We had an unexpected, off-schedule week this week.  Kaitlyn returned to work after her maternity leave with all systems in place for care for Ben and Andy.  What could go wrong, asks no parent anywhere who has ever returned to work.  Tuesday morning, Ben arrived at preschool, having been dropped off by his caregiver.  He was his normal cheerful self, ready to see his friends and have a great morning.  By mid-morning the call arrived.  Ben was throwing up.

The correct systems were put into place, and Ben’s dad, Matt arrived quickly to take him home.  Not knowing exactly what was wrong, Matt stayed home and let their caregiver go home, in hopes she had not caught whatever this bug was.  Kaitlyn stayed at work, and Matt dealt with the endless rounds of vomiting.  Finally in the evening, things settled.  With a negative Covid test in the books, and a stomach that seemed like it might cooperate, we felt it was safe for us to have our regular day with the boys on Wednesday.

Wednesday was far from regular, with Ben having no energy, but he was certainly better than he had been on Tuesday.  We decided to have him again on Thursday, figuring if he had something contagious, we’d have already been exposed and we might as well spare their caregiver.  Luckily, things are back to normal with everyone feeling pretty good. 

I know I won’t forget the feeling I had of worry about Ben and what he might have.  It’s terrible feeling so helpless, especially when a little one is involved.  Yet even though I’ll keep this memory, there is another one that I know will also remain in my mind.  Ben is crazy about all things involving vehicles.  He can name every brand of car, and most specific makes.  He knows about all the construction vehicles, skinstruction vehicles he calls them.  He’s curious about speed limits and construction zones, about speeding tickets and engines and tires.  I guess I should not have been surprised then.  Surprised that he, when he was so sick and on one instance did not make it to the bathroom on time, was still thinking about all things cars.  His parents had wiped up and then washed the spot on the carpet and Ben could see, from his vantage point on the couch, it was still wet.  He got up, found his little ten-inch orange caution cones he uses for his bike and for car play, and set them up around the wet spot.  He wanted to make sure everyone knew there was a hazard to avoid.

It's precious, really.

About the same time the call would have come from the preschool, I was high in the Foothills on my regular Tuesday hike.  Lynne and I had just come to the top of the ridge and were excited to see the view.  Lynne had not been to this area since the wicked windstorms of late November so this was her first chance to see the damage up close.  It was good for me to revisit this through her eyes.  Brenda and I have become used to it as we hike the area weekly.  I’d forgotten just how shocking it really is.  When we reached the top, we were shocked to see the trail was blocked off, not by trees, but by caution tape.  The forestry people have been clearing for months, but the tape indicated they had not finished the piece of the ridge in this particular area.  We were surprised to think there had not been a warning at the beginning of the trail; it was much farther to turn around than it would have been had we been able to go forward.  As we pondered what to do, we saw small bits of the same colour tape tied to trees on a side trail.  Understanding this could be a detour, we followed them.  To our complete amazement and delight, the new trail took us onto a horse trail on the opposite side of the ridge, exposing us to a most spectacular view of the Rockie Mountains.  It wound around to join the blocked off trail on the opposite side.

I found it interesting there had been two examples of caution signs on the very same day, the one on the trail, and Ben’s homemade one in his living room.  Of course, most of us are used to seeing caution cones or signs when there is construction around or a hazard on a roadway.  We are far less seeing them in our personal lives.  I think we might be missing something here.

Each of us has times when the people in our lives could be of better service to us, if only they knew how.  Often, they don’t even realize support or help is needed.  So many times, we struggle internally and try to keep the impact on others to a minimum.  Alas, it rarely works.  It leaks out of us, sometimes causing the impact on others to be even worse as they create stories in their minds about what is going on.

I’ve been picturing me putting up cones with signs on them.  “Caution, I’m worrying about a friend. I might not be at my best.  I could use a good pair of ears.” 

Or “Caution, I’m ready to make a huge change!  Get out of my way! I may not be as attentive as I could.”

Or “Caution, I’m at this gathering, but I’m not yet fully comfortable with ‘normal’ yet.”

Or maybe just a tiny little one at the front door, indicating, “Just a little extra kindness is needed, please.”

When we allow others some insight into our intentions, into what’s going on behind the scenes in our lives, the result is they also understand our behaviour and don’t have to create stories around what the behaviour means.  It prevents misunderstanding.

Little Ben got it right.  Most of us don’t dream about having construction cones laid out as part of our home décor.  It would be easy to be annoyed at seeing this if we had no insight.  But knowing his love of cars, and understanding his innocence and purity of purpose, the message was received exactly the way it was intended.  And during a time of worry, the thoughtfulness of it warmed a few hearts too.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What cone is needed here?’

Next week is Easter weekend.  I’ll be taking some time off.  See you later in the spring!
​
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 place your construction cones.

After a week away, I’ve been thrilled to be back out in nature this week.  Missing it while I was away working, gave way to even more appreciation this past week.

As I hiked this week, and yes, I did sneak in an extra, shorter hike one morning, along with our long one on Tuesday, I had to be mindful of footing for many of the steps taken.  The trails have been travelled all winter, and as such, the snow on the trails has been packed down over the months.  Once the warmer daytime temperatures arrived, snow began to melt.  The snow in the forest, mostly untouched, melted quickly.  The packed snow on the trails, however, simply melted on the top.  Then each night, as the temperature dropped, this became ice.  This cycle repeated over and over throughout March, leading to the interesting pattern of forest floors ranging from snow covered to bare, with very icy trails running through them. 

Because of the footing, my gaze didn’t stray too far as I walked.  Mostly, it was aimed toward the ground and at the things within close range.   With this close-up view, I noted most of the trees were imperfect.  Many had one side, most often the side receiving the wind, that was flat, or that had shorter branches than the other side.  Some of the trees had no top at all.  Others, due to the damaging windstorm in November, had split trunks.  Far too many had toppled right over.  I don’t think we ever saw one tree that was perfect.  None of them would look too good on a front lawn.

