On Thursday of this week, I attended a memorial service for one of my former students, Brianna.  These are never easy, these untimely leavings of young people from this earth.  This one was no exception.  Held at the community centre across from the school where I taught for so long, just walking through the doors brought back a flood of memories, some wonderful beyond measure, some sad, like this one would be, yet all filling me with sense of rightness, of being exactly where I should be at this moment.  This is community, I thought.

To give a bit of background, this community centre is the same place where both our children performed in their first Christmas concert during their kindergarten year.  This is the place where they both graduated from grade nine.  This is the place that hosted the soccer selections for the coaches during the many years I coached, and the place we held the awards if the weather was inclement outside.  This is where most classes graduated, until 2013, the year of the flood, when we had to rely on a neighbouring community to help us host.  This is where my wonderful friend, Graham hosted his 80th birthday bash, complete with Scottish dancing and meat pie at midnight.  This is where we’ve had class reunions.  And weddings.  And memorial services.  I’ve given speeches here, danced, laughed, and cried here. 

I was thinking about this community centre as I sat there Thursday, having visited with so many old friends.  I realized it was not the building itself at the centre of this community.  The building has certainly been the container for our little community as we’ve navigated life, but it is the people who have made up the centre of this community.

It’s a complex idea, this idea of community; one I find myself trying to sort out this week.  For some community is nothing more than a place, a place where people reside and have social interactions with others who also happen to reside there.  I suppose, considered that way, my little block in my neighbourhood is a community.  But even after being here for more than seven years, I cannot say I feel any strong attachment, other than familiarity, when I think about it.

On the other hand, I can think of several groups I belong to that give me a strong sense of community. My dance group is one such community.  When I think of them, I can almost see a beautiful thread of connection running through us.  Interestingly, the members of this group do not live near one another.  We are spread out across a huge city; some members even join us from neighbouring towns.  For this group, place is not what makes us a community. 

My little hiking group is a community.  We do not live near one another.  In the grand scheme of life, we are quite new to one another.  But we too, have an unspoken thread that runs through us, connecting us in a way I find so difficult to put into words.  The group I work with on our Africa project is like this too.

The Red Deer Lake Community, where I gathered on Thursday, gives me this same sense.  Again, although we generally lived in the ‘same’ area, in fact we were spread out over many, many kilometres.  It was far more than a little walk or bike ride over to another community member’s home.  And yet, that gorgeous thread weaves through us too. 

So, what is this thing I call community?  

Up until this week, had you asked me what my top values are, I could easily have given them to you.  I’ve done years of study and teaching about values.  It is at the centre of so much of my work.  I thought I had mine firmly established.  Family was at the top, followed by integrity, nature and several others that would not surprise anyone who knows me.  I would not, however, have listed community as a value.  I think of myself as a person who loves solitude.  I don’t crave large groups.  And yet today as I sit here, I know without question that community, as I view the concept, is an extremely high value of mine. 

From my perspective, a community provides me with a feeling of belonging.  Yet it is more than this.  Community gives me a shared sense of personal relatedness.  Yet, again, it is more than this.  In the communities of my mind, each member has influence; each member matters, and makes a difference to the group.  Members do not need roles, yet their very presence matters.  Their absence matters too.  Yet it is more than this.  Members of communities share some emotional connection.  Yet it must be more than this too. 

I have wracked my brain to try to organize my thoughts on this.  This week, for some reason it feels vitally important.  This is what I think I know.  In the communities I mentioned above, there is some kind of invisible bond between the members.  There is a deep sense of knowing that the other members of the community are with us on our journey.  They too are travelling a similar road.  They will, of course, stop to see the scenery at different places, they will travel at different speeds and stay in different accommodations.  But should we meet them on the road, we recognize them, and they us.  We would most certainly know, deeply know, that they are with us, that they understand, that they have travelled, or are travelling, our road and that they will walk with us when they notice we could use walking partner.  Not only will they walk, they will carry us when we cannot do so on our own. 

