Isn’t it amazing what can topple us over the edge?  If you read my blog last week, you’ll already know that mid-week we had a mild crisis when our son, Greg had a bike crash.  I’ve had a few things to deal with this year.  Each on their own seems like a ‘normal’ part of the ups and downs life offers us; a stubborn broken foot, a sibling moving away, dear friends with health issues, and most recently, Greg’s crash.  You know the sort – we all have these.  I was bumbling along, minding my own business, thinking I was handling everything just fine, when the final straw landed.  I was headed out the back door on my way to a dance practice, when I jammed my finger in our heavy back door.  And that was that.

‘This is too much’, I said to Jim, tears streaming as I squeezed my finger tightly hoping against hope if I held it hard enough, it would magically heal. 

In fairness to myself, I REALLY jammed it.  The kind of jamming that made me afraid to look at it for fear the end was not fully intact.  Ten minutes later (I really did not have time for this😊), after running it under water, trying to stop the bleeding, and making the assessment that it was, in fact, both intact and not crushed, Jim gathered some first aid supplies and got to work.  He tightly bandaged it and I was relieved to realize that if I left home right then, I would still be on time for dance.  Even I had to snicker at myself as I drove up the Deerfoot Trail, one of Calgary’s major thoroughfares, trying to be on time, with my tightly bandaged, still bleeding, throbbing middle finger held high above my head.  I was aware of the pulsing in my hand and grateful for the Band-Aids that were keeping it stable.

It’s astounding how a tiny bit of support on the outside, a Band Aid, can hold the body together until it figures out what it needs to do to take care of itself.

This idea of support has shown up in my life too many times this week for it to go unnoticed. 

In the case of my poor middle finger, several simple real-life band aids did the trick. 

In the case of Greg and his shattered collarbone, the surgeon applied a rather rigid ‘Band Aid’ in the form of a titanium plate; a support to hold the pieces of bone in place until the body is able to fully mend them together.

In the context of my work as a coach, I use supports all the time.  Holding the belief that each of us is creative, resourceful and whole, I understand that we don’t need to be fixed.  Yet sometimes we need others to hold a vision of ourselves for us that we are not yet able to hold for ourselves.  We need Band Aids.  Other times we notice ways we can uplift or support others in our lives.  In these cases, we become the Band Aids; we provide the support.

The idea of support also arrived in the form of a couple of wonderful emails from my friend, Mark, this week.  I’ve known Mark for about thirty years.  First as a student, then as an observer as he went off to make his claim on the world, and now as a treasured friend.  Mark reads my blog and as he was doing some ‘spring cleaning’ of his inbox, he came across a piece I wrote last year, Amazing Grace. In this blog, I describe my habit of acknowledging other runners and cyclists while I’m out doing my own training.  Mark mentioned that it should have come with a warning – after reading it he went out for a run in Toronto and astounded more than one Torontonian as he waved and called out cheerful greetings!  At any rate, this blog arrived at just the right moment for him.  In his email he described the place he is at in his life.  He’s at an edge, a place where he is ready to take some new steps.  He has consciously removed some negative things from his life and recognizes that he wants to put some deliberate, positive structures in place.  He said, ‘I feel very blessed to have the family and friends that I do. I've leaned heavy on some people over the last number of years and I'm looking forward to doing more of the giving and less of the receiving in the coming months and years.’  Mark has been taking Band Aids out of the box and now he is hoping to replenish the supply.

My final Band Aid moment arrived on Thursday when I took my bike out for a quick ride in our local Provincial Park.  As I was climbing one of my training hills, I noticed a woman running up it.  I had seen her about thirty minutes earlier.  She looked to be training for a long-distance race.  If I had to make a guess, I would say she was in her very late 70’s or early 80’s.  I was astounded.  As I passed by her on my bike I called out, ‘Way to go!  You look fantastic!’  And she replied, ‘Thanks, I don’t feel it.’  Upon reaching the top of the hill I turned around to come down so I could do it all again and I saw her just about at the summit.  Again, as I passed her, I called out, ‘You’re almost there.  Well done!’  And she replied, ‘Thanks!  Now I just have to do it three more times!’

It’s lucky I was headed downhill; had I been climbing I think I might have stopped dead in my tracks.  Being a runner, I know all too well how far a little bit of encouragement can go and when I called out to her, just doing my normal thing, I hoped I was providing her with a bit of support.  Throwing her a Band Aid.  It turned out that she ended up being a Band Aid for me.  I thought of her all day long, I’m still thinking about her.  What an inspiration!  She reminded me to keep at it, and to remember I’ve got enough in me for at least three more hills!

Support comes in countless forms.  It comes in the form of a mother-in-law driving to rescue her daughters’ husband after his bike crash. 

It comes in the form of kind ears, understanding the power of listening.

It comes in the form of updates from Cara from the hospital.

It comes in the form of tool belts and hammers, of baking and flowers.  It comes dressed as phone calls and emails and smiles. 

It comes in the form of a skilled surgeon.

And as praying hands.

Each of us has the capacity to be a Band Aid.  To offer support to friends and not-yet-friends.  And to perfect strangers running uphill.

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

Update:  Greg had a successful surgery on Wednesday.  The day was very long.  He was finally home at about 9:45 in the evening.  He has a plate running the full length of his collarbone.  He’s immobile for now, has plenty of pain and good pain meds.  He’s got a long recovery ahead but the outcome is expected to be a very good one.  Thank you for all of the thoughts, well wishes and prayers.

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to choose the perfect size of Band Aid.

I had one of those moments this week.  The one where the phone rings before six in the morning.  Jim and I have had a few of those in our life, and most often, a ringing phone at that time of the morning does not bring good news.  Jim answered, got the basics, and quickly handed the phone over to me.  It was our son Greg.  Greg lives in Ontario, with his wife, Cara.  When he gets a few minutes away from the research he is doing for his PhD, he loves to compete in adventure races.  These consist of multi-hour, often multi-day challenges where teams complete canoeing, mountain biking and running portions of grueling courses, made all the more difficult by having to navigate the course by compass.