And yet, put together, all these imperfect timbers create the most breathtaking scenes.  I can’t count how often we remark on the beauty of the places we walk.  Not a week goes by, likely not an hour during any hike, when either Brenda or I don’t say, “Isn’t this incredible?”, or “Isn’t this just beautiful?”.  We always agree that it is indeed both incredible and beautiful.  And perfectly imperfect.

I’ve pondered this.  Nature mirrors life, or perhaps life mirrors nature.  Either way, this phenomenon plays out again and again in life.  I can’t think of any group I’m part of, not even small groups, not even groups of two, where any one member is perfect.  Yet, I know I’m part of some perfectly imperfect groups.  Somehow it happens, that even though when each of us is examined up close, when we are zoomed in on, we are imperfect, yet when we take our place in our group, beauty and perfection are found.  The little imperfections, and quirks, the parts of us that have been buffeted by the wind, bring the magic.  The tattered side of one of us is flanked by the fullness of another.

Having figured I’d solved the mystery of humans with my observation of the power of the group, I surprised myself on my shorter hike this week.  I proudly looked for evidence to support my theory about how individual trees and shrubs, while each of them imperfect, manage to form a perfect picture.  I told myself to zoom out, to not focus so much on individuals, where certainly I would find flaws.  To instead look for the bigger picture.  And then, right when I least expected it, there it was.  The contradiction to my theory.

We came across many large trees that had been felled by the storm last Fall.  The forest service has been out clearing the area. In the area we chose for our short hike, there was a sign saying they had cleared over three hundred trees.  We saw many freshly cut edges of fallen trees where the trees had been cleared from the path.  As I kept my focus on the big picture, on the zoom out, we noticed the sun shining on a freshly cut-in-half tree.  The air temperature was hardly above zero, but the warm sun warmed the flesh of the tree enough that the sap was being coaxed out.  I looked closer, zooming in. The sap wasn’t carelessly dripping out.  It had come out in a perfect circle, forming a ring of crystals, several centimetres wide, all around the log.  It was breathtaking.  And I realized then how wrong I had been.

I wasn’t wrong in thinking many imperfect trees, or humans, can create perfection.  What was wrong, was my thinking that any of the trees were imperfect to begin with.  Certainly, some did not resemble the perfect image we may see in a painting or on a Christmas card, or the carefully manicured ones we see on landscaped lawns.  But the closer I got to this imperfect, blown down tree, the more I zoomed in, the more I could see the absolute perfection within it. 

I recognized my mistake immediately. I had been judging the trees by their outward appearance.  I had judged them by some standard set on cards and in movies.  In doing so, I missed the complete perfection found within.

It’s the same with humans.  It turns out, we are perfect.  We are perfect just the way we are.  In fact, if we were all picture perfect in the over-filtered photograph kind of way, if we had no quirks and oddities, there would be nothing interesting about us.  It is only because we each bring our unique selves to our families, friendships and groups, not only what is on the outside but on the inside too, that we can add to the beauty and wonder of the forest of our lives. 

We’ve been through a tough slug these past couple of years.  We’ve been pretty battered by the wind.  May we each recognize the perfect imperfection within ourselves and those surrounding us.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What perfection do I see in the imperfection?’
​
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 find the perfect imperfections in your life.
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 

Not yet.  It hasn’t happened.  Andy hasn’t taken his first steps.  Yet.  This past week, Kaitlyn took a beautiful short video of Andy ‘walking’, holding his Daddy’s hand in his right hand, and holding on to his left was his big brother, Ben.  This was the first time I’d seen this.  It’s possible they’ve done it previously, but this was my first glimpse.
Andy was delighted with himself, and Ben was oh, so proud.  Neither of them will likely remember this moment, but I hope I’ll never forget it.

Watching it, I realize it won’t be long before those first steps are taken.  I’m in no hurry but it’s an important milestone in the development of an almost one-year-old.

I happened to see this little ‘not-quite-first step’ when I was away on business.  I was working with an organization who are also preparing to take their first steps.  Their first steps will be so different than those of Andy.  In their case, the organization has been around for a long time.  They’ve taken steps before.  But somewhere along the way their very foundation was compromised.  It was no longer the sturdy base needed to support the important work trying to be done there.

The values upon which it was founded were all but forgotten, the leadership lost its roadmap and the discord felt throughout was toxic.

That was the mucky time, they told me.  Our time in hell.  Those are strong words.

When an organization or individual has come through a mucky time, a time from hell, it can be difficult to even think about a first step, and even more difficult to take it.

Often the impulse is to simply ‘leave all that behind us’ and start to build from here.  From the present.  After all, we can’t go back and change the past and there isn’t much to be said for dwelling on it, so we might as well spend our energy on forward movement.  Luckily, the leaders in this organization are not impulsive.  They are thoughtful, reflective and insightful.  They recognized that rebuilding on an unstable foundation would very likely set them up for failure.  I doubt they’d have landed in the same muck they were in before but certainly they would have landed in muck.

Instead, they chose to spend some time re-building, reinforcing their damaged foundation, before striking off forward.  They had to take a step (or two) backward, in order to lay the solid path forward.

This organization is lucky to have such leadership.  They are lucky to have at the helm, a person who understands the importance of this foundational work.  They have leadership who also understand the wisdom that can be found in the staff who slogged through that muck.  They could clearly identify that backward-walking was needed before forward progress could be achieved.

Time and time again in our lives we are placed in a position of needing (or wanting) to take a first step.  It’s a scary place to live.  We know once we take that first step, things will certainly change.  We know we can be tempted to pretend we’re ready to move forward when in fact, if we’re standing on a shaky foundation, it usually indicates we’ve left some unfinished business behind.