Today as I sit and write, I understand fully what these communities have given to me.  I understand how lucky I am and how rich my life is because of them.  I recognize that by being part of them, I’ve had a safe place to grow, to raise my family, to explore new passions, to risk making a difference, and to learn how wonderful it is to understand that we have the capacity to dance through life.  These communities have been vital to my well-being.

I hope I am returning the gift to them.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I contributing to my community?’
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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 find out how to create community.
 

We’ve been shrouded in smoke since Tuesday of this week.  Tuesday and Wednesday were the worst days I’ve ever seen here in Calgary.  Tuesday is our hiking day, and when I left home at seven, the smoke was not too bad.  By the time I met Brenda in a church parking lot less than one half hour later, it seemed a bit thicker, but we were still optimistic that once we drove west to meet Pam, we might drive out of it. 

Another half hour later, we arrived at the trailhead.  The three of us got out of our cars, took one breath and decided that a hike was not in the cards for this week.  We went for a coffee, and as we sat and visited, the smoke, coming in from the north on gusty winds, grew thicker and thicker around us.

On the same morning, Jim had a plan to head out with a new-to-birding friend to check the bluebird boxes on one of the trails he monitors.  It’s a critical time of year for his banding work.  Once the beautiful little bluebirds begin to lay their first egg, he can determine exactly which day he needs to return to apply the bands.  Amazingly, once laying begins, the female bluebirds lay one egg per day until they have laid four to six eggs.  The babies all hatch exactly fourteen days after the final egg has been laid, and they are ready to fledge three weeks after that. 

Being able to count the eggs in the nests at this time of year sets the calendar in place for the banding that needs to be done.  It’s too early to apply the bands when the tiny babies are newly born, and once the wee birds have feathers and learn to fly it’s too late. 

Jim loves, loves, loves his beautiful little bluebirds.  I say this to explain his Tuesday.

As I sat in a homey coffee shop in Bragg Creek laughing and talking with my hiking friends, the thought crossed my mind that I should warn Jim of the poor air quality.  Then I put myself in check thinking that now that Jim is all grown up, he likely didn’t need my help to notice the orange glow all about us, not to mention the incredibly poor visibility and choking smoke.  Did I mention how much Jim loves his little birds? 

Once he got going that morning, all he could think about was the job at hand.  He was excited to see those miniature blue eggs sitting in the nest boxes he and Daryl had built and hung in past years.  Somehow in all his joy, he just kept working through the smoke.  In and out of the car they went, peeking in boxes, counting and recording the number of eggs.  Daryl wasn’t with him on this morning.  The new-to-birding friend likely didn’t feel comfortable mentioning that the smoke was likely not good for their health.  It’s easy to get caught up in Jim’s enthusiasm.  So as the air quality index rose just about as high as the egg count, his excitement and commitment to the job at hand overshadowed the effects of the smoke. 

By four o’clock when he wasn’t home yet, I texted, ‘Are you ok?’.  ‘Great’, came the reply, ‘Just on my way home now’.  As I sat in our air-conditioned house, with a low-grade headache from the small amount of smoke I’d been exposed to, I wondered if he had found a pocket of fresh air and perhaps had been spared the worst of the smoke.  He arrived home very shortly after, not seeming any the worse for wear and extremely excited about the thirty-nine eggs they had counted. 

By morning we had a different story unfolding.  Jim had started to cough, a deep oh-oh cough.  By late in the day, he said his throat and lungs felt raw and sore.  By Thursday his cough was awful, and he was completely out of energy.  I was concerned, and Jim, who has an amazing capacity to simply take things as they come and figure them out, was also worried.  I suggested a call to the doctor to see if he could be seen.  With the long weekend approaching, we knew that if he didn’t get in by Friday, we’d either be out of luck until next week, or end up in an emergency waiting room. 

