred-kilometre, thirty-five-hundred metre gain in elevation, journey.  As we unpacked and re-assembled my bike, I could hardly believe it had happened.

As I thought back to the unfolding of the events it wasn’t lost on me that my quick ‘YES’ answer was not my norm.  In fact, this was an unexpected, and unlikely answer from me.  I often like to pretend I have some semblance of control over things and when I plan I feel more secure.  Yet I could not argue with the fact that my quick yes had not given me less control over anything, and it certainly had not detracted from any part of the trip.  In fact, this will be a hard trip to beat. 
I told Jim that I thought we should have a ‘YES’ account.  When he asked what I meant I explained we could have a separate bank account where we had a little stockpile of money just for the purpose of saying yes to opportunities that might come our way.  This was to be different than other accounts we might use for saving for planned adventures.  This one was to be for unexpected but enticing adventures.  It’s hard to describe what they might be when we haven’t considered them yet.

As I’ve continued to ponder the notion of the ‘YES’ account, I’ve come to realize the account at the bank is not the only one I need to invest in.  When I look back on the Cabot Trail adventure, the money was just one small part of what I considered when I made my snap decision.  In fact, when our kids were growing up and wanted to do something, but thought they couldn’t afford it, I often told them if money was the only thing holding them up, they likely didn’t want it badly enough.  I think my new YES account needs me to make deposits of other kinds too.

In my personal YES account, I need to make regular deposits of self-confidence.  I need deposits of clarity of my values; by knowing these well, I will know what adventures will fill me up.  I need deposits of supportive friends and family; by spending time with people who know me well and want what is best for me, I gain the freedom to reveal more of myself and my dreams for myself.  When I first heard about the possibility of the Nova Scotia trip, I called our son, Greg.  Greg did not hesitate.  “Go Mom”, he said.  “You will love it!   And I’ve got a bike box you can borrow.”  We each need people like Greg, people who believe in us and our dreams even when we have little doubts about our own abilities.

My personal YES account needs practicality too.  I think some of my un-imagined adventures will involve physical activity, so I need to make deposits of time into my personal well-being, ensuring I’m not limited by my ability.  I need to make small deposits of my dreams, so I can recognize the right opportunities for me.  And I think it will benefit me to make deposits of living in the moment, and enjoying the moment I’m in.  By doing this, when an opportunity presents itself, I can grab it if I believe it fits well with my idea of what makes a rich and fulfilling life.

YES accounts, accounts of possibility, are unique to each person.  These are accounts of the soul.  Accounts where we store up dreams we may not even know how to put into words, but when the opportunity reveals itself, we recognize it, and trust in our feeling to seize it.

This week, I challenge you to ‘open’ your YES account, to decide what needs to be deposited in it, to start making deposits, and to watch for the opportunities that come your way.  I also challenge you to make small, daily withdrawals from your account.  Find small things to fill your soul each day, so you begin to get used to the feeling of what makes you, you.  Meanwhile, I assume I’ll be at home next week, following my normal routine, but… you never know….

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What deposits does my YES account need?’
​
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 open your personalized YES account.

When I decided to take the summer away from writing my blog, I envisioned endless days of relaxation, stretched out weeks, and periods of lazing in the sunshine.

Bahaha!

Where did it go?  In a blink, here we are, the week after Labour Day.  Another summer in the books.

I have many favourites from this summer.  Some, I'm sure, will show up in my blog over the next weeks. I loved my Tuesday Treks, my bike rides, our camping trips, and especially my days with Ben.  Little Andy is still too small to spend full days with us but Ben looks forward to his 'Gramma Days'.  At three, he's old enough to not only look forward to them but to have some ideas about what we can do together.  One day, when he and I were chatting on FaceTime and talking about what we'd do on our next day together, he suggested we visit our friend Shirley on her farm.  He absolutely loves his visits with Shirley. 

"Can we make that happen?", he asked.

Something about this simple question has stuck with me.   I loved his choice of words.  I loved that he has an understanding that a lot of what we do is under our own control.  That we are not victims, bumbling along, being acted upon.  I've been using this phrase all summer.  