It’s hard to know when it’s the right moment.  And it’s hard to know which direction to step.

Jim’s mom, now ninety-two, took a huge first step a couple of weeks ago.  She lives alone.  Throughout the pandemic she has recognized she misses the company of being with others, especially at mealtimes.  Knowing the solution to the problem was going to be difficult to solve within the four walls of her home, she decided to take a test drive, a trial run, of a brand-new senior’s residence.  Active Senior Living, it boasts on the outside sign. The two-week trial was designed to give her a chance to test the foundation of her decision.  It’s not up to me to give you her final decision, but if I were a betting human, I’d bet we’ll see a ‘for sale’ sign up on her old place before long.  That is, if my difficulty trying to reach her is indicative of what I suspect; she’s already made friends and is busy trying to decide which activities to enjoy!

Each of these three, almost one-year-old Andy, a middle-aged organization, and a 92 year old mother-in-law, has taken a first step.  Each has done it differently.  Andy stepped forward. The organization stepped back.  And Jim’s mother stepped sideways.  Yet they had something in common.  Each made sure supports were in place as they struck out.  Andy was literally flanked on either side by two loving supports.  The organization gathered their entire team, and together carefully planned how they could support one another as they boldly stepped backward and butted up the foundation in preparation for their steps ahead.  Jim’s mom has the love and support of her entire family as she has stepped sideways to test the waters of potential, knowing she will be supported in whatever choice she makes.

Occasionally each of us finds ourselves in a position to take a first step. May we stand on a solid foundation and be supported on both sides as we choose our direction.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What direction am I stepping?’

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 decide on the direction of your first step.
 
 
 
 

​Our little Andy is soon going to turn one year old.  Last week Kaitlyn was telling me that he likely needs to have his hair cut soon.  Andy has beautiful blond hair and blue eyes.  His hair has some little curls on the top, adding to his angelic look.  He’s got the cheeriest disposition imaginable.  Kaitlyn said she doesn’t really want to have his hair cut. 

‘I don’t want Andy to lose his magic’, she said.

I understood this right away.  For of course, Andy is magic exactly how he is right now.  His delightful, now four-toothed, smile is magnetic.  His strong bare little legs climbing him up staircase after staircase are beautiful.  His sweet smile and almost daily new words are irresistible. And his hair, those sweet top-of-the head curls are adorable.  Andy is a baby, our ‘precious, precious, baby’ Ben calls him.  And he is magic.

There is something about a little one getting their first haircut that takes some of the baby out of them.  Suddenly, they look more like a little person.  So, I understood completely how Kaitlyn, Andy’s mom, wanted to hang on to every single second of his babyhood.

I suppose we all had magic to start with.  But somewhere between Andy and ninety, we either lose it, or forget we have it. 

I’ve been thinking about how and when we lose our magic.  To lose something, we have to have had it in the first place.  This idea gave me hope, since I know for sure babies have magic.  Ergo, we must all have had it. 

I don’t believe we lose it. I’ve seen too many examples of people with magic to believe this.  But I do suspect we stop believing that we, or others have it.   And I think, in the fast pace of our lives, we forget to notice it. 

It’s even difficult to clearly identify magic.  We know it when we see it, but it’s tough to define.  It’s really just a special quality or ability someone or something has, that seems too wonderful to be real.  That’s why it’s so easy to see in babies and so much harder to find in the rest of us. And it’s easy to feel like we have lost it. 

We lose our magic anytime it is scary to let go of one stage and move on to the next, fearing the magic will be left behind.  We lose our magic when we try something new.  We lose our magic when we are stuck; stuck in a job we no longer like, stuck behaving in ways we know don’t serve us or those around us, stuck in routines that no longer hold a sparkle for us.  We can lose our magic when we stop showing up as our best.  We lose our magic when we begin to feel invisible.

Yet, I also know this.  If we turn our eye away from a magic trick, even for a short moment, we miss it.  This is true whether the magic is performed on stage with theatrical music and a person with a black hat, or whether it is found in our office, or living room, or car, or classroom or hospital.  But the magic is there.  I’ve seen it.

I’ve seen magic in kind gestures.  I’ve seen magic in funny comments, as they lighten the mood of entire rooms.  I’ve seen magic in the scenery on our hikes.  I’ve seen magic shared in a glance.  I’ve seen magic as people have become more than they ever imagined.  I’ve seen magic when bravery was dared.  I’ve seen magic when a hand was held in comfort.  I’ve seen magic recently as countries have opened their doors to the refugees seeking shelter from a war, and as young mothers lined up empty strollers for the incoming mothers, fleeing the war, to use for their babies.

Just like at a magic show, the magician performs more and better to applause.  So too, it is in our lives.  If, when we see magic, we would not quickly turn away, but rather extend the moment by breathing it in, or noticing it out loud, or complementing it, or reflecting on it later, we would encourage more of it.  We would teach others to see it, so they too could encourage more of it.

We need magic.

Andy did get his hair cut.  Kaitlyn was right.  He looked so much more like he was becoming a little boy.  Two days after the hair cutting, I dropped Andy and Ben off at home after having played with them for the afternoon.  I said goodbye to Ben who responded, ‘Bye Gramma.  Thank you for the good day.’  Andy’s not able to say bye-bye yet but I said, ‘Bye Andy!’  And I waved.  He smiled his beautiful smile.  And then he waved.  For his very first time.

Andy’s still got his magic. 

So do the rest of us.

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 find your magic.
 
 

Last week my blog, You Gotta Help People, received a lot of feedback.   It resonated with people for a variety of reasons.  Mostly, the simple message of helping one another is one we all relate to and appreciate.  Right now, watching what is being acted out on the world stage, this feeling is stronger than usual.  Most of us want to help the Ukranian people but have no quick way to do so. 