Jim talked to the receptionist who said the doctor did not have any openings, but she put Jim on hold for a minute.  After describing his symptoms to the doctor, the doctor said that Jim needed to be seen and he set up an appointment with his associate for the following morning.  We were both relieved.  Thursday night was nerve wracking.  The last time I’d seen Jim this out of gas was in the days shortly before his heart attack.  Taking no unnecessary chances, we took his blood pressure, found it to be only slightly elevated, and settled in with Ted Lasso to pass the evening.  Jim offered to sleep in our spare bedroom because of his coughing but I opted for less sleep, and the comfort of knowing I’d hear him if he needed me.  Thankfully, the night passed uneventfully.

Friday morning the doctor confirmed what we already knew.  Jim had a significant lung infection.  He’s now on some horse pills and is starting to feel the positive effects of modern medicine. 

We’ve talked about it a bit.  Jim said he did know it was smoky but the intensity of it just crept up on him.  As the day wore on, the smoke increased, and he didn’t recognize how much worse it had actually become.  I found this to be so interesting.  In the same week this happened I spoke to two teacher friends.  When we talked about how this year had been, they each, independently of each other, each working in different school districts, said this year has been stressful, and that the stress has just quietly built and built without them recognizing how bad it has become.

Life is like that.  In a perfect world we would have ‘reflection’ time built into our lives; times when we stop what we are doing, take a little inventory of our life, notice how much we have accomplished, figure out how we are feeling, and make good decisions about how much harder, faster, and longer we really need to push ourselves.  There never seems to be time for this, and we all, at one point or another, become that frog in the water, with the temperature rising ever so slowly, so as to trick us into not noticing how hot it has become.

I’d love to give this gift of reflection to all people. To students working so hard to make it to the end of the year, they don’t even recognize the work they have already done is going to serve them effectively.  To young parents who go from day to day, making sure the little ones are cared for, lunches are packed, appointments are booked, childcare is ready, household chores are complete, not having the time to simply breathe in the miracle of the mess of tiny hand-prints.  To hard working people who always have ‘one more thing’ to cross off their list before they give themselves permission to rest.  To athletes, who always want to do one more mile, one more rep, one more something, when in fact a short day of rest would be far more regenerative.  To those climbing the corporate ladder thinking, ‘just one more rung’.  To each of us who have been raised on a diet of dedication and hard work. I’d love it if we didn’t have to wait for the air to turn orange for us to get the message that we might be overdoing things.

This weekend Jim and I will take time to reflect.  We are lucky.  We have easy access to excellent health care, and it was available to us when we needed it.  We have an air-conditioned home, a place to escape the smoke.  We have the luxury of flexibility.  We have time to reflect.

Our firefighters up north will not have this gift this weekend.  Yet even they, amid the smoke and orange sky, must stop at times, assess the situation and determine the safest course of action.  May they be protected in their work.
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My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How orange is the air in my life?’

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 take time to reflect.
 

In just a few weeks, the family farm where I spent my teenage years will be the location of a celebration.  Our family will celebrate 50 years on that little farm.  It’s hard for me to believe.  Somehow one year blends into the next, and before we know it a half of a century has passed us by.  My sister, Barb, is putting together a little book of memories from the farm, and she asked each of us to write a couple memories of our own to add to the book.

I’ve had that little task on my mind for the past two weeks.  Just as would be expected, when a family with ten children, eight of them still living at home, move into a modest bungalow on a small farm, there are going to be memories made.  Sometimes when we get together, we find ourselves reminiscing about some of the crazy scrapes we got into, the jobs we had to do, the animals that we raised, the challenges, the hard work, the fun, and generally about the times we spent together. 

As I was thinking about which of my many memories I could put down on paper, I found it hard to figure out which ones I should write about.  Might it be about our pet racoon, Rocky, who despite Dad’s insistence, would not be kept in his cage, and often tried to join us for lunch at the outdoor picnic table?  Or perhaps it could be how Dad set up a few boyfriends by challenging them to ride a cow?  I could have written about playing baseball on cold Fall evenings in the pasture, or driving our little Volkswagen Beetle that had been renovated to be able to drive around the fields.   No matter how many stories came to mind I kept dismissing them.  Somehow, even though they were humourous and true, they simply did not capture the essence of the time we spent on that special farm.  What began to take shape in my mind were some of the bigger lessons we learned from our time there.