Two weekends ago, Greg and his racing partner, Chad, competed and won the difficult Storm the Trent adventure race.  Chad called Greg earlier this week to let him know he had managed to secure them a spot in another race coming up in two weeks.  So, when Greg woke up to a nice day on Wednesday morning, he thought he should get in a ‘quick training ride’ on his mountain bike.  Cara was away at a conference, so Greg set his Garmin watch so she, Jim, and I could ‘view his live activity’.  We decided this would be a good idea a couple of years ago realizing that sometimes when he goes out training, he is gone for hours, sometimes to remote locations and it only made sense for us to be able to see where he was and if he was still moving!

Of course, on Wednesday, I hadn’t yet roused myself to check his live feed.  Having been on a long ride myself the day before I had been treating myself to a sleep in; my alarm wasn’t set to go off until 6:30.

The fog in my brain disappeared instantly as Greg’s not-so-normal voice said, ‘I’ve had a crash on my bike.  I’m sure I’ve broken my collarbone’.

Mountain bike crashes rarely happen in convenient locations.  By the time we were talking, Greg had already navigated locating the bike he’d been hurled from, got to a stand, sat back down to avoid passing out, figured out a plan, walked himself and his bent bike out of the forest to the nearest highway, called his in-laws and was sitting by the side of the road trying to manage the shock and pain while he waited.  Calling us was part of what he knew he needed to occupy his mind while the time ticked away.

I kept up a conversation with him for about 30 minutes at which point a thoughtful motorist, a teacher, stopped and stayed the final twenty or so minutes with him as Sharon, his mother-in-law, made the, what likely seemed much longer but in fact was, the 50ish minute,  drive to get to him. 

These moments, these heart-stopping, breath-stealing moments find each of us sometime in our lives.

As Greg was taken to the hospital, and I awaited the next bit of news I thought about moments in my life.  Moments of crisis, surprise or acknowledgement are easy to pinpoint.  I could find some of these in my memory bank.  But I tried to recall other moments; the moment when I had finally felt confident on my bike, or the moment when I knew I had the skills to be an effective facilitator, or the moment I became the mother I wanted to be.  I could remember none of these.   Because, of course, these never were moments.  They were bits of life, on a continuum evasive to pin down.

I was thinking about how Greg handled his situation on Wednesday morning.  The crash, clearly, was a moment.  But the way he handled it did not magically form in one moment.  He was able to navigate the crisis because of the little steps he has put in place throughout his life. Greg doesn’t panic when his plans have a small wrench thrown in them.  He doesn’t get mad when things don’t turn out how he expects.  He isn’t angry when other people or things do not meet his expectations.  When he finds himself at the airport facing a long delay or a cancelled flight, he simply figures out his best course of action.  By practicing dealing with unexpected circumstances with integrity and in a way he is proud of, he has built the muscles he can call upon in real moments of crises.

We don’t wake up and suddenly become something in a moment.  I didn’t become confident on my bike at one particular moment.  I built confidence ride over ride.   I didn’t have a baby placed in my arms and suddenly become the mother I wanted to be.  I built the skills day after day, month after month.  Titles, like president, or mother, or team leader, might arrive in a moment, but the being of a mother, or a president, or a leader is built step by step, decision after decision, day upon day.  Overnight music stars, it turns out, are not so overnight after all.

Neither are most of the things we become.

I’ve come to the conclusion we do not control our moments.  What we do control is every step leading up to them, and our behaviour after them.  If we sit and wait for just the right moment to become who we hope to be or to have an opportunity to do exactly what we’d dreamed of, the truth is the moment may pass so quickly we cannot grab hold of it.  I’m guessing these moments fly by in about the same amount of time it took for Greg to fly over his handlebars in the forest.

Greg had no way of knowing one of his moments would arrive at 5:30am on Wednesday morning.  And yet, he had spent his whole life gathering and honing the skills it would take him to navigate such a moment.

Each of us has moments, good, bad, demanding, and celebratory, coming our way.  We cannot possibly see them coming.  Our challenge is to set ourselves up, by miniature steps of practice, to be fully prepared to seize the moment when it catches the front wheel of our bike.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What will most help me prepare for my moment?’

Afterward:  Greg is scheduled for surgery this coming Wednesday.  The collarbone, currently in three or four pieces will be put back together and held in place by a large plate extending the full length of the bone.  He is expected to make a full recovery and be back doing all the things he loves by the end of summer.  I am so grateful that his surgeon is ready for this moment.
​
Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to prepare for your moments.
 

This was a whirlwind of a week.  I knew going into it that not only was my schedule one that really didn’t factor in any unexpected challenges, but also that each of my commitments were the kind that required my full attention.  I couldn’t exactly breeze through any of them mindlessly.

I started with a video interview on Monday morning, and filled the week with coaching, a new workshop proposal, a bike training ride, a photo shoot for a new head shot for my website, an AGM for our charity, Building Hope Society, a meeting of the Stuff Happens group, three dance practices, a new workshop to prepare, and of course my day with Ben.  There isn’t any let up this weekend either.  Jim is on the board at the Leighton Art Centre and we’ll attend their Sunset Soiree Friday night, followed by my first dance performance of the season early Saturday morning in the Black Diamond parade, and then head to High River to join in the Rotary Club’s incredible lobster dinner.  I’ll round the weekend out with a long training ride on Sunday.

I don’t mind weeks like this one.  I like the variety and I like the challenge of trying to be present for each activity rather than just surviving it, although I found myself looking at my calendar last Sunday night, feeling a bit overwhelmed and thinking to myself, ‘This too shall pass’. 

