This past weekend I managed to enjoy hours of World Series Baseball viewing.  Of course, first and foremost I’m a Blue Jays fan.  But my second, and very close other favourite team is the Boston Red Sox.  I’ve been lucky enough to get to watch this team live, sitting in the famous Fenway Park bleachers looking out toward the Green Monster. 

Perhaps I love the Red Sox because I have a very soft spot in my heart for the city of Boston.  I have old pictures of my mother and my grandmother in Boston; I believe they had gone there by train from New Brunswick to do some shopping when my mother was a young woman.  It seemed like such a big adventure for them.  In my own life, the lure of the Boston Marathon captivated me when I began marathon running.  I was lucky enough to participate in that marathon three times and on each trip to the City of Champions, I understood more and more what makes it so special.

As I sat watching and knitting and cheering on Friday evening, as inning nine turned into ten, then eleven, then fifteen and finally eighteen, I became intrigued with the strategies being employed by the coaching staff.  I was especially curious about the maneuvering used with the choices for pitchers.  It dawned on me that the dilemma managers face regarding the pitchers, is very similar to dilemmas we all face regularly in life:  Do we go for the short-term goal of achieving the immediate ‘win’, or do we make strategic moves that will benefit our bigger game?  Or perhaps, is it possible to do both?
On Friday evening, a total of nine pitchers were used by the Sox.  As the evening drew darker, turned to night and eventually turned to the next day, the managers had to be wondering not only how to win the current game (which they did not) and also how to save enough ‘good arms’ for the game scheduled for Saturday, which it already was by the time the ‘Friday’ game finished.  This situation is one we know well.

Often, we find ourselves completely immersed in a scene in our life that completely absorbs our time and focus.  Sometimes this scene is a very short one, perhaps an afternoon, (I just have to get this job done) sometimes it is longer, perhaps a week or more (I just need to get this report submitted by Friday) and sometimes we are engrossed for so long that one season turns into the next (once the merge happens, or once the school year ends…).  No matter the length of the project or passion occupying our time, if we are very lucky or very aware, during the process of this busyness, we take a breath and realize that we may be losing sight of our greater goal as we get caught up in the urgency of what is immediately before us.

This is a real dilemma for anyone passing through this life.  There is always a balancing act required between the important work of getting our tasks and jobs completed, and in honouring our bigger vision.  Successful companies have leaders who take great pride in their daily achievements, but who also regularly remind others and model for them, what is most important in the bigger picture.  Successful people do the same.  They practice excellence in small daily activities, but do not trick themselves into believing that it is the completion of these things that will, in the end, create a happy or successful life.   They learn to look up to make sure the ladder they are climbing is placed on the right wall. 

After the Red Sox loss on Friday night, a Saturday night win seemed even more important.  With so many pitchers needing a day off, I wondered who might be able to get the job done.  I kept thinking, ‘If you don’t get this win, the momentum will have shifted and you may have lost the chance for a Series win’.  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one willing the manager to insert Price into the game toward the end.   I was watching Price warming up in the bull pen and urging him (perhaps out loud) to be played.   I was certain that going for the short-term goal and temporarily setting aside the bigger goal was the right thing to do.  I would have been completely misguided.  This is why I am not paid millions to manage a professional baseball team. 

The powers that be in this game recognized the value of completing the important, urgent task of successfully winning the game, without losing sight of their bigger goal.  On Sunday night, they proved themselves right as Price pitched into the seventh inning, leading them to the Series victory, their second World Series Championship in as many years.
My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where is my ladder placed?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership and personal coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help make sure you place your ladder on the correct wall.

To dress up for Halloween or not?  This question is easy for me this year.  I’m happily in the not category, the same category I’ve been in since I left teaching.  I know many others love this special day.  My daughter Kaitlyn always thinks of a really creative costume well in advance and she always looks incredible.  This year she has done the same for little Benjamin, who will sport his blue jay (the bird, not the team) costume.  Alas, I would have chosen NOT every year if I thought that was the right thing to do.  It’s just not my thing.