This time of year, early May, was a time for planting on the farm.  After school, and on Saturdays, it was all hands on deck when the fields were ready for planting.  Two of my younger brothers, were given the huge responsibility of running a market gardening operation.  The soil on the farm was perfect for this, the sandy, well drained fields were just waiting to welcome the wide variety of seeds we tested.  Although they could not yet legally drive, Daniel and David were the bosses, and the rest of us were hired by them to help out.  I can still picture the evening after their very first trip to market.  I don’t recall what produce we had for sale, but I do remember sitting around the kitchen table when they came home, excited to watch them count their money.  No millionaires were made during those first trips, but some incredible lessons were taught to us all.  This was a memory I wanted to write about; my memory about the lessons about the season of planting.

We were always a family of hard workers, but the farm instilled in me the understanding of the seasons.  Not only the seasons of the crops, but the seasons of life.  On the farm we learned that if we wanted to grow something, we needed to plant seeds and tend them.  We needed to be patient and nurture them.  We needed to do our part, but we also needed to count on Mother Nature too.  We knew we would not see results right away.

Sometimes it took days to see new shoots, weeks to see blossoms, months to yield fruit, and even years to reap the rewards of certain fruits and vegetables.  We learned that sometimes, despite our best efforts and care, things beyond our control would interrupt our plans for a fruitful harvest.  All of this has been a wonderful lesson for so many different parts of my life.  This recipe of planting, and nurturing and patience has been true for my relationships, for learning new skills, for progressing in my careers, for raising children, and for aging. 

This Sunday is Mother’s Day.  All mothers understand this concept of planting and patience.  When our children are small, we begin to plant. We plant seeds of love.  Seeds of security.  We plant seeds of good citizenship.  And of family, kindness, perseverance, understanding, sharing, adventure, cooperation, creativity, and so much more.  During those little years, we wonder if any of our seeds are beginning to grow.  At times we wonder if we even remembered to water them. 

What I’ve observed about Mothers is this.  They understand they have made a commitment to patiently be present for not only the planting, but for all parts of the growing and harvest.  They know there will be days when they see growth.  There will be days when the beauty of the blossoms will overwhelm them.  There will be times when the harvest comes, when the children are ready to head off to market themselves. And there will be storms, always unexpected, always worrisome, and sometimes even terrifying.  They also understand they cannot do this important job alone.  They need to count on others to help. Sometimes the help comes in the form of extra hands, sometimes it shows up as a wonderful teacher, sometimes it is in the smallest comment of encouragement.

Sunday, may we remember, honour, appreciate, and whenever possible, spend a few minutes with our mothers, both biological and those who came to our lives to share their mothering with us, the women who understood the significance of the seasons, and who stood and stand with us through the planting, the growing, the harvest and the sitting around the table to count our blessings.

I’m very grateful to the little farm in Strabane for this wisdom.

Happy Mother’s Day.
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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 nurture a garden.
 

This morning Jim and I turned on the television to watch the Coronation of King Charles III.  We had it playing in the background as we worked to prepare for a double birthday celebration at our house tonight.  Kaitlyn and Matt both had birthdays this past week and the whole family will be here tonight to celebrate.  We still haven’t seen the entire Coronation ceremony, but we’ve been able to see the guests entering Westminster Abby, and Charles and Camilla, now King Charles and Queen Camilla, arriving by horse-drawn carriage.

I have mixed feelings about all of it, but I couldn’t help but think that today, Charles is in his prime.

Earlier this week, in a far less well-known place, with far less glamourous attire, Pam, one of my hiking friends, and I, were walking along a path in the foothills chatting about the prime of life.  I was telling her that I’d been talking to our son, Greg a few weeks ago about life.  Greg has a very demanding job. It’s demanding from a thinking perspective and also from a time commitment perspective.  Greg’s free minutes have become preciously few indeed.  On his birthday, I mentioned to Greg, that right now, and for about the next ten years, he would be in the prime of his life.  I told him that while work could absorb every single one of those years fully, I hoped he could find some time to squeeze in the things he loves, the things that fill him up outside of work.  I hope it was a gentle suggestion I made for him to try to not let these precious prime years slip away.