I’ve often had this expression flit in and out of my head.  Sometimes when I have a stressful situation to navigate, I remind myself that nothing lasts forever and that before long this will be a memory.  Time has a way of marching forward, not really caring one way or the other whether our minutes are filled with challenging or easy situations.  Sometimes I even say to myself, ‘In six hours (or whatever time works), this will be over’.  When I’ve been away from home working on a project, or even last summer after I broke my foot while in Scotland, my memory was jogged with the childhood expression of, ‘Only three more sleeps’.  It’s a way to remind me that one way or the other, I’ll get to the other side.  We all have these moments.  Moments that may not be our favourite or that simply cause us some stress and knowing that ‘This too shall pass’ helps us through.

As I lay awake in bed Monday night, thinking about my early morning photo shoot with the wonderful and talented Ruth Skiffington, I got caught in the ridiculous cycle of thinking that goes something like this: ‘If I don’t get to sleep, I’m going to be exhausted in the morning.  And then my already tired eyes are going to look really tired.  If I get to sleep right now, I can still get five hours.  Maybe Ruth can use her magic editing skills.  I can still get four hours.  I’ve survived lots of days on four hours.’  And then finally peace, ‘Hey, this too shall pass.  Tomorrow will come and go.  And this really does not matter in the big scheme of things.’

I don’t hate getting my picture taken and our photo shoot, taken on a morning when nature was in full cooperation, was a great experience.  It’s looking at the pictures afterward that freaks me out.  I’m not exactly sure why this is.  I may be wrestling with some old teachings about not drawing too much attention to myself, which is hard to do when there are only two of us present and I’m not the one with the camera! If I’m perfectly honest, I suppose the fantasy I have in my mind doesn’t always match the girl in the photo.  When I was telling my sister Mary about this, she could relate, as can, I assume, plenty of people.  Mary brilliantly said, ‘I can assure you this, in twenty years you are going to LOVE these photos.’  Oh boy, did she ever hit that one on the head and I thought to myself, oh no, she’s right.  Not only about the photos, but about life.

This too, shall pass.

I’ve always used this expression to call attention to the idea that bad or uncomfortable things can be handled because they will eventually pass us by.  But this week, since Mary made her comment, I’ve mentally paused many, many times during small, unremarkable but wonderful moments to remind myself that this too, shall pass.  When I was hurrying home from a physio appointment to get back in time for our Stuff Happens meeting (this is a little group who helps provide food for some students who are struggling), I reminded myself to relax and enjoy, for this too shall pass.  I love being with these other like-minded women.  They mean so much more to me than simply group members.  They are my friends.  I don’t want this time with them to pass. 

When Rhonda and I were out biking on a training ride, my foot was tiring and really ‘talking’ to me by the end. I was willing myself back to where we had parked our cars.  Then I remembered, this too shall pass.  I am not looking forward to the day when I cannot go for a long ride with my friend, nor am I looking forward to the day when I no longer have the confidence to train for a race or for the Ride to Conquer Cancer (donate here).  I don’t want it to, but this too, shall pass.

I thought about the video interview I had Monday morning.  I prepared well for this.  This group, the Women’s Rural Resource Centre, provides shelter and resources for women in crisis.  I love the fierceness of the people who make up this group.  I love their passion and commitment for advocacy.  I am so proud to be able to work with them.  Of course, it is stressful to prepare the proposal and later to create the ideal workshop experience for them.  But I remind myself, I really don’t want it to but this too, shall pass.

I hosted book club at my house on Thursday night.  Everyone in our group leads busy lives.  Several of us came to the meeting very tired.  At 10:30 when we were sitting around the dining room table and laughing until we cried, someone mentioned they needed to get home or they would not be able to get up for work the next day.  In my head I instantly thought, oh that too will pass, meaning that tomorrow would come and go.  And then I realized that right now, this crazy laughing at my table, this too shall pass.  And I don’t want it to.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is passing right now?’

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to make the most of what passes through your life.

Last week was a special one for little Benjamin.  His Grammie arrived from Nova Scotia for a week long visit.  I am the local grandma, and I am lucky to have lots of visits with this little precious grandson of ours.  I was thrilled that his other Grammie got to share in the joy last week.   I was invited to have dinner with Benjamin’s family and his Grammie on Sunday evening.  Before supper, she and I sat on the back deck and watched little Ben as he maneuvered in and out of his pint-sized lawn chair, moved his precious stones out of the empty planter, on to the deck and then back to the planter.  Once he tired of that he struck off across the lawn to a small tree.  He went to the far side of it and discovered that if he stood directly behind it, then moved his head to the side, we would disappear from his sight for a second as his eyes passed by the tree trunk.  When he ‘came into view’ again, we would say, ‘Peek – a – boo!’.  He thought this was utterly wonderful!

Ben had no idea we could see him the whole time, and of course it did not matter.  He was thrilled at being able to go out of sight, but he was even more thrilled at being seen again. 

It isn’t only one-year-olds who appreciate being seen.

The day before the grandmother reunion, I stopped into a local bike shop where I had had some work done on my bike.  I had the chain and rear cassette replaced in the late winter as I had been cautioned that it was at 100% use.  After it was replaced, the bike mechanic told me it was possible it would need some fine tuning, and that I’d need to take it out for a couple of rides to see if it was grinding or slipping when changing gears. 

After taking it on the road a couple of times, there was clearly a clunking sound, so I took it back in for a quick adjustment.  Again, the same advice was given to me; it might need another adjustment once I had ridden it a few times.  Sure enough, after two fairly respectable rides of 50 and 60km, most of the grinding was gone, except for some rubbing when I went into my bottom three or four gears on the rear cassette.  So back I went.

When I went to pick up the bike, I met a new mechanic.  He had not made any adjustment yet and asked what I had heard when I was biking.  I told him.  He invited me back to see my bike, and mentioned he wanted to show me something.  I’m not an expert on fixing bikes so I was pleased to think I would learn something new. 