When I was teaching, this day was so special for the students, so fun, I just had to participate.  The best years were the ones when I thought of a costume that reflected a tiny, not often revealed part of me.  One year I went as a rapper.  Full disclosure:  I don’t like rap.  I do love music and teenagers and I love it when people find out that the me they thought they had fully figured out, has another interesting bit to her.  My students were not expecting their math teacher to turn rapper!

When we lived on our acreage, we always only had one trick or treater.  I guess in the early years we had two, but later and then forever we had one, Kathleen.  Kathleen and Elizabeth were our twin sister neighbours.  Kathleen has Down Syndrome and she loved coming to our house for Halloween with Elizabeth.  Ours was the only house she visited, and in turn, she was our lone trick or treater once Elizabeth outgrew it.  Most often, when Kathleen was not being a princess, she was dressed like a favourite character from one of her books.  My favourite memory of Halloween with Kathleen was the Halloween that almost wasn’t.  Jim and I always made sure we had some special treats ready for her when she arrived and we always had a special visit with her.  This particular year, I came home from school around 5:30, and turned on the front light so Kathleen and her mom would know we were home.  By seven o’clock, the doorbell had not rung and I began to worry that I had missed Kathleen.  By eight, I knew there would be no knock.  The following evening, Jim and I were sitting down to dinner when the doorbell rang.  I answered it to the sound of ‘Trick or Treat!’  Standing on the porch, not dressed up at all, were Kathleen and her mom, Susan.

I said, ‘Oh, I’m so happy to see you!  I was afraid I’d missed you last night’.  ‘No’, Susan assured me, ‘She was just too worn out from the day.’  And so, for the first time, we celebrated Halloween on November first; the one and only year Kathleen came as herself.

If I’d had my druthers, I’d have simply gone as myself all those years too.

I’ve had this idea on my mind this week.  What exactly would it mean to ‘go as myself’?  The memory was sparked because I had an unexpected, lovely visit from Kathleen on Friday and we were remembering the years she had come to our house.

I’ve used this phrase, ‘go as yourself’, before.  I’ve used it when someone I know is going for an interview, or going to an event where they don’t know many people.  I’ve used it when someone is nervous about giving a presentation.  I’ve used it when someone doubts their value in a group of colleagues and they aren’t sure how to show up.

Just go as yourself.

Exactly what does this mean?  What I’ve come to understand is that we have within us many selves.  We have our insecure self.  We have our tired self.  We have our confident self.  We have our dreamer self.  We have our creative self.  We have a compassionate self, a short-tempered self, a know-it-all self, a thoughtful self, a generous self, a petty self, a hard-working self, a lazy self, an ingenious self and a captivating self, all within us.  They, and many others, are all our true selves.  The most wonderful thing is that we are in full charge of which one of them we want to pull out of the costume box and ‘go as’.

This year, our doorbell in our city house will ring many times and we will delight over the princesses and pirates and superheroes.  But I’ll still be wishing we could open the door to Kathleen, just standing there as herself.  It’s the best costume any of us can wear.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Who are you ‘going as’ right now?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership and personal coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you identify who you want to ‘go as’ in your life.

You know things are getting a bit desperate when you jump at the chance to go out to get the flu shot.  Yes, this was one of my big outings this week.  When I saw my doctor later in the week for my regular X-ray and foot check up, she asked if I’d had my shot.  I replied yes, and that I was surprised she hadn’t seen my picture on the news; I was sure I was the first one in line at Shopper’s Drug Mart on Monday morning!  And I was even more thrilled when the pharmacist who gave the shot reminded me that I needed to spend at least ten minutes in the store before leaving, to make sure I didn’t have an adverse reaction.  I’m sure I enjoyed my adventure just as much as Jim enjoyed his trip to the zoo with Ben this week!

