This week I’ve been working in my office with the door closed.  Normally, I’d leave the door open; it’s only Jim and I at home and we work from separate floors of the house so there is no need to close myself off from anything. This week, however, the sound of hammers and drills, and more importantly perhaps, the frigid air coming into our home from the gaping hole in the living room wall where the window once was, has me hunkered down with the door to my office firmly closed!

We’re having our windows replaced.  This house has its original windows, and we’ve noticed it doesn’t hold its heat in the winter and doesn’t stay as cool as we’d like in summer. We decided to bite the proverbial bullet to install state of the art, triple pane, energy efficient, brand-new windows.  Alas, mother nature couldn’t care less, so this week, awaking to snow falling and a temperature of minus ten, we knew warm sweaters and closed doors would be good companions.  In truth, we don’t have a thing to complain about.  We are not doing the work.  Our only job is to make sure the crew working has easy access to all windows.

Not surprising, I’ve had windows on my mind.

This house doesn’t have the kind of windows we had in our acreage home. When we designed that house, we chose huge picture windows, knowing the view from outside would provide the artwork for the inside of our home.  In this house, in the city, we don’t have an expansive view from anywhere.  And yet, I’m still noticing the windows have the same effect.

Windows give us a safe place to look beyond.  Beyond the familiarity of our home. Beyond our familiar conversations and dreams.  Beyond the safety of our well-practiced preferences.  Beyond the comfort of our familiar habits and ways of being in our world.  From behind our windows, we can imagine things to be different.  We can imagine possibilities.

As we’ve chatted with the crew over the installation process, we learned from Amari, the head installer that he, and the other three crew members are from Georgia.  The country, not the state.  I wondered to myself how they had come to be in Canada, and in Calgary.  I couldn’t help but imagine someone in their life, no doubt someone who loves them, showing them an open window once upon a time.  No, I don’t think they ever suggested they emigrate to Canada to learn to install windows. Rather in my imagination, I see them opening the window of opportunity by encouraging them to pursue adventure.  I imagine that throughout their life someone, or much more likely several people, opened windows by noticing their gifts, by encouraging them, by believing in them, and by wanting for them, all the possibilities in the world.

When the crew was installing my office window, I heard Amari, who was working outside, go into the office to talk to Tadis, who was working from inside.  From what I could understand, Tadis is new to this work.  He was doing something incorrectly, and Amari was there to make sure the job was being completed according to his expectations.  He kindly showed Tadis what the mistake was, showed him how it should look, and explained how to do it.  As he was leaving the office he said, ‘You will be good at this job.  You need to be very exact, and do everything correctly; this is how you become professional.’  At noon that day, Jim and I offered to buy lunch for the crew.  They had been working hard and we really appreciated their work.  Jim talked to Amari and asked if this would be ok.  The lunch was ordered and Amari went to tell the others.  He told Tadis, who replied that he had brought his own lunch.  Amari’s response?  “You will take your lunch home and bring it tomorrow.  Tadis, Jim says you are doing good work.  This is excellent for you.  Good job.”

This kind of simple interaction happens every single day in one form or another.  We are all doing, we all make mistakes, we all need correction, we all need to correct, we sometimes show confidence and sometimes we doubt.  In this interaction, Amari choose to open the window for Tadis to believe he could be successful at this new job.  It would have been just as easy for him to show his frustration at his new worker’s lack of expertise; to close the window on his hope.

Just like our new windows, which open and close with equal ease, it's easy to both open and close the windows of life.  We open windows when we believe in others, when we encourage others, when we reach out to others, when we listen with empathy, when we show grace, and when we persevere when others do not match our expectations of them.  Sometimes we are called upon to hold open windows for others when they cannot do so for themselves. 

I am grateful for the window openers in my life.  I’m watching for opportunities to open windows for others.

The day after the office window installation was complete, Andy took some little trucks and ‘people’ into the office to play with them on the new windowsill.  As I watched him line up his vehicles and people at that new window, looking out every once in a while when a car or truck went by, I made some wishes.

I wished that Andy and Ben would always look through windows and see possibilities.  I wished they would be surrounded by window openers, people who focus on their strengths, and want the best for them.  I wished they would be brave enough to try new things, and when they do, that they will have friends to walk with them.  I wished they will be the kind of people who open windows for others.  And I wished they could see themselves through the same window I see them; the one where they are capable, kind, and brave, supported, and loved beyond measure.
​
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 open windows.
 

I had my heart broken this week.  Ben and I were making cookies together, he in his stand-up chair, waiting to stir, and me hustling to gather the ingredients and supervise the proceedings, when the tragedy struck.

I have a go to measuring cup I always use for baking, especially for my chocolate chip cookies.  It’s perfect.  It’s an old, plastic, one-cup measure, and estimating conservatively, it’s hosted the ingredients for at least 2500 batches of chocolate chip cookies.  If I were a betting human, I’d put my money on many more than that, but I’m safe with 2500.  Batches.  That number says nothing of the other things, the birthday cakes, the Christmas treats, the squares, and other kinds of cookies.  But still, 2500 batches of chocolate chips cookies.

This cup has a history.

The year Jim and I were married, several bridal showers were thrown in our honour.  One of those was hosted by Jim’s aunts at St. Alban’s Church in Beamsville, ON, where Jim’s mom attended church and where ten years later, having been ordained an Anglican priest, she served as associate pastor.  Not being from the area, and truth be told, not having known Jim all that long, I knew very few of the fifty or so people at the shower.  I had met Jim’s mom, and his aunts, and his one sister-in-law, but otherwise I was a fish out of water in that community.  Luckily for me, several of my sisters joined us and I was able to find a few familiar faces in the crowd.  I recall being grateful and overwhelmed all at once.  I did not want to disappoint Jim’s mom or give anyone any fodder for conversation over coffee once the shower was done.
I opened gift after gift.   I think it was my sister, Margaret, at my side, recording the gifts and the name of the gift-giver so I could send thank you notes in a timely fashion, as was the expectation of the time.