In the blog, I talked about two fathers, one named Papa, who coined this phrase, and the other named Dad, my father.  In the blog I wrote,

‘Every time there was a special occasion, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, we had a big beautiful healthy meal in our home.  The table was filled with all our own vegetables, and most often there was home- raised meat, or fresh turkey from a neighbour, in the oven.  On every special occasion, and on many regular Sundays, once our meal was fully prepared and ready to be served, Dad would ask for an extra plate.  He’d fill it, heaping full.  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes’, he would say.  I’ll just take this around to Mr. Dwyer.  We would wait the fifteen or so minutes this little trip would take, then sit down to eat together.’

One of the responses I received was this, ‘This is very touching.  I love that your dad delivered Mr. Dwyer his dinner before you all ate versus sending him the leftovers after’

This response, while really just restating what I had written, was incredibly insightful.  It has given me great pause this week, to think about the message we were being sent not only about helping people, but about how we help them.  I never once, until I read that comment, considered the timing of Dad’s delivery.  Nor had I thought deeply about leftovers.  I had always taken for granted that we were being served our dinner at that time, so it followed this would be the natural time for someone sharing our food to eat then too.  I also never once considered exactly what we were sending to Mr. Dwyer, leftovers, or the real meal.  I just knew that Dad heaped a plate full, enough for several meals, and he drove it over to Mr. Dwyer’s run-down house, came back, and then we sat together to eat.  However, reading the comment, and reflecting on it, I realized that the timing of Dad’s delivery was not accidental, and the impact it has had on me and my siblings has been lasting.

By definition, leftovers are something, especially food, remaining after the rest has been used or consumed.  This week though, when I’ve thought of leftovers, I haven’t been thinking of food at all.  I’ve thought of the definition this way:

Leftovers: something remaining after the rest has been used.

I don’t wonder why I’ve never considered Dad’s lesson about caring for others to be about food.  It was never about food.  I do wonder why, until now, I’ve never considered what the real lesson was.  It was about a way of showing up in this world.  Dad, though quiet about helping Mr. Dwyer, had opinions about many things.  It would have been around our dinner table he would have firmly told us, ‘You are no better, or worse, than anyone else in this world.  Don’t ever start to think you are.’  I think these were the words that sang in harmony with my dad’s actions of taking a plate to Mr. Dwyer before we ate.  Mr. Dwyer, although often drunk, and with vile language and shocking stories of his fights, with his mental illness and isolation and run-down shack of a home, was considered to be, by our father, no better or worse than us.  His behaviour was worse, and Dad never made excuses for that, but he, himself was not.  I suppose Dad could have said, ‘There but for the grace of God go I’ or something profound, but he never did.  He just delivered food; delicious, warm, well-made, freshly prepared, straight-from-the-oven, food.  The same food he served his own children.

Dad lived this way in all parts of his life.  He never brought leftovers anywhere.  He worked at a factory, in the boiler room of a large oil refinery.  He was a shift worker, and proud to do a good job there.  He took his job seriously and worried about the safety of the workers in the plant.  He showed up on time and stayed until he could safely turn his shift over to the next worker. He must have often been exhausted, trying to get a few hours sleep at home after a midnight shift, with the hustle and bustle of a big family around him.  And yet he did not show up to work bringing leftover energy.  He brought his best. 

The same was true for home. When he arrived home, there was a farm to run.  He never showed up with leftovers here either.  The work was hard and often timing was determined by Mother Nature, not his sleep schedule.  And yet, he showed up on the farm seeming fresh, not like he was managing to arrive with only his leftover energy.

The same could be said of his whole life.  He had more than his share of aches and pains, with serious life-threatening illness finding a home in him more than once, yet he continued to refuse to serve us leftovers.  We, our family and the entire community, got the best of him.  We did not get his leftovers.  If he was finished on the tractor, he could be found volunteering with the local Optimist Club, parking cars for full days on weekends at big events or serving hundreds at local beef barbeques.  I can still picture him in the kitchen in the evening, rubbing horse liniment on his hands to reduce the pain in his joints, all the while asking if we’d like to play cards.  No leftovers there.

There were ten children to feed around our table.  We were not rich.  I found out long after I had grown up that Dad had spent many, many hours worrying about money and how he could provide for us.  But we were not saddled with this burden.  Dad shared what he had as if he had had plenty to spare.  This was the action we witnessed and the message we clearly received.

Dad had no problem with leftovers, and neither do his kids.  His lunchbox was packed with them more often than not.  If there was food leftover after a meal, Dad often made it into some warm concoction for breakfast the next day, serving it up as if it were out of a gourmet magazine.  It was of course, not gourmet.  It was most often leftover fried potatoes with some green beans mixed in.  So, leftovers were not missing from our plates. 

We were, however, taught not to serve them as the main course of our lives.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What am I serving?’
​
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 to show up serving your main course.

This week I attended the funeral of my friends’ father, Giovanni, or Papa as we all called him.  To be in a church, together with so many treasured faces, masked though we were, reminded me of how much I have to be thankful for.  It was a day for thanks.  Thanks for the life of this cherished man, adored by his girls, thanks for the ability to stand together and bear witness to this love, and thanks for the lesson about the gift of loving someone so much their loss feels unbearable.

During the eulogy, Reba J, one of Papa’s two daughters, told many stories about her precious father.  She brought his memory alive as she described how he knew everyone in the stores where he most enjoyed shopping, how he liked to be called Johnny Cash because he only used cash, how as a first-generation immigrant to Canada he proudly worked to support his family and how, whenever anyone was in need, he would immediately drop what he was doing and go to their aid.  When asked why he would do this he would simply reply, ‘You gotta help people’.

What a philosophy for life.