Not so fast.

He began by slowly and carefully explaining how the front derailleur works (I have to admit, I did not know how to spell derailleur, but I sure did know how it worked.)  Then he continued to use his slow and careful tone in asking me what I thought it meant to shift into low gear.  I’m sure my face was not as neutral as I was trying to make it.   In truth, I was insulted, frustrated and plain old mad.  I have ridden this bike for thousands of kilometres.  It’s true, I have never been in the Tour de France, but I think I’m a decent cyclist.  And, I do know what it means to shift into a low gear.  Imagine. I’ve found my low gears really helpful when I’m climbing mountains.  And yes, I’m a middle-aged woman.  Clearly, one who he thought needed things explained very slowly and clearly.  

It isn’t only one-year-olds who appreciate being seen.

The day after the day after the bike incident, I was talking on the phone with Ruth, the photographer who has agreed to do a professional photo shoot for me.   I’d like to update my website and I’ve never had professional photos done for my business.  I was worried about the shoot.  I was feeling reluctant, afraid, self-conscious, and a bit shy.  Ruth had asked me to think about some words or qualities I would like most see portrayed in my images.  Ruth explained that she had been taught that if you don’t ‘know it’, you won’t ‘see it’.  I had been mulling over what I might say to Ruth when we chatted.  I told her that often when I see a picture of myself, I don’t think it accurately portrays what I thought I was portraying.  I said that my smile often looks like I’m holding a little something back.  Ruth said she had noticed this, and she had noticed that sometimes it looks like there is almost a hint of a question in my smile.  As soon as she said this, I felt a huge relief.

It isn’t only one-year-olds who appreciate being seen.

Ruth had been able to see me.  She understood what I have on the inside of me that I want to have seen on the outside.  I am at a place in my life where I don’t want to hold back, or feel that I need to.  I don’t want to have to question my abilities or my worth.  Ruth saw this.

Seeing someone is one of the most wonderful gifts we can give them.  Each of us wants to be seen, really seen, for what we believe we are.  It is such a feeling of home when someone ‘gets’ us.  When they see qualities in us that are important to us.  When they see past the generalizations and stereotypes that are also clearly available for easy viewing.  It may not be overstating it to say that until we believe we are seen, we can never truly step into our most confident, authentic selves.

On Saturday, when I was sitting with little Ben’s Grammie, we were both able to easily see Ben.  He, of course, is not yet at an age when he has learned to hold any pieces of himself back.  I hope we will always be two people in his life who see him.  Not just see that he is a toddler or a teenager, but really see the qualities inside him that let him know we know him, we believe in him and we are there to support him.

When April (Grammie) and I hugged goodbye, she whispered in my ear, “They’re doing such a great job, aren’t they?”  “They sure are”, I replied, both of us with tears in our eyes.   She clearly knows how to see.
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My inquiry for you this week is, “What needs to be seen?”

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to sharpen your tool of seeing others.
 

Jim and I were as enthralled as the rest of Canada with the winning game seven of the Toronto Raptors last weekend.  The final shot was breath-stealing!  Later that evening, the CBC National news showed an interview conducted by Rosemary Barton with the President of the NBA, Adam Silver.  In it, she broached the topic of politics and sport, specifically noting that the NBA, as an organization, has avoided prescribing what its athletes can say and what political topics the players can voice opinions about.  This is in stark contrast to other organizations, the NFL for instance, which has taken a fairly firm stance on players like Colin Kaepernick who chose to bring the Black Lives Matter movement into the spotlight when he ‘took a knee’ during the playing of the American National Anthem.

The entire interview was interesting, partly because Adam Silver very rarely gives public interviews, but mostly because he seems like such a very smart person; one who is grounded in common sense.   The thing that stood out for me was his description of the philosophy of the NBA around these issues.  He explained that the NBA organization has a set of clear values they operate by.  They include things like tolerance, inclusion and respect.

Only three months into his term, he banned the LA Clippers owner, Donald Stirling, from the league for life because of racist comments he made.  This swift, clear, firm action by Silver set the tone.  Clearly, the values the league ascribed to, were in fact going to be the values the league lived by.

This spoke to me.  It aligns perfectly with one of the most basic teachings in coaching; that being that organizations and individuals, both create the best opportunity for a rich, successful and satisfying life when we identify our values, and align our actions with them.

A value is something of worth.   It is something we cherish.  It is something we would fight to keep in our lives.  It is something we are willing to make sacrifices for.  A value, what we value, tells the world what we believe is important in life.

Often when I work with an organization, a group or an individual, I ask them to identify their values.  Using the case of individuals (although the process is the same for organizations), I have them list as many of their values as they can.  Given a few prompting questions, most people can easily come up with 25 – 50 values.

Once the list is established, I have them identify their top three values.  Any number can be used but three gives enough of the experience that most people are able to generalize it to the other important values they may have.  With the three values, I ask them the following, ‘How fully are you honouring these values in your life right now?’

This is usually the silence-maker.

All of us have values we can identify.  All of us like to believe we model our values every day.  All of us believe our values are worth fighting for.  What I love to think about is this:  If other people saw each of our values as a coin, when they picked up each coin, would they find it to be pure gold or gold-plated?

I, of course, love to imagine that my values are pure gold.  And if this is truly the case, I know that sometimes I do not give them the treatment they deserve.

So often, we claim to value a particular thing.  We insist this is our top value. We would fight for this value.  And yet, many, many times, we push our values aside on our road to something else.  I have listened to the silence of hundreds of people as they think about their top value and realize that although they claim it to be their value, at times it is as if it is a gold-plated coin.  You wouldn’t have to scratch very deeply to find it wasn’t pure gold.