It was at that shower I received my beloved measuring cup.  At the time, it was just a nice little gift.  It was ordinary and practical and not particularly special at all.  I had no idea it would become beloved.  But the chocolate chip cookies it makes are magic and I’ve used it for every batch I’ve made at home for over forty years.

Over those years, my little cup has aged along with me.  In fact, it’s been the brunt of a few jokes.  A few years back, I was horrified when the bottom of it cracked.  Time for a new measuring cup, was the suggestion from more than one family member.  Newer versions showed up in my Christmas stocking, and others appeared in my baking drawer.  But my little cup had never failed me, and I was not about to discard it so easily.  I determined that as long as I did not use it for liquids, it could continue to do its job.  And so, I continued to carefully use it to make my magic cookies.

This week, as Ben and I started our baking together, I measured margarine into the cup.  As I was using a spatula to scrape the margarine into the bowl, a small piece of the bottom of the cup, about a square centimetre in size, broke right off into the margarine.  There was now a little hole in the bottom of the cup.  Ben, knowing nothing of the 2500 batches of cookies that had come before the one he was making, could see by my face that this was not good.  I told him I was sad, because this was my favourite measuring cup, and it made such good cookies.

“Don’t worry Gramma”, he assured me, “For your birthday I will get you one just like it”.  I didn’t have the heart to let him know this one is so old, it’s not sold anymore.

So silly it is, to be heartbroken by a little old measuring cup, especially one having the measurements worn right off it from so much use.  But this little cup has been a steadfast companion for me.  It’s never let me down.  In many ways, it’s been co-writer in the story of my life.  Both my children learned to bake using this cup.  Almost every single day they were in school, from first grade to twelfth, they had two chocolate chip cookies made with this measuring cup packed in their lunch.  When Greg was in grade five, he asked if I could add a couple extra cookies for a boy in his class who loved the cookies and whose mother did not bake.  I said of course and added two more.  A week or so went by and Greg asked for a couple more.  Intuition on high alert I asked why.  It turned out Greg was creating a little business out of my cookies. One dollar for two cookies.   We stopped the business but continued packing the cookies.

As time went on, the staff at school began to love the days when my cookies would appear.  I sent them with Jim for his staff.  I made them for bake sales.  I made them for friends.  I made them when the kids came home from university.  I made them for Jim’s mom, in recent years making the batter and rolling it into little balls and freezing them so she could serve fresh cookies when company came to visit.  During the pandemic I made them for the nurses at the hospital.  I sometimes take them on hikes.  When I was teaching, knowing how stressful midterms and final exams were, I made little packages for each of my students writing their exam.  Part way through the test, I’d roll my little audio visual cart up and down the aisles, whispering to each student, ‘Can I offer you a cookie? They are magic. They’ll help with the exam.’  Without fail, I’d get a shy, ‘Yes, please’, then a smile and a ‘Thank you’.  I’m sure they helped.

There are so many ways we measure love in our lives, sometimes with our words, sometimes with our actions, sometimes with our smiles.  I know it’s not the cup that put the love into my chocolate chip cookies, but I certainly felt like I was measuring out love every time I used it.  I am so lucky to have opened that little gift so many years ago.

I can’t yet throw away my little broken cup.  I’d like to figure out how to preserve it long enough to use it for little Andy to make at least one batch of cookies with me.  Even with the hole in the bottom, I know the love hasn't run out.

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 measure love.
 
 

When Jim was seventeen years old, he was accepted into Junior Forest Rangers of Ontario.  To be a Junior Forest Ranger, you had to be seventeen.  Not sixteen, and not eighteen.  This was a special program for this single age group; a program where boys from around the province could apply to work for the summer for the princely sum of five dollars per day, plus room and board. 

For Jim, this was like being accepted to West Point.  He was, and continues to be incredibly proud of being a part of it.  Jim was stationed at Sibley Provincial Park, near Thunder Bay.  In 1988 Sibley was renamed to be Sleeping Giant Provincial Park.  Jim took the train, alone, from Niagara, to Thunder Bay, with a transfer at Union Station in Toronto.  A twenty-four-hour train trip, alone as a seventeen year old, heading to a job where he had only a name to meet at the other end, was an accomplishment in itself. But as a Junior Forest Ranger, many other accomplishments were awaiting to be achieved by him and the other young men in his group.  Jim and the others learned to do everything from clearing forest to create campgrounds, emptying trash, trail maintenance and animal surveys,  to learning to fight forest fires.  The forest fire training was most memorable for Jim.

Each summer, each provincial park hosting the Junior Forest Ranger program, selected five Junior Forest Rangers from their group, to make up a team to compete in the annual forest fighting competition.  Jim was part of Sibley’s team.  Teams came from all across the province to compete in the challenge.  Although Jim has explained the job of each member of his team in detail, and explained the format of the competition in detail, all I really know are two things.  First, Jim was appointed to be in position number four on his team, a job involving hauling a heavy part of hose among other things.  Second, his team won the competition. 

It isn’t hard for me to imagine how much this would have meant to five, seventeen year old boys.  In Jim’s case this was the summer after the passing of his father.  I’m sure he was trying to figure out his place in the world.  Knowing for certain he was team member number four, and knowing exactly what was expected of him, made his place very clear, if only for a summer.

I can picture these boys, feeling much more like grown men, as they tried out for, and then made, the team, trained for the competition, and then won.  There was no such thing as social media in those days, in fact, I’ve never even seen a picture of that summer.  Clearly, the competition was not about fame, or being liked or admired.  They were competing in the woods.  No parent made the trip to spectate.  It was simply a matter of pride.  Pride in being selected, pride in competing, and pride in winning. 