After the service, later in the day, I reflected on my own upbringing.  I don’t remember ever hearing the words, ‘You gotta help people’, but I did see them in action, daily.  We lived on a farm and in the summer months it was ‘all hands, on deck’.  My brothers had a market gardening business, taking fresh vegetables to three different outdoor markets each week.  All of us worked in the fields planting, weeding, and picking that beautiful produce. 

We had a neighbour, Mr. Dwyer, from whom Dad rented extra farmland, the back field, for us to use for growing the vegetables. When we talked about working ‘down in the back’, we all knew that meant we’d be spending the day on this rented land.  We also knew it meant we might have a visit from Mr. Dwyer.  The sound of his tractor always arrived before he did.  He had an ancient, sputtery tractor that he’d coax up the rocky hill as he came to visit us while we worked.  When one of us would hear that tractor, they’d sound the warning.  ‘Here comes Mr. Dwyer’. We were afraid of him.

His wild looks were like something out of a movie; hair unwashed and in need of a cut, old dirty jeans often held up by a long belt but sometimes by bailer twine, and worn-out boots, the kind you picture on a soldier.  That alone should have been enough to frighten us.  But then he’d hop off his tractor, come right up to us and start to tell us his ‘stories’.  Stories of how he’d get into bar fights, and ‘get ‘em in a headlock’.  He’d demonstrate using one arm to show how he’d hold someone and then hold up two fingers from the other hand as if he was going to poke his victim in the eyes.  Sure enough, he'd tell us with his loud, raspy voice, ‘I’d poke ‘im in the eye!’

We were terrified (and fascinated) and we knew we were always to be respectful.  We also knew we were supposed to be working, but Mr. Dwyer commanded our attention and we trusted Dad would understand.  Dad reassured us Mr. Dwyer wouldn’t hurt us.  As kids, although we fully understood his behaviour was not necessarily in his control, we didn’t have the vocabulary to accurately describe it.  As adults we understood that he must have been suffering greatly from mental illness. 

Every time there was a special occasion, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, we had a big beautiful healthy meal in our home.  The table was filled with all our own vegetables, and most often there was home- raised meat, or fresh turkey from a neighbour, in the oven.  On every special occasion, and on many regular Sundays, once our meal was fully prepared and ready to be served, Dad would ask for an extra plate.  He’d fill it, heaping full.  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes’, he would say.  I’ll just take this around to Mr. Dwyer.  We would wait the fifteen or so minutes this little trip would take, then sit down to eat together. 

Dad never made a big deal about his trips to Mr. Dwyers house.  Sometimes he'd fill us in on what he had seen; newspapers and other old junk piled high to the ceiling, with only a pathway to the table. We knew Mr. Dwyer didn’t wash his plate, but just put in the fridge until the next meal when he would use it again.  We were enthralled with these tidbits of insight.  I suspect Dad spared us from many of the other things he saw.

We knew Dad did other kindnesses for Mr. Dwyer too.  He always had time to help him with machinery and in his old barn, and he spent hours and hours listening to Mr. Dwyers’ stories.  He often took packages, gifts, over there that we never asked about.  Dad didn’t like to make a big deal about what he did.  Mr. Dwyer thought Dad was a saint. St. Murray, he called him.  But saint or not, those times spent with Mr. Dwyer couldn’t have been easy for Dad.  Mr. Dwyer was a challenging man.  Most of the neighbours steered clear of him and encouraged Dad to do the same.  And yet, Dad happily carried on his rituals of helping his neighbour for as long as Mr. Dwyer lived. If we’d asked my dad why he did it, Dad would have raised his shoulders and held his hands out, palms up, with a little smile on his face and a hint of a tear in his eyes. 

‘You gotta help people’, he might have said.

This week we are witnessing atrocities in Ukraine, unlike anything any of us could have envisioned.  The people of Ukraine are modeling bravery and showing both strength and love as they do what they must to protect themselves and their country.  Much of the rest of the world, despite the complexities of politics that seem to muddy all waters of common sense, are sending help in whatever form they can.  The rest of us, feeling powerless and heartbroken, don’t have a clear vision for how we might help. We can’t provide food or shelter or refuge.  I’ve heard about a local store, Calgary’s European Deli and Produce Market, who are donating half of their Saturday sales to the relief effort.  I don’t really need anything from this store, but you can be sure I’ll be stopping by to donate money.

You gotta help people.

As the crisis in Ukraine unfolds, most of us will continue our lives with the most minimal disruption.  And yet, around us, in our neighbourhoods, in our families, in our friends’ lives, in our workplaces, and at our dance studios, people will continue to face their own challenges.  May we not spend too much time pondering what we might do, and rather simply put ourselves into some kind of action.  After all, as Papa taught his girls, and as my father modeled for us,

You gotta help people.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Who needs my help?’
​
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 helping others helps us all.
 
 

My sewing machine has been calling out to me lately.  First ever so softly I could still walk past it without being drawn in, but still, I could hear it whispering to me.  Then, as my mind is want to do, I started thinking about the design I’m hoping create.  Suddenly, I didn’t want to be able to hear my machine calling my name. 

I like many kinds of quilting, but the ones that bring me most satisfaction are the ones I create on my own.  The trouble is, I still don’t have great confidence in the ‘creating’ part.  All my life, having been labeled practical, responsible, mature, and reliable, I’ve found myself living into these qualities.  I happen to like them, they’ve served me well, and no one I’ve worked with has ever complained about my lack of focus!  At the same time, they don’t exactly pave the way for noticing my creativity, whimsy, artistry, imagination, and invention. 

Needless to say, at this, the design stage of the quilting process, I have this internal struggle with allowing these other attributes of mine to rise to the surface.  The problem is, while I want to be creative, I also love to finish things.  I love being efficient.  I love to get things done.  This week, I finally put pencil to paper.  I have an old photograph I want to use as the anchor for this piece.  I’ll alter it a bit and then build the quilt around it.  Since it’s a surprise for someone, I’ll save the reveal for later.