On the surface, we can do a pretty good job of shining up the gold-plating.  At a quick glance, no one would notice.  People could be tricked into believing we really do deeply live our values.  But when day after day, week after week and eventually year after year, we give more talk than action about our values, the coins quickly lose their gold-plating.  If our time and attention are evidence of what we truly value, when the coating comes off the coin, the truth is what remains.

It is very hard to consistently honour our values.  It’s easy to be distracted, to think we have lots of time, to put them to the side, just for now, to show them off when it is convenient but to turn our backs on them when they cause us some discomfort.  How often do we turn on a device instead of having a conversation, pretend to listen instead of giving our full attention, and settle for good-enough instead of for our best?

It’s far too easy to be gold-plated instead of pure gold, and yet the pure gold moments are the ones we will cherish. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Are these real gold?’

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to identify your gold values.

Sunday evening, I had agreed to partake in my first dance performance since being sidelined last September.  We were performing in a one-hour, Cinco de Mayo celebration at one of the more modern senior complexes in our city.

To provide some context, our group is made up of approximately 125 dancers.  Each week of the year, Reba J, our instructor, organizes smaller groups from this large group to perform at seniors’ facilities around the city and surrounding area.  It is colourful, lively entertainment for the seniors.  For the dancers, Reba J has cleverly created these performing events so we will be comfortable for our big performances during the Calgary Stampede, and at other key events in the city.  Each small performance, while low stakes in terms of crowd critics, is actually made much more challenging for the dancers in two ways; we dress in new, different themed outfits each time and, as if that wasn’t enough of a distraction for us, Reba J replaces our familiar tunes with music to match the theme.  The steps are the same, but the music is completely different.  It’s enough to force even a seasoned dancer to have to concentrate.

For a sideliner like me, I thought it might be career ending.

In fairness to myself, I handled some of the songs like an old pro, smiling and engaging with the audience.  But at other times, long, slow, painful, slow-motion times, it seemed as though when I was toe-heeling right, everyone else was heel-toeing left.  Many times, I proudly twirled around only to find myself face to face with the rest of the girls who clearly were not following me in my self-assigned solo.

I recovered from most of my mis-steps and while I eventually found my feet, it was often only a few seconds before the song ended.  Luckily, the music and the other dancers were entertaining enough to lessen the spectacle I was creating.  When we finished our set, as per our usual routine, everyone kindly and enthusiastically complimented each other, including letting me know I had done fine.  But I, and my Inner Critic, knew better.

I, who know all about Inner Critics, had opened the door for mine, and she had waltzed right through it like a long-lost friend.  She had no trouble keeping up with me and my mis-steps.  As I would find myself face to face with the other dancers she would whisper, ‘I knew you weren’t ready.’

On the drive home she rode shotgun and continued her commentary, ‘You have less than eight weeks until it’s really show time.  You cannot possibly learn all the new dances.’  By the time I drove into our garage she dealt her final blow:

‘You need to quit.  Just for this year.  You are not quite ready…. yet.’

My Inner Critic, like that of everyone else’s on this planet is a clever one.  If she had said, ‘You’re a loser.  You can’t dance.’, I would never have believed her. I have good solid proof to the contrary.

But she didn’t say that.  Instead she used the clever little phrase that has stopped many a strong woman from taking brave steps. ‘You’re not quite ready… yet’. 

You see, this we can believe.  The ‘yet’ word causes us to think she is really on our side, cheering us on, and gosh, darn, she would never, ever want to see us fail so she just suggests we wait… a bit.  It sounds so logical.  It sounds truthful, even kind.  She didn’t say I couldn’t perform.  Just not yet.  The trouble is, she will always think ‘You’re not quite ready…. yet’.  She detests it when we get out of our comfort zone.

The more I listened to her, the more she tried to convince me I should talk to Reba J about the upcoming performing season.  Luckily, hers is not the only voice in my head.  I recalled a phrase told to me by Tara Mohr, founder, coach and author of Playing Big:

‘That is too big a solution for your problem.’

In Tara’s story, a little boy was worried about an upcoming swim meet, knowing he had to swim a full length of the pool without stopping.  He came up with every possible reason to not go the meet, believing skipping the entire swim meet was the only solution.  When he finally revealed his true reason for not wanting to go, his mom wisely responded with, ‘Sweetie, that is too big a solution for your problem.’  This wonderful little story has stuck with me.

The sorrow I had been feeling about thinking I might not be able to perform this season began to lift.  This solution of ‘I’m not ready to dance…  yet… not this year’, was too big for my problem.  My problem is, in fact, that I have only been back to dance class for a few weeks and there is a lot to learn.  This happens to be a manageable problem for which there are reasonable solutions.  There are extra classes I can attend, I have classmates who will help me and there are PDF instructions I can use at home.

All of us face challenges and setbacks.  Each of us can think of a time when we created a solution that was far too big for our problem.  When we do this, we take ourselves right out of the game.  We do this when we speak up at a meeting, get criticized, and decide never to offer our opinion again.  We do this when we are driving and have a mishap, or get lost, and decide we can’t drive on busy roads any more.  We do this when we plan a special event that doesn’t go according to plan so we determine never to put ourselves out there again.  We do this when we are told we aren’t good at something when we are in grade one and we never try to do it again.  These are all solutions far too big for their problems.

I plan to perform this season.  I plan to know the steps.  I plan to add to the positive image of the group.  I’ll likely make a mistake or two.  Or three.  So will the other dancers.  Even the really good ones.  But the performing mistakes I make will be far, far less damaging than the mistake I would make if I let myself believe I cannot dance. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is a right size solution for this problem?’

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is also the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She dances with the Chinook Country Dancers.  Contact Elizabeth and allow her to help you right-size your solutions.
 