When the competition was complete, and the course cleaned up, Jim’s team’s supervisor, on the way back to camp, stopped off with them at Silver Islet General Store.  This was  a little camping store, serving the then Sibley Provincial Park campground.  Jim recalls the supervisor buying them each an ice cream to celebrate.  The owner of the store was there when the boys went in.  He clearly understood that something special had just happened and he asked them where they had been. When they explained what they had accomplished he looked toward the ceiling.  On it were signatures of people who had accomplished a variety of feats.  He said to the boys, ‘There is a spot up there for you’.  He gave them a marker and instructed them to climb upon a table and sign their names.  They were bursting with pride, signing their individual names under their title, “The Fire Fightin’ Five”.

Jim has often recalled this special time and has wondered how long those signatures lasted.

A friend of ours, Vanessa, moved to Thunder Bay about ten years ago.  Jim told her about his time there as a teenager, and about his name on the ceiling.  She thought it would be fun to go and try to find it sometime.  She and her family took a little trip over to Sleeping Giant Provincial Park to see it.  The first time they went, the store was closed.  Same with the second time.  And the third.  The only thing that could be reported was that the little store had clearly undergone change in ownership, and with that, a major renovation. 

Jim knew that any decent renovation would have included a change to the wood ceiling.  Even though he had not been there since the summer of 1972, when Jim heard about the renovation to the store, he felt a little nostalgic about having his tiny piece of small-town history erased.

Last summer, when Vanessa and her family were on a day trip to Sleeping Giant, they decided to check in on the new store.  She sent Jim a message later that same day.  Jim had been right. When the store underwent the new ownership, the ceiling, along with everything else had been replaced.  However, what Jim had not expected was that the new owners, seeing the names on the ceiling, did some research into the history of how they came to be there. 

It is my humble opinion, never having met these owners, and knowing nothing about them, that they are the perfect new owners for this establishment.  Not only did they have some sense that these names must have, at one time, held some importance, they also made the decision to carry the history of the area into the new store.   For on a plaque, hanging on the wall, were engraved the names of the “Fire Fightin’ Five”.

I know how important this time of life was to Jim.  And how important the event was.  And most of all, how important it was for him to have been recognized by virtue of climbing on the table and signing his name.  What impresses me even more is the insight the original store owner had to recognize how important this event was to these kids.  He thought it was important enough that he invited them to be signed witnesses of their own lives.   He gave them the chance to pause, and to witness what they themselves had done.  And even if it was important only in their own eyes, he gave these young men the space to allow the feeling of being seen, and to inform how they would show up in the world, confident, competent, and self-assured, for the rest of their lives. 

I of course, wish that each of us could have a fire fightin’ competition moment.  But more than that, I wish that we would pause, and become signed witnesses to our own lives when we accomplish things meaningful to ourselves.  And I wish we each would recognize such moments when they occur for others, and that we might have the insight and courage to act on our intuition and make space to celebrate these tiny, monumental, life-creating moments for ourselves and others in our lives. 

And I am so grateful that the new owners, had the grace to understand the importance of keeping that firefighting competition of 1972 alive, and Vanessa for reporting back, to revive such a wonderful memory!.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where is there space for a signature on the ceiling in your 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 sign the ceiling.

Having seen some impressive photos, I’ve long wanted to visit the Natural Bridge, just inside the boundary of Yoho National Park.  It’s an impressive rock formation, spanning the full flow of the Kicking Horse River.  In the winter, the water flowing beneath the bridge freezes, allowing visitors to view the bridge from all angles.

Jim and I decided to make the trip to see it this week.  It’s just over a two-hour drive from our home.  We’re fortunate.  Right from the outset, the drive is spectacular, heading us west toward our majestic Rockies.  As we drove past Banff, we drove under the first of several animal corridors.  From a driver’s vantage point, these are nothing more than concrete bridges, shaped like semi-circles.  From the top, however, what the animals see are wide grass, plant and tree covered paths; bridges, allowing the safe passage of all kinds of animals from one side of the Trans Canada highway to the other.

These animal corridors were first imagined, and built, over twenty-five years ago.  At the time, I remember wondering if they would be successful.  How, I pondered, would the animals figure out this was a more desirable way to cross the highway?  They, of course, didn’t read, and couldn’t know the statistics about how many animals had been killed or injured while trying to cross. 

It didn’t take long.  Bear, elk, moose, deer, fox, wolves, coyotes and cougars, soon all found their way.  It turns out, if you build it, they will come.  And as predicted, the loss of life to both animals and humans has been drastically reduced. 

How many of us, I wondered as we drove along, can spot the bridges, natural or human made, placed right in front of us to ease our journey, keep us safe, join us with new friends, or forward us in our pursuits?  How many of us appreciate the bridges extended to us by others?  How many of us, sometimes lack the courage to cross the bridges awaiting us?  And how many of us, already standing on the other side of the bridge, fail to call out to invite others to cross?

I’ve found myself in all these situations.  There have been times in my professional life, when I’ve had all the skills and experience needed to apply for a different, sometimes more challenging, job.  I’ve had times when I’ve been personally invited to apply for the job.  On a few occasions, when I’ve not applied, I’ve even been reached out to, to ask if my application had somehow gone missing.  In some of those instances, I made the choice to not cross the bridge, not to apply, because it was not the right bridge for my family.  But in other cases, I can clearly see now, I either didn’t recognize the bridge or I was afraid to cross it.  I could see where I was, and I could see the other side, but I did not see that I had all the skill I needed to step up on the bridge and cross it.

I’ve worked with hundreds of people, some individually, some as part of groups, some full organizations, who have done this same thing.  They have worked incredibly hard to hone skills, gather expertise, garner respect, and place themselves in a position of growth, only to either miss seeing, or being too fearful to cross the bridge right in front of them. 