Can we make that happen?

Each of us has hopes and dreams for our days, our weeks, our year and our lives.  We want so badly for certain things to happen.  We hope a coveted job opens up and we'll be considered for it.  We imagine ourselves looking through photographs of trips we have taken.  We long for visits with treasured family and friends.  We wish we could perfect a skill.  Too often we don't get past the hoping and dreaming stage.  We want it, we dream it, we may write it, or even say it.  But so often, we forget the critical piece.  We forget to make it happen.

I recognize that many, perhaps most, of my unfulfilled longings, both of this summer and of my life, were so for one reason.  I didn't make them happen.  It wasn't on purpose.   There have been times I've naively thought others might make things happen for me.  If I just worked hard enough someone  might invite me to step into my own dreams.  Sometimes I filled my schedule with other good and noble activities, leaving no time for my dreams and longings.  Sometimes I didn't take the first step.

Alas, time has a way of marching on, squeezing us until we are uncomfortable enough to make choices. Almost always something has to be let go.

Most of us accept this, as we should.  If however, we do accept that things will have to be let go, we should also accept that it is NOT an act of randomness as to which of our activities, desires, dreams, plans or hopes gets squeezed out, which one is left off the schedule, which one is never realized.  This is not random.  The one squeezed out is the one we did not make happen.

The older I get, the broader my view of life becomes.  I find it easier to get above the picture that is my life, and notice which things are leading me to become who I strive to be, and making me most satisfied and peaceful.  From this view, I can easily see what I want to 'make happen'.  It doesn't mean these things are made happen without sacrifice and deliberate action.  It does mean they are important to me and it is up to me to make them happen.

Ben and Andy are lucky little boys indeed.  They live in a home where they can play, learn, and test their boundaries all while feeling safe and loved.  They also have one extra piece of luck.  They have parents who carefully choose to use language that helps them be self-assured, confident, risk takers and to have agency over themselves.  I noticed when Ben asked about going to Shirley's he did not ask if I could make it happen.  He asked, 'Can WE make that happen.'  

Children use language they hear daily.  Clearly Ben has heard his parents say, 'We can make that happen', inferring that each of them will have a part in the realization of the goal.

It's September.  For me this is a time of new beginnings.  It's a time to ponder life and consider what I want to make happen.  I wonder what we each could achieve if our self-talk included less of  'I could never do that' or 'I wish I could do that', and more of  'How can I make that happen'. 

'We can make that happen' has become a catch phrase in our home and with my hiking partners.  Often it's said with a smile, kind of like we're not taking it too seriously.  After all, we're quoting a three year old.  And yet, as soon as it's said, something is set in motion, and it begins to happen.  There's power in these words. 

My inquiry for you this week is, 'How can I make this happen?'

​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 individuals, 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 make it happen.

Jim and I were in the car returning from a cycling trip in Banff, listening to the radio, when we heard about fires set at two First Nations Roman Catholic churches in British Columbia.  Then this week, we heard about another fire, this one here in Alberta, set at a Roman Catholic church on the Siksika Nation. Then one in Morinville.  The recent weeks have been eye-opening, and heart-breaking for Canadians.  Many Canadians knew of residential schools, their intent, and their impact on generations of Indigenous Peoples.  Some did not.  With the discovery of two burial sites, one in Kamloops, and one on the Cowessess Nation in Saskatchewan, all Canadians now know.  Wounds have been ripped open for those affected.  As I thought about the feelings, and the fires, and the opinions around Canada Day and how we might mark it this year, I mentioned to Jim that we have all sorts of feelings and no where to place them.

It's important we do place them. 

I am no expert on Indigenous history or on the culture of Indigenous Peoples.  I do know something about feelings and what we do, or do not do with them.