  

This week, we celebrated two birthdays in our family; our daughter, Kaitlyn’s, and our son-in-law, Matt’s.  Each year when the beginning of May gets close, I think back to the year Kaitlyn was born.  I suppose it feels even more poignant these days, now that she is the Mom of a little one, just like I was all those years ago. One of the traditions I chose when Kaitlyn was born, was to write her a letter on her birthday each year.  When Greg was added to our family, I did the same for him.

In the letters I told them about the milestones they had reached in the previous year, I wrote about the things they liked to do, about their dreams and worries, about my dreams and worries and most importantly of all, I told them how much I loved them and that I was proud of them.

They of course, had no idea I had this tradition. I can see myself sitting at our kitchen table after they had gone to bed, sometimes on the very day of their birthday, when their friends had gone home, and the candles on the cake had been blown out, hand-writing my letter to them.  When I finished the letter, I would ask Jim to add his thoughts at the end, put it in an envelope, put their name and the date on it and add it to the little shoe box in my closet.  I hadn’t decided when I should give the letters to the kids, but I always assumed I would know when it was the right time.

These of course were love letters.

I have a long tradition of letter writing.  When I was a little girl, living in Ontario, both sets of our grandparents lived on the East Coast, in New Brunswick, and we wrote letters to them.  I kept up this tradition long after I was married and had moved to Alberta.  By then I added my own parents, Jim’s parents, my godparents and often one or more of my siblings to the roster too.  This is how we kept in touch, long before we could text and before we could afford to call long-distance. 

When Jim and I were engaged, he spent four months on the remote north shore of Quebec, near Sept-Iles, performing research at a salmon-spawning station.  There was no electricity in the cabin where he stayed and there certainly was no phone.  Each week, we wrote letters to each other.

These too, were love letters.

As Kaitlyn’s birthday came and went this week, I found myself thinking about love letters.  While most of us no longer write letters of any kind, I’ve been thinking about how more modern love letters look. 

I read a little news story this week, out of Comox, B.C.  The story was about an 86-year-old woman, Tinney Davidson, who, for the past eleven years has sat in her living room, by her window, each morning and waved to the students as they headed off to Highland Secondary School.  Each morning the students walking past would glance to their left, see Tinney waving, and wave back.  The students began to count on this, as one would count on noticing the seasons change; it was spectacularly beautiful, and completely ordinary.  Tinney’s small wave, and genuine smile, became something the students counted on.

This was her love letter to them.

This week, when the students heard that Tinney was moving, one of the teachers helped them organize themselves to go to say goodbye.  They walked together to her home, 400 strong, homemade signs and heart shaped placards in hand.  They gathered quietly, stuck the signs on her lawn and in the gardens on the edges, and when the teacher brought her out on to her porch, together they all blew her a kiss and wished her well.

This was their love letter to her.

Modern love letters may not be hand-written on paper much anymore, but I notice people still finding ways to send them.  My friend Sandy, says she now has a schedule of her friends who are wanting to help her by driving her to her daily radiation and periodic chemotherapy treatments.

These are love letters.

In my house, I always baked chocolate chip cookies to put in the kid’s lunches when they were in school.  I later began to make them for my students on the days when they wrote their Math exam, and I brought them to my colleagues when we had a late meeting.  Now, I make sure to have them on hand when the kids come for a visit. I noticed Greg made them when we went to visit him.  And Kaitlyn bakes them for her staff.

These too, are love letters.

My dance instructor Reba J, sends us two love letters each week. One is delivered in person, when we show up in class and her face lights up with joy as she greets each of us.  The other is the email she sends to all the Chinook Country Dancers the next day to tell us how well we are doing and how proud she is of us.

These too, are love letters.

We may not write many of the old-fashioned love letters anymore but there are thousands of ways we can send the newer version.  I finally gave each of our kids their letters one Christmas when they came home from University.  It was the perfect timing and I know I’ve never purchased a gift more precious. 

This past year, I wrote my first letter to Benjamin and I’ve put it in a binder.  As he gets older, I think I’ll incorporate the twist to this tradition my friend Sheryl spun.  She loved the idea of my birthday letters, and when her grandchildren came along she decided to write letters for each of them.  She interviews them before the big day, and then writes the letter.  They keep them in a binder in their rooms and can be found reading them over and over.  What a gift. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What love letter can I send?’
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Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to customize your own brand of love letter.

I had the wonderful fortune this week to meet an incredibly integrous group of leaders.  They are the Executive Team of the Alberta Cancer Foundation.  It’s interesting how life happens.  This had nothing to do with me signing up for the Ride to Conquer Cancer a couple of weeks ago.  It had nothing to do with learning of the cancer diagnoses of my very good friend.  It simply came about because one member of this team was in an earlier workshop of mine, and she told her team and she told… you know how it goes. It seemed like all of a sudden, I was headed to Edmonton, workshop created and ready to present.

One of the things that impressed me about this group was the ability of these very busy leaders to be fully present in this experience.  I know they left desks filled with unfinished jobs, lists of things to do, line ups of team members waiting to see them, and yet, they arrived prepared to be present.

Between the Edmonton trip and another huge coaching opportunity that has come my way, my days have been full and I surprised myself when I looked at my calendar a couple of days ago and realized that we will turn the mythical page of our outdated paper calendars over this coming week and welcome May.  Yikes!  I mean this in the best way possible, of course.

In our family, May is filled with opportunities to celebrate.  In my family of origin, there are three birthdays.  In our little Critchley family, we celebrate not only our daughter’s birthday, but also that of our son-in-law.  Add in three or four mothers celebrating Mother’s Day and that’s a lot of presents.

This idea of present, and presents and presence has been occupying some space in my mind. 

The easiest part of this is the presents part; presents that we wrap up and give.  Once I have my idea for a gift, I’m off to the races in terms of buying, wrapping and giving.  I try to only give presents I am happy with; ones I think will be meaningful to the recipient. This is kind of like the ‘doing’ part of presents.  Doing is easy; the presence part is more challenging.