Bridges are connectors.  They connect who we are now, to who we might become.  They connect us to others who might enrich our lives.  They connect us to new ideas, and interests, and passions.  When I chose not to cross bridges, I missed out on connections. 

The trouble is bridges sometimes don’t look like bridges. 

Sometimes they look like hard work.  Sometimes they look very inconvenient.  Sometimes they look overwhelming.  Sometimes they look frightening.  But sometimes they look different than that.  Like animal corridors, bridges can be disguised. They can appear as a phone call inviting us to go somewhere.  Sometimes they look like an advertisement for a new activity we might like to join.  Sometimes they look like the smile of a stranger.  Sometimes they look like a kind comment on a social media post.  Some bridges look like a comment from a friend, ‘Oh, I love the hat you made.  I wish I knew how to knit.’  Some look like an empty spot on the dance floor, waiting to be filled.  Some are filled with words and actions, others are quiet. 

The other trouble is, they can be sneaky little things; sometimes while we hum and haw, bridges disappear.

When we are invited to cross a bridge, it is most often because others want a connection with us.  When we invite others to cross a bridge, it is because we desire a connection with them.  When we ignore bridges or let our little voices of doubt stop us from crossing, we miss opportunities.

When Jim and I arrived home from our visit to the Natural Bridge, our mail was waiting for us.  In it was a late Christmas note from my friend Theresa.  Theresa and I have families at different stages.  Finding time to connect isn’t always easy, but we always love our time together.  She ended the note with, ‘When the weather warms, I’d love to join you on a Tuesday Trek’. 

I’ll cross that bridge.   

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What bridge is waiting to be crossed?’
​
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 build and cross bridges.
 

“Just a moment, please.”  With Jim and I both operating businesses from home, we often pick up the phone when it rings, only to find the call was for the other person.  “Just a moment, please. I’ll check to see if he’s in his office.”, I often respond.  Jim does the same for me.

It’s not a lot to ask; to ask if someone can spare one moment of waiting while we try to help connect them to the person they want to speak with. 

Neither is it a lot when we ask those in our lives to wait just a moment.  A moment while we finish typing an email, sending a text, watching a short video, brushing our teeth, walking into another room, tending to a chore, taking off our coat, or any of the other hundreds and hundreds of things we do in a day, each of them taking just a moment. 

Each of these little moments is nothing really.  They fly by, sometimes despite our impatience.  Every day is filled with them.  Often, at the end of a day someone might ask us, ‘What did you do today?’.  And often, we are stumped for a moment.  We can’t think of anything big, or significant.  We can’t think of an adventure we had, or a funny moment we witnessed.  We didn’t go to a special place or tackle an overwhelming job.  We know we were busy, and yet, nothing jumps out at us.  We know we had a day.  Possibly even a decent day.  But we can’t think of a thing.  And yet, our day was filled with moments.

I have always believed in the preciousness and the power of a moment.  When I was teaching school, this concept was reflected back to me over and over.  Countless times during and after my career, a student, sometimes one long graduated, would contact me. Sometime during that conversation, they would say, ‘I’ll never forget the time you ….’  Often it would be some single thing I had said.  Sometimes it would have been something I had done.  But almost never was it something that would have been considered earthshattering.  Almost always it was something that happened in one single moment.  These conversations were always humbling, for most often I had completely forgotten what it was I had said, and I certainly had no idea of the impact of my words.

In the past month, I’ve been focussing on moments.  This isn’t brand new for me, but I’m really sharpening my lens.  Nothing in particular caused this shift, but I keep getting reminders that these little bits of time, these little moments, are what make up the absolute best parts of our lives.

It’s possible my hiking friends have helped me make a change in my perspective of moments.  When we are deciding where to hike, we use macro thinking.  We check out the weather, the conditions, the difficulty, the distance, and possibly the view from the top.  Yet once we are on our hike, those are not the things that we focus on.  And once we finish, those are never the things we remember most vividly.  Instead, it is the moments that remain with us.  It’s the moments of noticing fresh tracks in the snow, of seeing a little waterfall created from spring run off, and observing how the suns rays filter through the trees.  It’s standing in the spring sunshine on top of the last bits of snow pretending to smoke, blowing smoke rings of cold air, and laughing until we cry.  It’s walking along when suddenly one of us says ‘listen’.  And we all listen.  To the beautiful silence.  It’s the tiny moments of conversation, letting us know we have allies as we walk through life.  It’s standing at the top of a mountain and saying thank you; being grateful for the friendship, for the peace, for beauty and for the little moments we might have hurried past had any of us been on our own.

It's possible that Jim’s mom’s precarious health may have honed my desire to treasure moments.  It’s also possible the speed with which our grandjoys are growing has added to it too.  I’d love it if time could stop, so I wouldn’t have to face the inevitable changes that come with life, the growing up and growing old.  I recognize I can either play the losing game of trying to keep everyone just the age they are now, or simply breath in, and appreciate the moments. 
Last week, we offered to pick up our daughter, Kaitlyn’s, car once it had had the windshield replaced.  We had Ben and Andy with us that day.  When the car was ready, I suggested to Jim that he and Ben might like to take the bus, then the C-Train, to pick up the car. The train stop was just a couple of blocks away from the repair shop.  When I asked Ben if he would like to go with Grampa to do this, he said, “Yes!  I would LOVE to do this! Gramma, I have been waiting my whole life for this.”

Huh.

There it is.  What for us, might simply have been an exercise in logistics, of who would drive who, of what time would work so as not to interrupt Andy’s nap, of whether we had car seats in the right cars, of how to fit in a ‘job’ in a day we try to protect for fun, turned into a moment.  A moment of joy at hearing his response when he was invited to go with Grampa.  A moment of sharing the thrill of riding public transit through the eyes of a little boy who loves anything with wheels.  A moment of making a memory, when the moment could so easily have been missed.