Pam and I agreed that those mid to late thirties, to mid to late forties, were indeed prime years.  Our bodies felt great, the future looked like it still stretched long enough in front of us we could be a bit nonchalant about it, we were in secure jobs, had our families well on their way to being grown, and we were still being tapped on the shoulder occasionally for interesting work.

Since then, I’ve wondered about this idea of being in the prime of our life.  Some older people think that any person younger than them is in the prime of their life.  I’m a bit amused by that thought.  I’ve seen plenty of people of all ages who definitely are not in their prime.

So what is this thing we call the prime of our life?

I’m lucky to be at a stage of life, where I have such a broad view.  I have a front row seat to the very earliest years of life as I enjoy the stages of little Ben and Andy. 

I have connections with former students, now in their early twenties, definitely feeling like they are in their prime, experiencing independent living, new jobs, university graduations and new relationships.  I love to watch their confidence grow and see their way of interacting with our world.

I see our own kids and their partners, all in established careers, juggling the demands of relationships, family, work, friendships, finances, fitness, and home ownership.  They do it so well.  I long for their energy and think this, surely this, is the prime of life.

I hike with my hiking friends and dance with my dancing friends, both activities filled with such laughter  and support.  These women and I, I think, we are in our prime.  We are so grateful to be able to do what we do, and so fortunate to have found others to do it with.  I get lost in the joy of both activities.  Surely this is what it is to be in ones prime.

I call my mother-in-law, amazingly recovered from her long hospital stay in the early months of this year and marvel at her interest in life.  At 93, she is now officially retired from her position as an Anglican priest.  This retirement phase is new to her.  I’m guessing it’s still a bit fluid.  She’s still receiving requests for plenty of church related things, and if she ever started saying ‘yes’, her calendar would overflow.  I must say I know from personal experience that sitting with her as she says a prayer is a blessed thing indeed.   Could this, this grace she has, indicate this to be her prime of life?

By definition, the prime of life is when we are in the peak of our powers.  Society has often helped us narrowly define this as either physical power, or power related to a position we hold, a title. 

I have witnessed it differently.  I’ve never been declared the strongest or fastest physically.  I’ve never held an ‘important to society’ title.  And yet I do feel like I’ve been in my prime.  When I think of my life, the stages already lived, and the stages yet to come, I recognize it hasn’t been one single time period that was it.  The prime time.  Rather I have had many moments of prime.  Moments when I thought surely life cannot be better.  Surely there cannot be anything I will feel better about or more grateful for.  In among these moments there must have been many, many non-prime moments.  Thus, I can only conclude that we create our prime.  Our prime is when we have the wisdom, no matter our age, to pause, even ever so briefly, to breathe in the blessings we have in our life, and to take time to create these moments for ourselves and for others.

Tonight, King Charles will no doubt sit with family and celebrate his incredible new title and responsibilities.  I hope he takes time to pause for a moment of gratitude. After all, he is in his prime.

I too will sit with our family.  I will still have a sore knee, and I’ll be exhausted when the party is over.  I don’t have a crown to wear or an outfit hand-made by a famous designer.  I do have a cone-shaped party hat, and if I’m wise, I too will pause, look around my table and recognize that right now, right this minute, surrounded by this family of ours, this too is my prime.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What prime time am I creating?’
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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 create prime times.
 

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.
 
 
 
 

Our across the street neighbour, Harold, dropped by the other day.  It was a gorgeous, warmish, spring day, and Harold had come across to ask how we liked the winter weather on our side of the street.  He told us they were loving spring across the road.   Harold’s front lawn is south facing, and ours is north.  So, while we continue to look out onto feet of piled high snow, their lawn is almost clear.  Certainly, the flower gardens closest to their home are bare of snow.  Harold stayed for a short visit, delighted with his teasing, and exchanging bits of conversation.