As usual, when I have a complex matter on my mind, the thoughts seem to run around and around until they find a way to make some sense.  In the matter of the fires, burning the churches certainly does not erase the atrocities occurring under their power.  And yet, one can certainly understand how this act of burning could be a symbol of taking back power from the church, and of seeking some form of retribution upon it.  At the same time, people from the Indigenous communities have found some comfort in these buildings, so more trauma is inflicted by their destruction.  Round and round my thoughts go as they try to find a place to land, as I try to find somewhere to put them. 

Correction, as I find somewhere to place them.

To put or to place?  How in the world does my thinking about the discovery of the unmarked graves, the generational trauma suffered by our First Nations People, and the violence appearing in the form of burning churches, end up with my thinking about whether we should put or place things?

I suspect it’s because we’ve put these acts of cruelty, these injustices, out of our collective minds for most of our history.  Perhaps it’s time we place them gently where we can see them, remember them, and make a change for our future.
When I think of putting something somewhere, I think of setting it down. Unburdening myself from it.   Not necessarily setting it in its proper place, but setting it somewhere where I might deal with it later.  When we have a group of people over for dinner (we really did used to do this!), after the main course, a few people often help with clearing the table before the dessert is served or after the meal is complete.  No doubt, the host for the evening might be heard to say, when asked where things should go, “Just put it on the counter for now.”

The same might be heard when a delivery is made to an office (this really did used to happen too!).  “Just put it on the desk.  I’ll deal with it later.”  When we put things down, we do so with little thought.  Often our putting is in a temporary place, one where the object doesn’t really belong.  It’s good enough.  We’ll deal with it when we get around to it.

We do the same with our feelings.  We often put them where they don’t belong.  We are careless with our putting.  We don’t want to deal with tough feelings, or the thoughtfulness they deserve, so we choose to put them somewhere convenient, just so they are off our shoulders.  We might come home from work having had a rough meeting, or perhaps after being caught up in a traffic jam, and we are out of sorts.  It doesn’t take much for us to make a hurtful comment to someone in our inner circle, someone who had nothing to do with our meeting or traffic.  We put our bad feelings in the first available place.   Usually on someone else’s shoulders.  We pretend we’ve gotten rid of it.  How far from the truth this is.  Almost always, when we reflexively put things and feelings somewhere, it’s either because we have developed a habit of putting them there or because we don’t want to think about them.  What a better world we could have if, instead of putting, we spent a bit of time carefully placing things.  Placing words, placing feelings, placing things, placing people.  Placing feels right.  It feels on purpose.  It feels gentle.

This week I’ve been thinking about whether I am ‘putting’ or ‘placing’.   There is, of course, a time for putting.  There are a lot of mundane things in our lives that need putting.  However, as I’ve stopped to decide whether to put or place, I’ve given myself time to really ponder the worth of what I am considering.  The more valuable a thing is to me, the more gently I wish to place it.  I’m taking care to place my feelings, my footsteps and my words.  I took care of little Andy for a few hours on Tuesday, and I can say with great confidence, I took time to gently place him in his little bassinette for his nap, I gently placed him on my shoulder to walk around with him, and I gently placed him on my lap to snuggle him.
How I wish those small Indigenous children had never been taken and put into residential schools.  How I wish they could have remained in their homes, in their communities, and with their families where they would have been placed gently at the feet of their elders as they learned the traditions of their people and the joy of community.  As I’ve struggled with my own feelings about this, the words of Chief Cadmus Delorme of Cowessess First Nation spoken during his interview with Ian Hanomansing, gave me some hope for a better path forward.

‘We all inherited this, nobody today created residential schools, nobody today created the Indian Act, nobody today created the 60’s scoop.  We all inherited it and we have to acknowledge that people are healing and people are hurting.  Let’s do something about it!’ ~ Chief Cadmus Delorme, Cowessess First Nation.

One thing we can do is think about what we are placing, and where and how we are placing it.  I hope we will all take time to place our footsteps gently as we walk toward healing, our hearts in an open position to encourage understanding, our words with love and compassion, and that we will provide a place for healing for all Canadians.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where and how shall I place this?’