One night this week I took care of the boys while their parents attended a meeting.  Upon tucking Ben into bed, he reminded me to set his ‘sun’ clock.  I’ve only done this once before.  Kaitlyn walked me through the process step by step. I told Ben I didn’t remember how to do it but that I’d write a note to remind his mom to do it when she got home.  He said, ‘It’s ok Gramma. Sometimes old people forget things.  And you are old. So, it’s ok that you forgot how to set the clock.’

I’ve been laughing about this ever since.  In my mind I’m not old.  Likely in the eyes of two little boys, I’m well past young.  Once upon a time I might have felt offended. Now I’m just grateful.  My memory of how to set a sun clock may not be sharp, but I have an exquisite ability to recognize magic moments.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What moment are you standing in?’.
​
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 create and cherish moments.
 

When I was growing up, bologna (baloney) sandwiches were a regular fixture at our lunch table. I liked mine with mustard.  The meat in our sandwich wasn’t exactly a choice; we didn’t have a lot of options to choose from.  Our parents did not believe in making separate meals for everyone, so if bologna and mustard was on the menu, bologna and mustard it was.  None of us gave it a second thought.  As I recall, I liked it.

I don’t know if it was a step up or down, but in my teenage years, I can recall Dad buying, and preparing for our supper, a bologna ‘roast’!  Yes, a roast.  It was a large chunk of unsliced bologna that he cooked on our barbeque, on the spit!  He even scored the top to make it look extra fancy, kind of the same as I’m trying to make it look fancy by spelling it bologna, instead of baloney!

In our house, baloney was a food so versatile we could have it at any meal.  If Dad fried us up some for breakfast, he told us we were being treated to Nova Scotia bacon.  He, being from New Brunswick, found this to be hilarious.  He was perfectly serious though, when he served us the esteemed fried baloney sandwich, on toasted bread.  What a special treat!

By the time I moved out and had my own home, I didn’t think much about baloney.  I didn’t buy it for lunches, or for supper or breakfast for that matter.  I didn’t dislike it, nor did I look down upon it, I simply discovered how many other options were available.

This week I’ve talked and laughed about baloney more than I have in many years.  One of our dancing sisters, Donna, was unable to attend a couple of practices.  She let us know this in an email and said, “When I come back, I’ll have to be the bologna for awhile.”  Since I’ve often used this expression when talking about dance, I didn’t give it a second thought. I knew exactly what she meant. But the others in the email chain were flummoxed. Bologna?  Did she mean baloney, as in full of it?  Did she want this for her new nickname?  Was there a hidden meaning?

I knew exactly what Donna meant.  I’ve requested being the baloney at dance many times.  Donna meant that when she returned, she’d like to dance in the middle of the group until she learned the new steps.  She’d be the baloney, and the others, who know the dance better, would take up the outside positions, the bread.  That way, no matter what direction Donna faced, she’d have dancers in front of her from whom she could get her cue.

In dance, there is no shame in being the baloney.  In fact, it’s a most wonderful feeling.  It’s a feeling of knowing others have our back.  When we ask, call for, or move into this position, magic happens. Most often not a word is said.  Seamlessly, the dancers shift around to position the baloney.  Instinctively, everyone around the baloney understands their role.  They are the bread.  The bread supports the baloney; it prevents it from falling or slipping.  More importantly, it is the bread that assures the baloney is not alone.

Bread is a humble food.  We think of it as a staple.  It’s a food we need, but one that doesn’t ask for too much flair, or to be the centre of attention.  Bread knows its job.  It sustains us.  It fills us up.  It’s a food we share with others – breaking bread we call it.  According to the Urban Dictionary, when we break bread, we affirm trust, confidence and comfort with an individual or group of people.  What a crucial role bread has.  And what an absolutely precious thing it is to be the baloney when such support surrounds us. 

I used to think it was somehow better to be the bread than the baloney.  Better to give than receive, or something like that.  I don’t feel like that anymore.  I prefer to cherish my moments of being both bread and baloney.  I cherish being surrounded by support, both when I recognize I need it, and when I don’t, but others do.  I cherish trusting others so much, I can tell them I need help, knowing with complete confidence I will get it without a side-serving of guilt or shame. 

I also cherish being the bread.  I take it seriously when my job is to provide support until it is not needed any more.  I like it when I’m part of a group giving support, but I also know that even an open-face sandwich is a great one.  Sometimes, we are called to be a support all by ourselves.

At dance this past week, I noticed a new twist to role of the baloney.  We were learning a new dance and as always, we needed several repeats of the steps.  Our instructor, Reba J, who often leads from the front, or from one of the perimeter walls, moved into the centre.  She became the baloney.  We could all easily see her and follow her.  It turns out, sometimes the baloney provides support for the bread too.

During the same dance class, Suzie, one of our most excellent dancers who had seen my hiking pictures from earlier that day, commented, ‘You are so lucky to have such good friends who show up for you week after week’.  This comment resonated with me and I thought of it all through the dance class and on my drive home.  In hiking, just like in dance, just like in life, I am so lucky.  I have an abundance of baloney sandwiches.  And in hiking, just like in dance, sometimes the best part of the sandwich is the mustard; the spread of laughter, the nudge of encouragement, the acknowledgement of success, the enveloping of friendship.

I thought I had given up baloney sandwiches years ago. I thought they were something we had because they were something we could afford.  I may have stopped having them because I could afford other foods.  It turns out, they continue to nourish me.  I’m going to serve them more often.  I can’t afford not to.
​
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 serve a delicious bologna sandwich.
 
 

This past week we celebrated a special day; Ben’s fifth birthday. 

Five.