It’s been a long winter.  Long.  This week on our hike we were begging spring to arrive, maneuvering through snow, ice, slush and even some mud, as we listened hopefully for the song of a spring bird.  Is that possibly a robin, we wondered, peering into brush and trees where many little winged friends were singing?  Alas, no robin song was heard, and no robins found.  I suspect there have been a few sightings in the city, but not on our hike and not in our backyard where we still have a healthy three-entrance snow tunnel, and piles of snow well over three feet high.

While I doubt there is much chance of anyone heading out to their garden anytime soon, a ‘normal-for-most-years’ reminder caught my eye this week.

According to the flyer, butterflies, bees, and other pollinators overwinter in leaves and gardens.    Until it is consistently above 10C they will not revive themselves and get to work. We’re not to do our yard work until then, or we will literally be throwing them out.

I haven’t seen as much as a fly or an ant yet this year, and we certainly haven’t had any temperatures above 10°C.  Yet, the cute little bee on this little flyer reminded me that soon we will see bees, and soon those industrious little insects will become hyper focussed on one thing, and one thing only.  Pollination. 

When a bee visits a flower or blossom, it’s usually there to collect nectar.   The nectar fills the bee up, providing it with energy, and providing the ingredient for it to make honey.  But while it’s filling its belly with nectar, some of the pollen from the flower ends up sticking to the fuzzy part of the bee.  When the bee heads to the next flower or blossom, again to find nectar, some of the pollen it picked up, gets rubbed off on that flower.  This transfer of pollen helps the plants to be able to continue to grow.  Without the little bees, and the process of pollination, we would lose many of our valuable food sources.

Oh, to be a bee!  To live a life where you know with certainty, exactly what you are put on earth to do and to not become distracted by other things. 

All of us are pollinators.  Alas, almost none of us arrive on earth hard-wired to know, without a shadow of a doubt, what our purpose is.  Each time we have an interaction, any interaction, we pollinate either the other person or the relationship we have with them.  The difference between us and the bees is this, bees’ purpose is to encourage life, to promote growth and more and more lately, to ensure certain plants, and therefore the animals who consume them, do not become extinct.  Bees give the flowers and plants maximum chance to reach their full potential.  Many of us, on the other hand, are careless pollinators.  While we certainly affect each person and relationship we touch, often the amount of brain power we use creating conscious, positive, growth-filled interactions, would be dwarfed by the thinking of a bee.  A sobering thought is this, considering bees’ brains only contain about a million neurons, while human brains have about 100 billion!

I have some wonderful pollinators in my life.  When I spend time with them, some of their wisdom, confidence, kindness, talent, and support rub off on me.  It’s no surprise, these are the people I’m attracted to.   They draw me in, in some ways they are as hard to resist as flowers are for bees.  I hope when I leave them, I carry some of their positive qualities with me to drop into my next interaction.  I hope too, I leave some positive pollen behind.

If only we used just a tiny part of our human brains, say, one million neurons, to pollinate like a bee.  We might just end up encouraging life, promoting growth, and giving each other the maximum chance to reach our full potential.

Harold, our across the street neighbour, is a pollinator.  He never fails greet us with a smile and some kindness.  A month or so ago he arrived with some of his wife, Janie’s, oliebolen, fresh from the deep fryer.  This week he arrived with a little tease to make us smile, and dropped off some of his kindness in the form of catching us up on news in his family.  In return, by the time he left after a short visit, Jim, upon learning Harold was due to have some surgery, had made the offer to help him out however he could while Harold was recovering.  It’s magical how much good can come from a little pollination between humans.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How well am I pollinating?’
​
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 find out how to learn to pollinate like a bee.
 
 
 

Last week, we sprang ahead.  Daylight savings time is upon us once again.  Usually I don’t notice much of an effect from our spring and fall time changes, but this year, the loss of the hour seemed to throw me off.  I’m guessing the combination of the hour lost Saturday night, coupled with two more hours lost the day before due to travel, were just enough to tip my apple cart.  Luckily, I’ve always been able to  function on less sleep than some; a gift I appreciated this week.