Note: I'm taking the summer away from posting my blog. If I happen to have a moment of great insight, you may hear from me, but otherwise, I'll be back at the beginning of September.  Stay well.
​
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 gently place.
 
 

I’m almost afraid if I write this it might not happen.  The Chinook Country Dancers are rehearsing brand new dances for the upcoming Stampede Parade!  This year, the parade, along with almost every other social function has been in limbo as we watch to see what the pandemic numbers will allow.  Recently, it was announced that the parade will ‘go ahead’, but with some major changes.  This year it will have no live spectators.  It will be a short, closed route, televised and broadcast nationwide.  Each group must have no more than twenty-five performers, and there are strict safety protocols in place.  After months and months of not being able to dance together in person, last Friday night, a small part of our dancing troupe met outdoors to dance together in preparation for the parade, for the first time since the pandemic began.

Oh my goodness!

We’ve continued with our lessons throughout the past sixteen months through the wonderful world of Zoom.  But no matter how wonderful the world of Zoom is, it’s nothing like dancing together in person.  In our dance group, we perform all genres of dance, always in lines.  When we are alone in our homes, we don’t have the pleasure of these lines.  In person, we almost always have someone in front of us, behind us, and to our sides.  When we face a new direction, we still have someone in front of us, on each side, and behind us.  This makes an incredible difference to our dancing.  We can dance with more confidence, knowing we can pick up cues from the others if we need them.  We can also count on each other to notice if we are out of step; often one of the girls will quietly speak the steps until we fall back in place.  When I dance with these women, I am a better dancer.  They provide the support I need to be my best.  It’s a gift.

This past week, on Father’s Day, one of my coaching friends, Kerry Woodcock, created a post on Facebook about her father.  She shared many wonderful memories of him but the one line that has really stuck with me is this:

“As I got older, he used to say, “I don’t need to speak a lot to your friends - and boyfriends - to know who they are. I can know something of who they are, by who you are with them.”

It’s one of those comments that brings me up short.  It’s a conversation stopper.  And starter.  It’s simple.  And profound.  And so true.

We behave differently around different people.  Some people allow us to show our intellectual side, some our witty side, some our compassionate side, some our confident side, some our open-hearted side, some our vulnerable side.  Some let us show all of our sides.  Others bring out our guarded side, our show-off side, our critical side, our insecure side, or our less-than-best side.  Kerry’s dad could likely tell us a lot about our friends by observing how we are with them.

I’ve been thinking about this comment, and I’ve been trying to observe myself, noticing how I am with different people with whom I ‘hang out’.  

I am lucky to have many people in my life who, by their very presence, encourage me to bring forth my best version of myself.  By best version, I do not mean my ‘stage version’.  I mean my authentic self.  With these people I can let down my guard and show up as myself.  I do not have to worry that a little mis-step or a small comment, will oust me from the group.  I am enough.  They do not need me to look a certain way, have certain opinions, or behave in any way other than how I would naturally behave.  With these people, I am free to become even more of the best parts of myself.  I always know when a group I am doing leadership work with is a good fit with me – I am relaxed and free to bring my whole self.
I also acknowledge I have others in my life, some on the periphery, some in a professional context, some closer, with whom I find myself thinking very hard when I am around them.  I think about what they might be thinking, I wonder how my words will be taken.  I’m not sure quite where I stand.

The more I think about the comment, made many years ago by Kerry’s wise dad, the more I recognize how multi-dimensional it is.  It strikes me that if others can influence me to act a certain way around them, it must be true that I too, influence them.   I want to be the kind of person who is a good influence.  I want people to feel relaxed and unguarded around me.  I want them to know they are fine exactly as they are.  Sometimes my quick tongue, and my judgements, may not give this feeling of safety.  I wonder who is guarding themselves around me.  I’m watching myself, as Kerry’s dad would have watched her friends, to see what impact I am having.   