It’s beyond my comprehension to figure out how five years can possibly fly by so quickly.  It makes me acutely aware of the unlikelihood of the next five going any slower.  Or the next five.  Or the next.  I’ve been teasing Ben about becoming five.  I’ve told him that I am ok with him becoming five, but that is it.  No more growing up!  In return, Ben says, ‘Oh Gramma, after another year I will be six.  I’m going to be all the numbers.’

The thing is, I do want him to become ‘all of the numbers’.  The trouble is, I enjoy each of the numbers so much, I want them to last and last. 

To celebrate this special number five, I picked Ben up after his morning school program, brought him home for lunch, and then Jim and I took him to see a movie.  He was thrilled to be going.  He’s been to a few movies previously, so I figured he knew the drill, and he did.

We bought our snacks before finding Theatre #7.   Ben wanted his usual, a kid pack.  This is one of those little square boxes that holds a kid size amount of popcorn, a small drink and a little treat (from the top row of treats).  Since Jim and I each ordered some popcorn and a drink, I asked Ben if he was able to hold his own box of treats.  He was quite confident he could.  In the meantime, I was holding his coat, watching to make sure Ben was ok with his special snacks, and trying to hold my popcorn and drink, , so I asked Jim if he could manage both bags of popcorn.  Somehow in the transfer from my hand to his, as he tried to grab onto my bag and hold it with his pinky finger, one of the popcorn bags slipped and fell to the floor.  Despite it falling right side up, the impact with the floor still caused about one hundred beautiful popped kernels to land all over the floor. 

Yes, there was a little line up watching this unfold.  Yes, they were amused.  Yes, we tried to be too.

I picked up the bag, told the cashier what had happened, apologized, and followed Ben, who was following Jim to the ‘straw and napkin’ counter.  As Ben carefully walked along behind Jim, with his clear voice, he offered one of his little pearls of wisdom.

“Grampa.  If you walk nice and slowly, like this, you won’t leave a trail of popcorn behind you.”

I wanted to laugh out loud, but he was really trying hard to help his Grampa out.  And he was so proud to be holding his own treats so carefully.  I held in the laughter, but the idea of a person walking through life, leaving a trail of popcorn, stuck with me.

We all walk on trails made by others and leave trails wherever we go.  Often, we see a trail created by someone else, and finding ourselves intrigued and, hoping it will provide a good path for us, follow it.  Our mentors create such trails for us.  Sometimes so do our parents, our siblings, our friends, our leaders, and our colleagues.  My hiking friends and I love to follow paths created by other hikers.  It is especially easy for us to see these, and follow them in the winter, when the snow accentuates the footprints.

Many times, we follow these trails only until we find our own footing.  We gain confidence as we watch and learn, as we step into footprints already laid down.  With the path smoothed out, we have enough energy to begin to imagine laying some unique prints of our own.  We might take a few test runs, stepping off the path, but keeping the old trail in sight.  Eventually we step off the worn path altogether and begin to forge our own way. 

Even if we don’t want, or ask, others to follow, our footsteps are visible to all who come behind.  Even if we don’t mean to, we leave a trail of impact on the lives of those we encounter as we go.  It’s almost impossible to walk forward, creating a new path, while erasing the steps we have made.  Sometimes we leave purposeful steps, other times our trails are created with less care.  We leave trails as we navigate our careers.  We leave trails with our words.  We leave trails of kindness and sometimes of hurt.  We each leave trails as we travel giving others a snapshot of our lives and of our character.

I love the image of a nice, neat path of popcorn left behind me, each kernel meticulously placed, with thoughtful understanding of the effect it will have on others.  Traveling this carefully laid trail, I would likely not leave much hurt, nor would I have much backtracking to repair my mistakes. 

I also understand that often, the trail I leave is more like the one Jim and I left when the kernels of popcorn jumped out of the bag onto the floor in a mess.   Sometimes in my preoccupation with my own life, I create a mess.  I forget to lay my popcorn in a neat trail.  I forget someone will be impacted.  I forget these messes don’t clean up easily. 

I’m granting myself some grace as I try to not obsess over every popcorn mess I make.  The people lined up behind us at the theatre this week, witnessed both our embarrassing mess, and the gentle offer of advice given by Ben.  I like to believe the former gave them a little chuckle they might not have had otherwise, and the latter gave them food for thought, and likely another chuckle.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What popcorn trail am I leaving?’
​
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 leave the best trail of popcorn.
 
 

I’m making a quilt for little Andy.  Why in the world, when I’m in the middle of a quilt shop, I have the unbelievable ability to think, ‘With just a few slight changes and additions I could create …’, is beyond me.  And yet, that is where I find myself today.  I have fourteen different colours on my cutting table before me.  I have two different patterns.  Neither is just right, and each employs a different technique. Somehow, I thought I could figure out a way to make the quilt that is not quite clear in my mind, into something beautiful for little Andy. 

I’m sewing half circles (ish) side by side for this quilt.  Once in a while, a half-circle is going to become a panda’s face.  This was the draw for me.  Andy LOVES pandas.  He has a stuffed ‘danda’ that goes everywhere with him.  Just to keep it as complicated as possible, I’m imagining I’ll have the ears of the pandas stick out, to be three-dimensional.  I haven’t quite figured our how that will work.  Another one of my challenges is to figure out what colour of thread is going to work best.  With all the different fabrics I’ve chosen, I need a thread colour that will work throughout the quilt.  I don’t think changing colours each time I join two half-circles will be practical, because never will two same colours be side by side.  And of course, I want to find the perfect colour, one that won’t be a distraction, but that will hold it all carefully together, and that will last for as long as Andy treasures ‘dandas’.

As you can imagine, my tiny mind has been whirling with thoughts, and with images of coloured threads.  Not surprising at all, all my thinking about threads has opened my eyes to see threads in other places in my life.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been spending time visiting my wonderful and dear friend Graham. I met Graham on my very first day of teaching, well over forty years ago.  He was my principal, my boss, and we became fast friends right away.  Although we differed in age, and interests, and although we held different positions in our work, we clicked.  We spent many hours talking about teaching and life.  When Jim and I were expecting our first child, Graham and Carolyn were expecting their second.  We both had girls, who ended up being close friends.  Now they both have sons of the same age, and so it continues.