We’ve all been in situations where someone is present in body but is far away in their mind.  This may because they really never wanted to be there in the first place.  They could have something else on their mind.  They could simply be distracted by their phone or some other external device.  No matter the reason, it doesn’t feel good to try to have a conversation with someone who is only half-interested.  The best multitasker cannot fake being fully present.  Even during phone conversations, we can tell when someone is sharing their attention between us and something far more (or less) intriguing.

While this half-invested behaviour is frustrating, and can feel insulting when we are on the receiving end of it, it somehow doesn’t feel as bad as when we do not allow ourselves to be fully present; when we do not fully show up ourselves.  As ourselves. 

By this I don’t mean the times when we choose to be half-interested.  I mean the times when we sit down to the table and choose to send our representative instead of ourselves.  We send the version of ourselves we think others want to see.  We choose to answer questions with ideas that may be pleasing but that do not reflect our true beliefs.  We choose to go along with things said, that allow us to fit in, but that may not demonstrate what we know to be true.  We tow the party line at the expense of daring to put forth original thought.

Even worse than this is when we not only offer thoughts that do not reflect ourselves, but when we present a picture of ourselves that is not reflective of our truest self.  Sadly, for hundreds of years, women learned to present images of themselves that often minimized their intelligence, their free thought and their unique way of seeing the world.  Their presence was orchestrated by societal norms rather than by their individuality.

This is the worst use of our presence; when we make the choice to have our presence not be a present at all.  This is when our presence, our individuality, though wrapped in a pleasing package, when opened is found to be lacking the shine we had hoped for.

This week, each of us will be asked to be present somewhere in our lives.  Each of us will be asked to ‘show up’; to sit down at the table as ourselves, and not send our representative in our stead. It may be as simple as having a genuine conversation.  Perhaps we will be given the chance to hear a new perspective and asked to offer one of our own. Perhaps a friend will tell us about something they are dealing with and we will answer with true empathy – rather than offering well-rehearsed platitudes.  Perhaps it’s time your workplace sees you for the intelligent contributor you are, rather than as the cooperative yes-person you have been.

Many years ago, when our daughter was about seven, her cat was run over by a car.  She was devastated.  At school the following morning, long before classes started, one of the teachers, the beloved Mrs. Goerlitz, heard about it and asked if she could take Kaitlyn to her classroom for a chat.  Mrs. Goerlitz was also a cat lover and she understood some things about loss.  Later, Mrs. Goerlitz told me they had a good talk about Kaitlyn's cat, and they had a little cry together. 

This is the priceless gift of presence.

The group in the workshop at the Alberta Cancer Foundation chose to be present this past week.  They did not pretend to be something they were not.  They had honest conversations.  They acknowledged each others strengths and bravely revealed what things needed their attention.  They agreed from the start that they would not send a representative; they would show up fully themselves.  They honoured their own presence and the presence of the others in the group. 

Life feels too short and too important to play silly games.  When the ‘honour of your presence’ is next requested, really go for it.  Show up.  Do not send your representative.  Have presence.  Be present.  Be a present.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How am I honouring my presence?’.

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is also the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth and allow her to help you to honour your presence.

Happy Easter!   Although Easter Sunday falls late in the calendar this year, no matter when it arrives it always manages to make me think of the beginning of spring.  Of renewal and new life.

And as life would have it, I had plenty of opportunity to think about renewal this past week.  I suppose it started with practical matters.  I received notices, both in the mail and by email that our car registrations are up for renewal.  In this case, renewal is a simple matter of paying money.  We don’t have to do any deep thinking about whether we still believe in this, whether it brings happiness or whether we need to tweak it.  The bottom line is: if we want to drive, we need to send money and renew it. 

Other examples of renewal were more complex.  On Monday, I flipped on the television and watched in horror as the beautiful Notre Dame Cathedral, in Paris, France, burned.  Tears sprang to my eyes as the steeple, unable to remain upright due to so much structural damage, toppled.  The devastation seemed even more heartbreaking given the fire occurred during the most holy week of the Christian faith.  Beyond the use of the church for worship, for close to 850 years this incredible architectural masterpiece has hosted millions of tourists and guests; some coming to partake in a service, others lured inside to witness the beautiful stained glass, stone carvings and tapestries, some to listen to music played on The Great Organ,  and some to simply feel the sheer magnificence of the ancient building.  
 
I have never been to Notre Dame cathedral, and yet I could imagine what must be going through the minds of those who see it daily, and who have assumed it will always stand as a familiar landmark in their home country.  I imagine conversations being had around the topic of renewal.  Parisians and all French, have a decision to make about renewal.  This is not as simple as my car registration.  In this case, a decision needs to be taken about whether this country, and this city, declare they believe Notre Dame Cathedral is something worthy of them renewing their commitment to.  This building, so revered and at the same time so taken for granted because of its longevity and steadfastness, needs to be chosen once again.  Just as almost nine centuries ago, a group of people who had a vision for its greatness committed to its plan and construction, so now will a different group of people need to decide whether they will renew their commitment to this piece of their country.  By all reports, the emotional decision was made before the final embers were doused.  So too it seems, was the financial decision, with money pouring in before daybreak on Tuesday.  A promise for the renewal of Notre Dame has been made.

The reason I had turned on the television during the day on Monday was not to catch the news, but to watch the Boston Marathon. It’s my once-a-year treat to myself.  I love this race.  This year I was especially excited because our friend, Brenda, was running in it. I wanted to watch in the off chance I would see her and her bright green socks fly by.
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I love to hear the commentators give the background of some of the elite runners. I love to hear the stories about the history of this old marathon.  I love to remember being there.  I love to be inspired.  I love to think about renewal.  My renewal.  This, for me, is more complicated that the renewal of our vehicle registration.  It is similar to, but not exactly the same as the commitment of the French to renew their beautiful church.  My personal renewal does not come down to money or to deciding whether I can put the broken parts of my body back together.  For me, this is deciding whether I can renew a love I have deep inside me.