What I know to be true about my dancing friends is that Kerry’s dad would think these are the best kind of people.  With them I find myself being a very good version of myself.  In our group everyone is welcome just as they are.  This is not just lip service; it is the carefully cultivated culture of the group.  Our instructor, Reba J, walks her talk one hundred percent of the time with this one, and we are expected to do the same.  This group brings out the best in each other.  We want to show up as our best, and at the same time we fully accept that we are not always at our best.  This is key.  There is no posturing with us.  We prop each other up from all sides.  Using friendship as a container, we are safe to be good versions of ourselves.  It’s a feeling I wish everyone could have at least somewhere in their life.   

I’m keeping Kerry’s dad’s comment foremost in my mind as I walk (and dance) through this week. 

My inquiry for you this week is twofold, ‘What is being brought out in me?’  and ‘What am I bringing out in others?’
​
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 surround yourself with those who bring out your best, and how to bring out the best in others.
 
 

Every biking season I love to attempt the Highwood Pass.  This road, Highway 40, a mountain pass, is closed to vehicular traffic from December to June 15th to protect wildlife.  During most of that time, the Pass is impassable even by bike or foot, due to extreme amounts of snow.  But in early June, there is a tiny two or three-week window, when cars are forbidden, but the top of the pass is free of snow; this to the delight of cyclists who love to take on this challenging climb.
Last weekend, our son Greg, and I, tackled it together.  We rode it from the north side.  This is a 17km ride up a mountain.  By up, think up.  Like climbing continuously without any flat or coasting.  Up.  We lucked out.  We got a warm, sunny day.  While heat may not seem to be an ideal condition, we know that at the top of any mountain pass, the air is many degrees cooler than down below, and inevitably there is wind to contend with.  We packed our jackets and gloves and made sure we were stocked with spare tire tubes, a pump, water and some food…just in case.

We always go prepared, but this year we were extra vigilant because of Greg’s experience the previous week.  He had been asked to join a group from his office who were going to the pass for the first time.  Greg is a strong cyclist and has completed this route numerous times. I know this group was glad to have him along.

The day of their ascent was about ten degrees colder than this past week, and the sky wasn’t clear.  Greg said they were fine for most of the climb, but at about 5km from the top, it began to lightly drizzle and within minutes the drizzle turned to snow flurries.  They made it to the summit and took a nice smiling photo of their accomplishment.  Then things quickly turned.

Greg says the only way to describe it was it began to pour snow.  They put on warmer gear and started the descent.  While biking downhill sounds pretty nice ‘n easy, the slope of this side of the pass is significant and even on a dry day, the descent requires steady concentration.  As their group of six started down, they quickly became soaked from the pouring snow.  Greg had put on mittens and an extra jacket.  Even with that extra layer, he said he could not feel his hands.  The group went about 3km and pulled over to stop.  Everyone was soaked to the skin and freezing.  The road had begun to accumulate some snow and the conditions had become slippery. 

Greg has battled many elements of nature and developed a strong mental fortitude during his time competing in triathlons and adventure racing, so he knew a few things about what might keep them safe.  With the rest of the group being more casual cyclists, he could feel the fear in the group.  The plan was set that they would descend a few kilometres at a time and then group-up to make sure everyone was ok.  On the second stop, everyone was soaked to the skin and concern for safety, especially hypothermia, was real.  After some jumping jacks to get the blood flowing, they cruised on.

As they continued down, they noticed a man running out toward the road from a side parking lot.  He was waving his hands wildly, obviously trying to get their attention.  The group stopped.  The man, a father of a young toddler, had been cycling with his wife, towing a baby chariot.  They too had become caught in the nasty weather and the cold and wet became dangerous for them and especially for their little one.  The mother and toddler were trying to find shelter in the outhouse at the edge of the parking lot.  Their child’s safety would certainly have been compromised had they continued.
I should have mentioned earlier there is absolutely no cell reception in this area.  In fact, there is no cell reception for over 40km.  To top it off, during the closure, there is no way for any vehicle to access the road to rescue people in trouble.  This couple was about 12km from the gate where their car would have been parked.  The father asked if someone, once they were down, could inform the park wardens of their location so that help could be brought in.  The group reassured the father they would do this (and they did), then they reassured him he had made a good choice in stopping, and being able to do nothing else, they headed onward, not wanting to become casualties themselves.