Last week, at the hospital, when we were visiting, I asked Graham how he got his start of his love of opera.  Graham has been all over the world, appreciating opera, and he has shared his love of it with family, friends, and students.  It would be impossible to know Graham, and not know about this love of his.  As he told me the story of his history with opera, he ended by saying.  I love my family first, but of everything else in the world, it is music that has been my true love.  In fact, he said, without it, I would not be here today.  It is really the thread that has woven though everything I have done. It plays in the background of every part of my life.

This was easy for me to picture.  Opera is the beautiful thread woven through Graham’s entire life, adding beauty and joy, and soothing him when life showed her rough edges.  I began to wonder what threads may have wound their ways through other lives I have been lucky to share.

My mother-in-law, Jim’s mom, has had the thread of faith in her life. There has never been a time when this thread was not present.  She is not a preacher, well, actually she is.  But you know what I mean.  Despite being an ordained Anglican priest, she is not a ‘preacher’.  Yet you cannot know her without knowing how important this thread is in her life.  If you know her, you have felt her faith.

My sister, Mary, would say the thing that sustains her, that plays in the background of everything she does, is storytelling.  For her, this began as a small child when she created little plays for us and our neighbourhood children to perform. But it has woven into something much more profound. She sees and appreciates the stories of life.  She notices small details and sees connections between people and events.  I doubt there is any car ride, or activity, or interaction she is part of where she does not have snippets of a story in her head.  She understands the value of story as a tool for making sense of the world, and of uniting people.  She uses her gift of storytelling to enrich the lives of those she interacts with and to shine a light on things she is passionate about.  If you know Mary, you know she is a storyteller.

Each of us has many small threads running through our lives.  Some involve people, some weave us to important places, some are relationship threads.  All trace the path of significant parts of our lives.  Some of these have a clear beginning and a clear ending.  I believe we each also have the capacity to have a distinct, strong, remarkable thread in our lives, like those of Graham, and Jim’s mom, and Mary.  But for those threads to appear clearly on the quilt of our lives, we must choose to make deliberate decisions about what we want those threads to be, and to consciously nurture them, to bring them along with us. 

Mostly, those special threads should carry important meaning for us.  They must reflect the very fiber of who we are, sometimes flying in the face of what others think might be better pursuits for us.  When we choose our thread correctly, when we nourish it in just the right ways, when we make time for it and pay attention to it, it returns our favour, making the quilt of our life ever so much more meaningful.

I stood in the quilt shop today, picking up one last bit of fabric for Andy’s ‘danda’ quilt, and then trying to pick out just the right thread.  I realized when I held one spool of thread, and then the next, that in fact, the thread I choose will not really be seen.  Mostly it will be hidden.  What I do not want hidden is what I’d like this quilt to reveal in time.  I want the little ‘danda’ quilt I’m sewing for Andy to include a little of the thread of my life.  I hope he will feel my love for him.  I hope he will know I support the things he loves.  And I hope he can feel my love and desire for him to become exactly who he is.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the thread running through your 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 find out how to find your perfect thread.
 

I’ve been absent far longer than I planned.  What started as a summer hiatus, morphed into lingering Covid symptoms, then a very busy work life, and a full home life, and somehow the busyness of autumn never settled.  When I began writing this blog, eight years ago now, I promised myself I would not let it become a pressure, and that if it got to a point where I was stressing over what I might write, it was time to let it go.  Sure enough, week after week, an idea always popped into my head with very little effort on my part, and so my writing continued.

Yet over the months of September, October and through December, I wasn’t compelled to sit to write.  Thoughts weren’t popping into my head.  Last week, two things happened.  First, I had an idea.  An idea for a blog.  Second, once I’d considered getting back at it, I received a late Christmas gift from my daughter’s father-in-law.  You may remember last year when he gifted me the book, “Life’s Too Short to Fold Your Underwear”, and signed his accompanying letter, East Coast Hughie?  Well, this year East Coast Hughie managed to hit it right out of the park again, with his gift of the beautiful children’s (even though I secretly think it was written for grown ups) book, ‘What Do You Do With An Idea?’, by Kobi Yamada.

I have read this book before, in fact I have given it to others in the past, but I have never had a copy for myself, though I have longed for one.  Hughie did it again, he won the blue ribbon for choosing my favourite gift.  It was just the nudge I needed to remind me what to do with my idea.  So here I am, a few months later than I expected, but feeling just right about writing again.  And of all the blog thoughts to pop into my head, the one that stuck was about my love life.  Hopefully it’s not too much information!

We had a most wonderful Christmas.  For the first time in several years, we had our whole family together.  We spent Christmas Eve at Greg and Cara’s, feasting on some of their culinary wonders.  The following day, Christmas dinner was here, complete with excited children, an old-fashioned turkey dinner, and capped with a rousing game of Christmas Bingo!  I willed myself to breathe in the moment and to cherish it.  I was determined not to get caught up in making sure everything was perfect, but to simply relish being together.  After all, we know all too well how illness and pandemics can quickly mess up the best laid plans. 

In moments like this, it’s easy to feel love.  It’s easy to understand what all the Christmas songs are about.  It’s easy to believe in peace on earth, goodwill to all.  It’s easy to have a magical love life.

At the same time, behind the scenes at our house, behind the phone screens, another script was being acted out.  Jim’s mom had been taken to the hospital in Ontario on Christmas Eve, where she remains today.  She had a brief stint back home, but clearly the complex issues at work had not been resolved, so New Year’s Eve saw another ambulance trip and more uncertainty.  Adding to that, two dear friends of ours here at home were also hospitalized, one with very, very worrisome symptoms, and one with a good prognosis, but a long recovery ahead.  While we were cherishing our time together, we knew we were only a few keystrokes away from news of these loved ones.