Time has been quite a persistent, colourful, attention-seeking, character in my life lately.  No matter how I try to ignore her, she keeps insisting I pay her some attention. 

Time fills my days.  Completely full.  I have an already very full life, and somehow, Time, makes everything feel more rushed, more urgent.  No matter how I plan for her, I seem to always have just a few too few minutes to complete each thing, and I can never get where I’m going without being aware of her tick, tick, ticking as she comes along with me.
My trip last week was a work trip.  Except for a couple of incredibly wonderful, very short, hours with two of my sisters, the entire trip was focused on work.

The great news is, this is exactly what I went for, what I was expecting, and what I wanted to do. I loved my time working with this leadership group, who I admire, respect, and never fail to be humbled by, and learn from.  We always work long, hard hours, and yet somehow, in all of that, we make space for leadership growth, rich conversations, and even laughter-induced tears.  These people are a joy to be with. 

Although we had a specific, complex task to complete together, Time, not to be deterred or left out, came right along with us.  The room we had for our work sometimes got crowded.  With only four of us around the table, we should have been fine.  But Time pulled up a chair, forced herself in, and managed to occupy a big space.  So too, did another issue hanging over the heads of this group.

These leaders, apart from working extremely hard in new and innovative ways that certainly are disrupting the norm, are heading into a time of transition, both organizationally, and personally.

By the time we close the curtain on 2023, two of them will have left the organization, and the third will have made not only a significant role change, but also a significant life change.  And so it was, after one of our sessions, the four of us found ourselves involved in a conversation around these changes.

Time wormed her way into this conversation too.  After all, when one knows that they will be making a transition away from a role, or a group, there is a sense of urgency around it.  Urgency to make the most of the next months.  Urgency to complete several large and many small projects.  Urgency to leave the organization positioned for success.  Urgency to know what’s next.  Urgency to end the journey with a sense of pride.

It's a lot to ask.  It’s a lot to accomplish, especially with Time, in her completely uncooperative way, refusing to slow down, no matter how urgent we think things are.

As we discussed life transitions, I thought back to a few from my life, in an attempt to offer some insight and wisdom.  I’ve been through more than a few.  Some were times when I was the one making the transition.  Sometimes it was me staying behind and trying to prepare as someone else did the leaving.   

What I remember most clearly about those times is this.  I never wished that the people leaving me to pursue new opportunities, or to enter a new stage of life, would work harder in their final months with me.  I never wished they’d do one big thing to really ‘make a difference’.  I never wished they’d work as hard as they could to finish all of their projects.

Looking back, what I really wished for was simply to share Time with them.  When my good friend, Al, who I taught and coached with for many years, announced he would be accepting a new position at a different school, all that seemed important was to spend a bit of Time with him.  We still enjoyed our hours working together.  But more than that, I loved the time we made for little conversations, some in passing, some in his office, and some outside as we ran along side by side.  Somehow, Time looming over us helped make them feel richer, more special, and worth savouring.

The same happened when our kids headed away to university.  Of course, I’d have loved for them to have left perfectly clean rooms and no loose ends for us to manage, but mostly I wanted more snippets of time.  More time for Kaitlyn to hop up on a kitchen stool and tell me all about her day.  More time to listen to Greg play the piano before school in the morning.  More time to share family meals.  More time to just be together. 

I reminded these incredible leaders, that while their minds were busy thinking of all they had to do, the truth is they won’t be judged by their productivity in the next months.  All their colleagues will really want is to join them at the table with Time. 

Time to talk and time to sit in silence.  Time to truly see one another.  Time to understand and be understood.  Time to acknowledge accomplishments and lost dreams.  Time to cherish the gifts they have given one another.  Time to think about the impact of their time together.  Time to soak in each other’s very essence. 

I’ve come home with a long list of work to do, work generated from our time together.  It’s important to get it done.  But tomorrow, instead of getting right at it, I’m planning a special Ben and Gramma afternoon.  Time.  It’s really all we have.
​
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I doing with Time?’