When Greg texted us about this ride he said, ‘Home safe.  Mom, if you can believe it….conditions were worse than when we rode (several years ago Greg and I had a freezing, wet ride up and down).  It was completely bonkers on the way down’.

After hearing the complete story from Greg, I couldn’t get that little family out of my mind.  I kept thinking about what the parents must have been going through as they realized they were in trouble and their little one could be in serious danger.  I was so glad they found the shelter they did, and I was so glad they made the decision they did.   It dawned on me their thinking must have been, ‘What is the one best decision we can make right now?’

Greg and his group needed to have a similar thought when the weather turned and they too had to figure out how to navigate the descent.  What is the one best decision we can make right now?

Brenda and I needed to ponder this too, this week when we were caught in a sudden thunder, lightning and hail storm on our hike.  What is the one best decision we can make right now?

Most of us won’t be biking up mountain passes this week.  Most of us won’t be caught in hailstorms or frigid weather.  But all of us will find ourselves in situations where we are faced with a variety of decisions we could make.  Perhaps we are in a meeting discussing an upcoming project, and find ourselves dealing with multiple solutions, multiple egos and multiple agendas.  What is the one best decision we can make right now?

Perhaps it is even simpler.  Perhaps we are in traffic, or dealing with being overtired, or having to respond to someone, or juggling a few tasks at once, or trying to listen when we just want quiet, or trying to talk when someone else is not listening, or sitting down to dinner with our family.  Perhaps it’s deciding whether to reach out or give space.  Perhaps to comment or not.  Perhaps to encourage or listen.  Every day we make hundreds of decisions. Many of them we do on autopilot.  It might make a significant difference to us, or someone in our life, if we turned off autopilot and instead asked:

What is the one best decision I can make right now?

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the one best decision I can make right now?’
​
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 consider your decisions.
 
 

In the 1950’s the television show, To Tell the Truth, premiered, and to this day continues to gain popularity.  Wikipedia tells us that in it, four celebrity panelists are presented with three contestants, the “team of challengers”.  The celebrity panelists must identify, through a series of questions, which of the three contestants is the ‘central character’ whose unusual occupation or experience has been read aloud by the show’s host or moderator.  When questions are asked, the impostors may lie, whereas the central character must tell the truth.  This show, To Tell the Truth, has apparently changed hosts a number of times in the past sixty or seventy years, but continues to stay true to its original format.  I think I may have seen it once or twice as a child, but it isn’t a mainstay of my television diet.  For some reason, it popped into my head this week. 

I’m going to hold a vision of it there this week, visualizing one contestant knowing the truth, and the other two knowing just enough to sound convincing, as I wrestle with the thoughts and feelings running around in my head and in my heart.  Forgive me as I muddle through this.

Two heartbreaking stories dominated the news this week;  the discovery of the bodies of the 215 indigenous children from the Kamloops Indian Residential School in British Columbia and the horrific murders of four members of the Afzaal family from London, ON.   I have read news stories, listened to interviews and seen social media posts about both events.  Almost every single one of them shows the heartache of Canadians as we grapple with the fact that we can no longer pretend to be a nation where racism, and exclusion, and covering our eyes does not exist. We have solid evidence to suggest otherwise. 

It shouldn’t have surprised me that as I pondered all of this, I should come across this quote:

‘There are only two mistakes one can make on the road to truth.  Not going all the way; and not starting.’ ~ Budda

Where to start?  I believe our little individual lives are pretty good microcosms of the bigger world, so I want to talk about how we truth-tell in our own lives.  I’ll only speak from my own experience.  I like to think I am a truth teller.  I don’t lie.  I try to be honest with myself and about myself.  I believe other people when they tell me things.  I try to find the good in others. 

And yet….