I did a lot of self-talk on Christmas Day.  I reminded myself that spoiling the moment I was in, with worrying about things completely out of my control, would do no one any good.  I reminded myself to not take for granted what I had right in front of me.  And yet, it always leaves a bit of guilt to be celebrating while others suffer.  I wrestled with my feelings throughout the day.

It felt like I was holding love for the time with my healthy family in one hand, worry in the other, and in my head holding space to figure out a way not to let one overshadow the other.  It was only when I stopped judging the two, thinking of one as good and one not, one as love and the other as concern or worry, that I found peace.

Peace came when I understood love is not the absence of worry, but that it shows itself in many ways.  To have a thriving love life, we of course need moments of bliss, memories created of happy times, and cherished feelings of connection.  We need moments when we want to freeze time, for the happiness inside us to never end.  I frequently find this kind of love on a mountain top, even trudging through the snow on my way there.  I find it in little moments with our grandjoys.  I find it in the music and movement of dance, and in the lyrics of song.  I find it in laughter and conversation with siblings and friends. 

But a thriving love life is also found in other, more poignant moments.  It is found sitting in chairs beside hospital beds.  It is found at life’s beginning and life’s end.  It is found in the laughter of children and in the grace and wisdom of those with more years.  It is found deep in the memories of our heart, and in the gratitude we feel for sharing our life with others so precious to us. 

If I had a magic wand, I’d wave it to take away the suffering of all those I love.  But I'd be very careful to never wave it to remove any of the love that has blessed me, neither through the joys or sorrows of our everyday living. 

This week, Jim continues to sit with his mom by her hospital bed.  For now, I am here at home, toboganning with the little ones, visiting our friends, tending to life, supporting Jim from a distance, making tentative, ever changing plans, and continuing to find little ways to share love with those around me.  It turns out, we have a very, very healthy love life.  I would not trade it for the world. 

My inquiry for you, in this new year, is ‘How's your love 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 find out how to improve your love life.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Little Andy and I were out for a walk one morning this week.  He has just found his walking legs and he loves to use them.  We had already taken a ride in his little black truck, meaning Andy steered and lifted his feet while I pushed!  For our second loop, I switched to the wagon, pulling it from the front while Andy pushed from behind.  My idea was that should he tire out, I could easily sit him in the wagon and pull him home.  I shouldn’t have worried.  He could have walked all day.
As we wandered along with Andy pushing the wagon, an around-the-corner neighbour, out checking her garden, was delighted to see the sight little Andy made as he walked along. She said hello to him, and commented we were smart to get out before the rain started.  I agreed and then she added that we’ve already had a lot of rain.  Again, I agreed and made some small talk with her while Andy checked out the feel of a soft evergreen bush.  She paused for a moment and then, looking around at the lush green lawns and the beautiful first flowers in bloom said, “The aftermath is really beautiful, isn’t it?”

Her use of aftermath in this way has given me great pause for the last few days.  I’ve always only used this word to describe carnage.  When the massive windstorm hit our gorgeous hiking trails last Fall, we spoke of the aftermath of the storm, meaning the devastation that was left behind after the storm had passed. When the floods of 2013 struck, the aftermath was, I thought, the terrible things left behind by the power of the storm.

I’d been thinking the aftermath was only the bad stuff.  I never gave much thought to the idea that aftermath could be a good thing, a beautiful thing even.  But it turns out that aftermath is really just the aftereffects of an event, usually a significant unpleasant event.  It’s the event that is significant and unpleasant.  The aftermath is simply what is left behind.

No one gets to judge for us what constitutes a significant, unpleasant event.  Of course, most of us can agree on the big stuff.  Natural disasters won’t get much pushback – they clearly qualify as events with an aftermath.  Yet so too can office meetings, traffic jams, rejections, unkind comments, missed opportunities, embarrassments, and personal loss.  The key is that they are not only unpleasant, but that they are significant.  To us. 

Most of us have lived long enough to have experienced several, if not many, unpleasant events.  All of us who have, have stood in their aftermath.  Sometimes we stand there stunned.  Stunned by the devastation.  Stunned by the feelings.  Stunned by the unexpected turn of events.  Sometimes stunned by the physical evidence of the event.  When the experience is unexpected or shocking enough this is our natural, and reasonable reaction.  The time we linger in this land is not prescribed.  It can last only moments or for months.  Here, we are certainly in the aftermath.  And yet, even once this time passes, we continue to be in the aftermath.

In this new land, possibilities reveal themselves.  Where we once only felt numb or shock, we can begin to see new possibilities.  In the aftermath, we can appreciate the growth resulting from the rains, the beautiful lawn and gardens of our neighbour, the communities rallying together, the relationships made stronger, the commitments to one another solidified, and the goals and dreams made more vivid. 

This perhaps is why there is a second meaning of aftermath. In the farming community, aftermath refers to a second growth, a rowen. 

What a hopeful concept.

To think there could be a second (and third and fourth) chance for our own growth, especially after disappointment, or loss, or even catastrophe is so promising.  It’s what allows us to continue to dream, to make plans, and to pursue dreams, knowing that while there may be ‘significant, unpleasant events’ in our futures, so to will there be some beautiful aftermaths; walks with precious tiny boys, just finding their walking legs, giving ways to chance meetings with wise, new-to-us neighbours.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the growth in the aftermath?’

It’s the end of June and for the second year, I’ve decided to take a little break from this blog.  Not from writing though, for I have a couple of other projects on the go.

May you have a wonderful summer, with no significant, unpleasant events, and with lots of opportunity for new growth.

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to grow in the aftermath.