I love to run.

It is that simple, and that complicated.  Running gives to me something that nothing else in this world gives me.  Not biking, not hiking, not yoga and not even dancing.  Not facilitating workshops, not baking, not caring for others, not teaching and not sightseeing.  Running is the thing that makes me feel most like myself. 

There are more than a dozen very sensible reasons I should not be running.   And yet….

Each of us has at least one of these yearnings deep inside ourselves.  Each of us knows what it feels like to bury that yearning, even to ignore it and pretend it does not exist.  Sometimes we convince ourselves that we have outgrown it.  Sometimes we pretend that we’ll get back to it someday.  Sometimes we think someone else will give us the space to pursue it.  Sometimes we forget how close and how far we can be from a simple renewal.  Sometimes we hear a whisper.
I suppose I always assumed I would someday get to Paris and see Notre Dame.  Now, I can only imagine that it may not be completely repaired in my lifetime. I suppose I also always assumed I’d be running again.  This year, I have of course been completely sidelined from this for good reason.  Even I know it makes no sense to run on broken bones.  This week the coinciding of the Boston Marathon and the fire at Notre Dame, felt like whispers, helping me realize it’s time for me to do some personal renewal. 

I cannot assume running will always be available for me.  At the same time, I’m not yet ready to assume it is over for me.  And so, I am renewing my dream to be a runner.  I don’t know yet what exactly it will look like.  I’m guessing it will never again be six days per week, with high mileage.  I do know that on Monday afternoon, after Brenda crossed the finish line, and I was watching the ‘back of the packers’ finishing the Boston Marathon, I went downstairs and got on the treadmill.  I walked for five minutes.  Then I ran 30 seconds. 

I was renewed.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is whispering for my renewal?’ 

Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is also the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth and allow her to help you find renewal in your business and life.

Just as I have thousands of other times, last week I put away my groceries.  I can’t say for sure which it was, but either I was hurrying to get finished so I could get to my desk and start working, or I was just being absentminded, but one way or another my hurrying came to an abrupt stop when I reached to put a carton of milk in the fridge and a shelf magically moved to allow it to fit!

The milk normally goes on the left side of the fridge where the shelf heights have been adjusted to accommodate the taller sizes of containers.  This past week I had inadvertently opened the right side of the fridge and was trying to shove the milk onto a shelf that was only half the height I needed.  Imagine my surprise when the front half of the upper shelf gently slid backward fitting perfectly under the back half of itself.

Whawhaaat??

How was it possible that after using this fridge for almost four years, I had no idea this shelf had a dual function?  I had assumed, that the way I had been using the fridge was the only way it could be used.  I had never looked at it closely enough to notice any other possibilities. 

It made me ponder how often I do this with other things.  More importantly, how often do I do this with people.  Especially people I think I know well.  How often do I assume that the things I have always known about them are the only things there are to know?   That the skills and talents I believe they have, are the only skills and talents they really have.

My teacher days were spent in a country school where the students arrived in kindergarten and left after they graduated from grade nine.  I recall having conversations with many of these students while they were in their early teen years.  They were trying to make changes in themselves but they couldn’t seem to shake whatever image the others were holding about them.  The other students, and sometimes we teachers, continued to see them in the same way we had always seen them. 

It shouldn’t have surprised any of us that often the very quietest students, those who never tried to steal the spotlight at our school, became well respected leaders in a new setting.  And sometimes students who had been willing to settle for second string on one of the teams, became a shining star on the basketball or volleyball team.  I remember one boy, who never, ever drew attention to himself, who went on to be a varsity track runner.  Each of these students, had a hidden shelf.  Each of them kept it out of sight until the moment it was either needed, or someone pushed up against it enough for it to be revealed.

Humans have a wonderful capacity to see patterns and to organize data.  It gives us comfort to categorize things and people, putting each neatly on just the right sized shelf in the fridge.  There is a danger in doing this.  Once we make our quick assessment and get the fridge closed, we stop noticing other possible ways we could have catalogued the qualities of the people in our lives.  And even more concerning is that sometime when we use one label for a person, it comes with a lot of fine print that may or may not accurately describe them.

What a shame.

No one is all or nothing. No one is a complete free spirit. No one is void of creativity.  No one loves being included in every single thing, every single time.  No one likes being left home alone, excluded from every single thing every single time.

Each of us is complex.  Each of us has hidden shelves, tiny gems, that are often only revealed when others get an unexpected glimpse of us in an unexpected way.  The trick to revealing these shelves is twofold.

Part one asks that we become more curious and open minded about each other.  It requires that we suspend our assumptions about others for a bit in the hope they will be comfortable enough to show us a new shelf they have been waiting to reveal.  When I work with clients who mention some new idea or interest they would like to pursue, it shocks me that often they are completely prepared for their idea.  They have a manuscript written, they have a travel brochure in a drawer and a trip planned, or they already know how to play the instrument they are talking about. They just needed someone to gently nudge the shelf.

This of course leads to part two of revelations.  We ourselves need to be willing to take the risk to reveal the hidden gem parts of ourselves to others.  What a terrible waste it would be for us to come to the end of our lives knowing we had talents and dreams and contributions we chose not to reveal. 

We live in a strange time; a time of needing to declare our ‘tribe’.  Unfortunately, by doing so we also often declare our allegiance to every single thing that tribe represents and it is easy for us to forget to show up as unique interesting, complex beings.  Similarly, by ignoring these same possibilities in other we miss out on some of their incredible gifts. 
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My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What shelf will I slide?’

 Elizabeth is a certified, professional Life and Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is also the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership and personal coaching for individuals and teams.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. Contact Elizabeth and allow her to help you slide back one of your hidden shelves.