Did I mention I have no background in art or design?  In my family, art was an excess.   It was thought to be sort of frivolous.  And yet, while it was never overtly praised or given great attention, thinking back we were exposed to many small snippets of beautiful art forms, and we were exposed to people, some close relatives, who made art a great part of their life.  So, it’s not really a surprise that while I have this push pull effect, the older I get, the braver I become at accepting the pull. 

One thing I notice as I design, is I might not know exactly why something doesn’t work, but my brain certainly recognizes when a thing is not right.  It turns out, our brains are wired for efficiency, not quality.  In other words, our brains want things to be easy.  When our eye sees something, if our brain has to scramble around trying to make sense of it, we easily turn away or lose interest.  This is why fashion models are chosen for their symmetry.  Our eyes, and our brains, relax and feel pleasure when viewing them.  If faces are complex, or asymmetrical, our brains are set in motion.  This is far less relaxing and so we perceive them to be less appealing.

My creative process has always been to do a lot of thinking as I prepare.  This is true whether I am creating a new workshop, or planning a special meal, or purchasing a gift, or designing a quilt.  I always follow a similar pattern.  I spend time researching.  I think for a while, often days.  Then I go back to the research and refine it.  Then more thinking.  Finally, I put pen to paper, followed by standing back to see my design, followed by editing until my mind feels relaxed. Once I have this feeling, I easily move forward toward the execution.  Alas, this does not always fit comfortably with my value of efficiency.

I imagine the reason I’m being drawn to quilting right now is because I’m in the middle of creating a new workshop.  When I step away from creating at my computer, I let the thoughts of the workshop pieces wiggle themselves into place as I put the energy of my mind into creating the design of the quilt.  It may not be that efficient, but I hope to produce quality projects on both fronts.

While it’s good to recognize that quilts need to ‘look right’ for admirers to stop and really enjoy them, we should not use this as a template for all the bits of our lives.  It is true that our brains prefer, and choose, efficiency over quality.  In no way does this mean we should allow them to always choose efficiency.  Efficiency often means familiar.  It means we can get where we are going quickly.  It means following a habitual path leading us absolutely, nowhere new. 

Efficiency is great when we are making a bed.  Or writing a weekly report.  Or driving to our local grocery store.  But it is dangerous when this is the tool we use for thinking.  Efficient thinking means we choose not to challenge our thoughts, and beliefs.  And being efficient is almost always the wrong tool to grab when we want to live an interesting life.  My brother and I laugh at ourselves regularly when we head out on an adventure.  We usually know our starting and finishing point, and we both feel wonderful about getting from A to B most efficiently.  Over the years, we’ve learned to put a circuit breaker in our planning.  We’ve even efficiently planned to be inefficient by choosing to stop ‘x’ times along the way for pictures.  Or for saying, with big grins on our faces as we recognize our tendency for efficiency, ‘Let’s get this thing done!’

I want to be efficient as I create this quilt.  I don’t want to waste fabric.  If I happen to have some leftover fabric from another project that could fit, I’d like to use it.  But what a shame it would be, if having sewn the last stitch, I looked down to see that in my efficiency, I had created the identical thing I have created before.

And what a shame it will be, if we let ten more days, or weeks, or months, or years, go by and we look back to see we have run the same circuit over and over again, seeing the same sights, and patting ourselves on our backs for our efficiency, for ‘Getting this thing done.’

May your upcoming week be filled with the joys of inefficiencies!

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What inefficiency could improve this?’
​
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 embrace inefficiency.

This is a special weekend.  It’s the 25th Annual Great Backyard Bird Count.  Yup.  You heard it here first.  It started on Friday and ends at midnight Monday.  The idea is to take a chunk of time each day, fifteen minutes or more is required, and record as many different species of birds as you see.  The whole event is designed to get people out into nature, noticing birds and appreciating their uniqueness and their contributions to our ecosystem. 

My challenge is, while I do love to see beautiful birds in the wild, I’m not the best bird identifier.  I appreciate birds, but I’m not passionate about them.   Jim on the other hand is as proud as a gold medal winner at the Olympics after spotting the rare, but lovely, Canvasback duck in our local park.

Nevertheless, my plan was to suggest we join in on the bird count event this weekend, partaking in something Jim would love, and trying to hold my weight in the recognizing department.  As I thought about this weekend and the planned event, I found myself hard pressed to figure out where we might go.  After all, if we are going to do this, we might as well try to be as successful as we can.  I know there is the gorgeous Inglewood Bird Sanctuary in the city, and of course I’ve seen several pretty birds on hikes I’ve done.  I realized as I strained my brain to think of a good place, the reason I was struggling is because often when I am out walking or hiking or camping, I don’t really spend a lot of time thinking about birds.  I hear them in the spring and rejoice in the fact that their songs herald the end of the coldest days.  I can recognize the song of the Black Capped Chickadee and notice the beauty of the Red Winged Blackbird, but I freely admit, aside from the most common of our aviary friends, under pressure I don’t think I could separate a Northern Flicker from a Gila Woodpecker.

Jim on the other hand, recognizes birds not only by their look, but by their song.  When we are walking along, he’ll often stop and ask,

‘Did you hear that?  It’s a ……’ 

‘Where?’, I respond. 

‘I can’t see it yet, but I hear it’s song.’

In the way I recognize the first few bars of a James Taylor ballad with great accuracy, Jim does the same with birdsong.
I’ve been trying to make the most of my recognizing skills lately.  Not so much to identify bird or James Taylor songs, but simply to recognize moments of possibility that arise in my days.  Jim’s brother, John, is celebrating a significant birthday this weekend, and Jim and I were talking about how quickly time passes us by.  We breeze through life assuming we have all the time in the world.  The windows of opportunity appear wide open.  Then we blink and open our eyes only to see those wide-open windows closing.  We wonder if we, in our complacency, forgot to recognize opportunities that might have enriched our lives.  We also recognize that sometimes we did recognize the opportunities but didn’t seize them.