There are times when I hear a bit of information, often a truthful bit, and I fill in the blanks to create a complete story, with what makes sense to me based on general knowledge, on my personal history, perhaps on my insecurities, and perhaps on what makes me feel good about myself.  It’s a dangerous game to play.  Budda would tell me I am not going all the way.  My made-up story, no matter how logical and realistic, is not the full truth.  If I want to know the truth, I need to be willing to ask about, and listen to the whole truth.  Not just listen to a snippet and then fill in the rest with what I declare to be the truth.

We’ve all had conversations with friends and family where someone has innocently said something, or has said something based on a larger discussion we may not have been part of.  On good days, this comment lands exactly where it should.  It’s a comment, a moment in time.  It is not a reflection of the persons complete belief system.  It does not reveal their motive for how they live life.  It does not give a full picture of anything.  The emotional impact of it ends at the end of the sentence.

But on other days….

On other days, such a simple sentence as this can set off a chain of thoughts, usually preceded by feelings.  Perhaps the thoughts sound like this? 

WOW!  I had no idea they thought that.  I’ll bet that means they also think this.  I had no idea.  I thought we were close.  And on and on and on it goes. We fill in the blanks with plausible thoughts.  The only problem is, we are forgetting to go all the way on finding the truth.  Our poor little human brains, in an attempt to organize data, have the capacity to do some mighty big truth stretching.

The situation with Residential Schools in Canada is so complex.  We have all heard parts of the truth.  This past week we heard a very disturbing, unsettling, difficult-to-accept bit of truth.  The reality is, this bit of truth was not just uncovered this past week.  There have been other such gravesites, there have been other such stories of these atrocities, and yet we have not been willing, or perhaps we have not known how to gain access, or perhaps we have been afraid to face head-on, the whole truth.  Our Indigenous Peoples have spoken about this for decades.  It is very, very difficult to sit quietly and listen to these stories; to not hear only a snippet and then fill in the rest with what might make some sense based on our own experience of life. 

In London, Ontario, a young boy is recovering from his physical wounds suffered when his family was run down by a young man.  He will never recover from the loss of his family.  My heart is broken for him.  I don’t know his truth.  I can fill it in based on my life experience of losing a parent, but I actually have no idea in the world what his life has been or will become.  Nor do I know the truth about the person who has been charged.  Nor do I know the truth about what it must be like to be a visible minority in Canada.

To tell the truth we must know the truth.  It’s kind of like that game show.  There are three panelists, but only one has the complete truth.  This is the only one who can stand up and say, ‘This is the truth’.  The others may sound real, they may know snippets of the truth, they may sound convincing.  But they do not have the whole truth about the profession they profess to be in, since they have not experienced it. 

I wish I had some answers.  I do not.  Here is what I know to be true.  In my own small world, I can practice being open to the truth.  I can be willing to listen to the truth.  I can notice when I’m making up stories by filling in the blanks around bits of truth, I can stop, back up, and then go all the way in my truth-finding. 

In my province, I can do the same.  I can practice being open to the truth.  I can be willing to listen to the truth.  I can notice when I’m making up stories by filling in the blanks around bits of truth, I can stop, back up, and then go all the way in my truth-finding. 

In my country I can do the same.  I can stop pretending ‘that’s not who we are’.  What we have seen these past weeks is who we collectively are.  We have seen incredible shows of support in the wake of these two tragedies.   People lined the streets in London to pay their respects.  Displays of children’s shoes have filled the steps of government buildings.  We are not all racists, nor are we all exclusionary, nor do we all cover our eyes from the truth.  But as a nation, these things exist.  It is not who we want to be, it is not who we can be, it is not who I strive to be.

There is a former Residential School not more than ten minutes from where I live.  I plan to go there this week.  There is a little gravesite there.  During a flood, years ago, the river rose and cut into the banks of the river exposing the remains of children who had been buried there.  Thirty-four bodies were recovered (of the original 73 children who died while attending the school) and were laid to rest in the little gravesite.  I’d like to leave a little pair of shoes there.  I hope they will be received in the way they are intended; I acknowledge what has happened, I am willing to face the truth, and my heart is aching.  It’s a start.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the truth?’
​
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 start on the journey of truth.