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 find out how to make the most of Time.
 

Earlier this year I wrote about beginning my ‘Danda’ quilt for little Andy.  Dandas are Pandas, in almost-two-year-old speak.  At the time, I was struggling with how to manipulate the curved pieces, so I could sew them together without puckers.  I finally mastered the skill, and once those were complete, I sewed with reckless abandon as I attached my very straight borders, first red, then blue to complete the quilt top.  Finished, I thought!  Home free!  Done early!

Not so fast little lady. As usual, when things seem too good to be true, they usually aren’t.  My quilting friend, Janet, who attaches the quilt top to the batting, and then to the backing, using her incredible creativity and long-arm machine, called me about a week after I’d dropped it off.  I could immediately sense she was hesitating to say something.  I assumed the cute panda ears, sticking out to add character, were causing the problem.  Not so.

“How did you attach those borders?”, she asked.  “Did you sew them on, then trim them, or measure them, cut them, and then sew them on?”  A quilt class from my distant past started to come into focus.  For Andy’s quilt, I’d cut slightly longer strips than needed, attached them, then trimmed them off.  But that foggy memory, and Janet’s voice reminded me I should have measured the length and width of the quilt in three places, taken the average of each dimension, and cut the strips to those specifications.  This would have ensured that the top and bottom were identical, and the left and right sides were too. 

Fabric is interesting, and not all fabric is created equal. My red fabric, it turns out, had a lot of ‘give’ to it.  When I attached it, I ended up using a longer length of strip than the actual size of the quilt.  Then I added the blue, magnifying the problem even more, and causing a slight wave in the borders.  Janet knew the fabric would pucker once it was quilted.  The result was I needed to either accept there would be puckers, or remove all the borders and start again.  I chose the latter.  I suspect this quilt will be used for many years.  When I compared that to the time it would take me to make the correction, and the way I would feel if I didn’t do my best work, it was an easy decision.

A border is what frames the picture of a quilt.  It holds it in place, and shows it off.  It allows the eye to relax, fully focus on the design, and not be distracted by little bits of the quilt that are wandering into border territory.  Borders create security and clarity.  Within them, we get an accurate and complete experience of the picture, fully appreciating its beauty and detail. 

So too in life.

When countries have clearly defined, stable borders, the citizens living within those borders have a clear understanding of the rules, culture, norms, and values by which the society functions.  Visitors to those countries witness the full beauty within, and gain an understanding of why the people living there live as they do.  Unstable borders on the other hand, create uncertainty, even chaos.

In our personal lives it is the same.  When we take time to think about and put in place clear borders, we show up in our lives as the person we aspire to be.  These borders, create the frame to support our life.  The picture we create, the tapestry we weave inside the frame becomes a true reflection of us living a life aligned with our values.  Our values, our borders, make it easier to welcome into our lives, only the things we intend to have there.  The borders also keep out things that distract us from our best life.   

It is when we become less diligent with our borders, when we fail to consider the limits we are willing to live within, our picture, our life begins to feel off-kilter.  My dad used to remind us to get our priorities straight.  He meant for us to think about what was important to us, and to live accordingly. In other words, to get square with our values. 

Luckily for me, the borders on Andy’s quilt were removeable.  It did take time and care.  I had no extra blue fabric so I couldn’t risk damaging any bits of the original. I had a lot of tiny pieces of thread to carefully remove.

I’ve now measured, measured again, cut, pinned, eased and sewn.  It shouldn’t have surprised me that the new version, with the newly measured borders, vastly improve the look of the quilt.  The cute pandas are still cute.  But somehow, they look so secure, so peaceful, now that they don’t have to worry about the edges failing them.  Now that they know they are safe and being supported by unconditional love; the love of this Gramma, Chamma as Andy calls me, who would do anything to support our precious little Andy.

May you shore up your borders this week, allowing the picture within them to dazzle others with its beauty and intentional detail.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How secure are your borders?’

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 find out how to secure your borders.