Each day, we have the chance to recognize opportunities.  Some days, rare days, these are big opportunities, kind of like spotting a Greater Sage-Grouse, the rarest nesting bird in Alberta.  These opportunities, because they are so unique, are easy to spot but not always easy to act upon.  We can easily allow fear, or bad timing, or all sorts of internal dialogue to prevent us from seizing these moments.  But every single day, we have smaller, regular, Black-Capped Chickadee moments.  They are almost always sitting, just waiting for us to notice their understated beauty and their familiar song.  When we slow down and notice them, we give ourselves the chance to seize the moment they offer.  In the case of birdwatching, the moment is simply in the observation, in the recognizing and in the gratitude.  In life, the moments come in so many forms, we should set aside a weekend, perhaps the Annual Great Regular Life Opportunity Count, just to notice them all.

On Wednesday, Ben spent the day here.  Late in the afternoon, he decided to take a ride on his motorcycle.  It’s a plastic yellow, not particularly fancy, little vehicle.  Using his imagination, he explained to me that his motorcycle, a 1968 model he said, was getting old and he was going to get a new one at the motorcycle store.  He offered to sell me the 1968 model, which of course I was delighted to get, and he went off to buy a new one.  Once the purchase was made (in the dining room) he asked if I’d like to go for a ride.  Having spent some time thinking about recognizing opportunities, I didn’t need to be asked twice.  I got out two Tupperware bowls to use as helmets and off we went.  The whole event lasted only about fifteen minutes in real time.  I suspect it will have a much longer memory life.

We’ve been trying to spot a Snowy Owl for a couple of months.  We’ve been skunked on three driving trips on the prairie to see one.  It’s possible this could be our lucky weekend.  If not, I hope we’re smart enough to recognize and seize the other opportunities we stumble across on our adventure.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is the opportunity?’
​
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 notice and seize everyday opportunities.

I’ve been able to watch some of the Olympic Games this week.  This is always such a treat for me.  I absolutely love to see these athletes, at their peak of fitness, representing their countries, competing in a sport they love.  I love to hear their back stories, sometimes about obstacles they have had to overcome and to hear about their methods for doing so.  Secretly, I dream there is still hope for me.  Hope I’ll become my best.

As with everyone, I love some sports more than others.  I do, however, try to appreciate all of them.  I kind of long for the days when one or the other major television stations carried the exclusive coverage.  We knew we just had to turn on the television and we’d see everything there was to see.  These days there are many stations carrying the games and it’s a bit of an Olympian feat of its own to figure out where to go to watch.  So far, I’m not medalling in this! The downside of so many channels is that in choosing, it’s easy to skip past unfamiliar sports, never broadening our interest or knowledge.

The other evening, I watched the Women’s Halfpipe.  This isn’t a sport I am familiar with, it’s not a sport I dream of doing, nor is it a sport that when I watch it, I think, ‘Oh, I could do that!’.  This one must take veins of ice.  These young women stand at the top, on their snowboards, slightly to the side of the pipe and then up and over the edge they go.  This is the part I could never get past.  The part when they stand on that edge, unsatisfied, and somehow ready.

A couple of weeks ago I was looking for a document.  I thought it might be in my cedar chest so I dared to open it, knowing it always produces treasures I haven’t thought about for a long time and knowing this might not be a short ‘look’.  This time did not disappoint.  I didn’t find what I was looking for, instead I found something I didn’t even know existed. 

I found a hand-written yearbook from my Grade 8 year.  This was a graduation year for me since in Ontario, high school started in grade nine.  I didn’t attend this celebration since my family was making an early start on our drive to the East Coast to see our cousins. Luckily for me, someone noticed I was absent, got a copy of our yearbook and mailed it to me.  I don’t remember ever seeing it at that time and I have never given it a moments’ thought since then. 

This yearbook was published long before there were photocopiers in schools, and long before there was a way to economically include photos.  The entire book, all 30 plus pages were hand-written.  Hand-written!  They were run off on a gestetner machine (the ones with the barrel, the blue ink from the carbon paper and the crank handle) and stapled together by hand. Of course, it was packed full of memories, of names of classmates I’ve almost, but not quite, forgotten, and of pages that take me right back in time.  Back a half of a century.

The very first page of the book was a message to us, the graduating class, from our principal, Sister Conception.  Yes, you can read that again.  Our principal was a nun, and her name really was Sister Conception.  At that time, I assumed she was a well-aged teacher.  It turns out she would have been in her mid-thirties at the time I graduated.  Her message stunned me.

I don’t know quite what I was expecting.  Perhaps something religious.  Perhaps something reflective of the times.  Perhaps something that had outdated itself. It was none of these.

Sister Conception’s message was so stunning because it was so forward thinking.  It would be forward thinking today, in 2022.  She wished for us, she called it a strange wish, that we would always ‘stand on the edge, unsatisfied’.  She wrote, ‘I hope you will continue to educate yourselves, to search for meaning in human history, to go one step beyond fascination and creativity, to succeed where all the odds are against you.’  She said, ‘You are the most human when you are standing on the edge, unsatisfied.’

I tucked my handwritten yearbook back into its old brown envelope and returned it to the cedar chest, but not before making a copy of Sister Conceptions one page address.  I’ve put it in plain sight in my office. 

We take for granted that our Canadian athletes are prepared to do their best.  But becoming ones best is not easy.  It sounds so simple.  Just do your best, a parent might say to a child as they are trying out for a team or heading into an exam.  Just do your best, we Canadians might say to our athletes, assuming they have put in the hard work, and now they simply must write the final sentence of their Olympic journey.   But this idea of becoming our best, not just doing our best, intrigues me.  It forces me to recognize that there is never going to be a moment when I can say, ‘There, I am my best.’  It encourages me to grant grace to myself and to others, for if we challenge ourselves to ‘stand on the edge, unsatisfied’ it indicates we acknowledge we are putting ourselves on the path to ‘best’, all the while knowing it is not a destination where our life train will ever stop.

There are so many lessons we can take from Olympians.  This week, I wish they could hear the words of Sister Conception.  I wish they could know we see them, standing on the edge, unsatisfied, and know that we have deep admiration for their courage and daring to stand there.  Perhaps this is the very reason they resonate with us.  Perhaps Sister Conception was exactly right when she said we are most human when we stand on the edge, unsatisfied.  Perhaps this is what allows us to relate to these Olympians even though most of us will never become one.  Each of us though, can stand on an edge in our own life and dare to become.  To become more, to become something we are not quite, to become closer to what we secretly dream.  To understand that it is okay to not have arrived, and even when we think we have arrived, to celebrate with great joy, and then notice the next edge awaiting us.

Go Canada Go!

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘On what edge are you standing, unsatisfied?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations and for conducting leadership reviews. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to stand on the edge, unsatisfied.
 
 
 

I’m weary this week. Not tired, not needing sleep, not worn out, just weary.  This will not be a news flash to any living person.  From what I can tell, we are all weary.  When I feel this way, it helps me tremendously to find little things to celebrate or to think about.  Once I remember to look, I usually notice little things everywhere.

Last week, the weather warmed up for a couple of days and one of those warm days happened to be when Ben was here, so he and I decided to head out to see Shirley.  Our friend, Shirley is a retired teacher.  She and I taught together for my whole career. She lives on a beautiful farm not far from where our children grew up.  I’ve been taking Ben to visit Shirley since he was able to walk.  With his fascination of all things with wheels, her farm is a perfect place to explore.  Although Shirley doesn’t farm the land herself anymore, she has a wonderful team who rents it and keeps it operating.  There is always something exciting to see when we go. 

Each time we wander out to the workshop to ‘see the guys’, we walk up the lane, past the few cows and a couple of barns.  Shirley pointed out the little modification the guys made in the fence that lines the drive.  Where there once was a corner, there is now a diagonal piece of fencing.  It doesn’t sound like much of a change.  I might not have noticed it right away if it hadn’t been pointed out to me.  But this little change opened up the corner dramatically and has made it so much easier for big rig trucks and huge farm equipment to navigate as they enter the busy farmyard.  Shirley is thrilled with this change.  For years and years (and years), this corner was a tough one to manage. With some ingenuity on the part of the ‘guys’ it has taken the stress out of maneuvering around. 

While the actual physical fence is lovely and very well built, what has impressed me even more is Shirley’s appreciation of it.  This is one of those things that could so easily be looked at once, admired and then simply incorporated into the daily landscape.  Shirley has not allowed this to happen.  She understands its value, acknowledges, and admires it each time she passes by.  She has taken a little thing, stopped long enough to really see it, and has chosen to appreciate it every single day.

Oh, such a little thing.

Last month we celebrated Ben’s birthday via Zoom.  We had planned for a little outdoor skating party but a stomach bug the day before the big event caused a re-plan and we ended up on Zoom.  Incredibly, this was exactly what Ben wanted.  I have to remember that last year Ben had his party on Zoom, and he isn’t old enough to have experienced any other kind of party.  It makes sense this is a good memory for him, and he would want to repeat it.  The wonderful thing is we were able to have some people there who could never have been there for the in-person skating party: his Grammie and Grampy, his great Grandma and his great Aunt and Uncle.  Great Grandma, Jim’s mom, who is 92, shone a light on the importance of little things that day.  As we sat in front of our screens enjoying Ben’s joy as he opened Lego sets and other wheeled objects he’d been eyeing, Great Grandma said, ‘I just can’t believe I can do this.  I never would have believed we could all be together for this.  And able to see each other.  It’s miraculous.’ 

I’ll admit, it took me a moment to really process what she said.  After all, I, like so many others have been Zoomed and Zoomed and Zoomed.  We’re weary.  It’s not ideal.  And yet, through her eyes, it somehow revealed its magic.  The ‘party’, the forty-minute party, which once felt like second best, suddenly became a gift to all of us.  We were lucky to have paused long enough to have her remind us of this wonder we have come to take for granted.

Oh, such a little thing.

Our little Andy, now learning to really crawl, has, in the last couple of weeks spent hours mastering the stairs.  Up only.  He has worked hard at this and is thrilled with himself.  He’s also increasing the number of sounds he can make.  For now, his favourite one is saying, ‘Oooohhhh’, when we point out something to him.  He molds his mouth into a perfect oval and really creates a dramatic effect.  We of course, all turn our mouths into ovals and ‘Oooohhhh’ right back at him.  I was delighting in these little exchanges, and also at myself for taking time to really appreciate such small moments when Ben shared his interpretation of the ‘Oooohhh’ with me.  As Ben and I were getting ready to drive to his house after our day together this week, he told me Andy likes to say, ‘Oooohhh’.  I can’t remember exactly what I said, but I do know exactly what Ben said next.  He said, ‘When Andy is saying Oooohhh, I think he is really saying ‘I love you, Ben’.
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Oooohhh, such a little thing.

As we slog through these last weeks of winter, which in Alberta could turn into months, and through the final weeks of this fifth wave of Covid, may we each take time to notice the little things.  The ones that can, if we only stop to witness them in their true beauty, make us purse our mouths in just the most precious way and exclaim, ‘Oooohhhh!’  They change everything.

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