Meanwhile at home I’m figuring out a few little things I am able to do.  Laundry seems to be one activity that has the stamp of approval.  It’s not too hard to sort and fold clothes.  Alas, pride goeth before the fall.  (Well truth be told, this time the fall came first, then the pride at doing such a good job with laundry, then the proverbial fall.)

To give the backstory, just before our cycling trip, I stopped in at the brand new MEC store near us and found a great pair of casual pants.  They fit perfectly.  I took them on our trip and in the evenings wore them alternatively with my blue jeans.  I even told my sister, Mary, about them, thinking she too might like a pair.  Since I’ve now been sidelined, these have become a staple in my wardrobe.  This week, I dropped them in the dark load for their regular washing.   Up until now, I have always washed them regularly and then hung them over a rack to dry.  This week, I mindlessly threw them in the dryer along with everything else.

I was horrified when I took the load out of the dryer, began the folding and noticed my nice newish pants mixed in.  After my initial panic I realized that it might be possible that these were ‘allowed’ to be dried in the drier.  Taking a quick look at the garment tag, I read they could be dried in a drier at low heat.  How hot could the dryer have been, I wondered?

The answer to this became all to apparent this morning when I put the above-mentioned pants on.  They did go on, but just.  Suffice it to say they are no longer my go-to pants.

The good news about my misadventure is that it started me thinking about garment tags. Whenever I am buying some new piece of clothing, I take time to look at the little tag that lets the consumer know what kind of care the garment needs.  I have been known to return a beautiful item back to the rack because of what was revealed on that tag.  I know how much, or how little effort I am willing to put into the care of my clothes.  I know that if rayon is part of the makeup of the item, it goes back on the rack.  For me, the wrinkles are not worth it.  Hand washing, cold only, no wringing, lay flat items also rarely get purchased with my debit card. 

Pondering all of this today, as I was tugging up my pants, I realized that each of us also comes with a little human form of the garment tag; a tiny little pointer letting others know how to best care for us for maximum benefit.

Each of us performs best in this world when we are treated the way that resonates with us.  The problem is that just like with real tags, some of the human tags are hard to read; they are written in all sorts of languages we do not understand.  Others come only with symbols that we don’t recognize.  When we do recognize the symbols, we may not take note of the colour or number of dots giving us more detailed information. And most often, these tags are not placed in full view, so even when we remember to take time to try to figure out what care is needed for our friends and family, we have to make the effort to look for the carefully hidden tags.  To further complicate things, sometimes garments that look very much like other familiar garments, in fact have their own special care preferences.

When I was in the clinic this week, one of the receptionists was sitting in her regular chair.  Attached to her chair were some large, bright birthday balloons. I wished her a happy birthday.  She seemed delighted with her chair and with the kind attention she was receiving.  If she had been wearing a human garment tag, I suspect it would have given us permission to ‘make a fuss’ over her.  Because I noticed this and have commented on it, it may mislead others to think I too would enjoy this kind of attention.  My garment tag, however, would not display the symbol for balloons on the back of my chair!

I like to think I am a pretty good reader of garment tags.  I’m intrigued by them.  I love that there is so much information displayed in such a small space.  I love that sometimes we have to decipher it. I love that different symbols and languages can be used for the same thing.  Yet I also know, that just as I completely mistreated my lovely pants this week, pants that I LOVED, I can also misread and sometimes completely miss, the little signs people around me are displaying.  I recognize that when I get it just right, when the signs are clear and when my attention is well placed, I have the chance to help others and myself to show up exactly as we are meant to be; in our best form, in our brightest colours and knowing the fit is just right.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What’s on this person’s garment tag?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership and personal coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you identify and place the correct ‘care’ symbols on your work and life.

Because my world has become physically smaller for a few weeks, this week I seemed to notice some little things around me.  The great danger here is the temptation to notice the potential imperfections; the things that could use changing or fixing or cleaning or organizing.

I’ve made a conscious choice to not fixate on those but rather to notice a few things close up.  In particular, I’ve been noticing things that on the surface, seem to be so small as to be completely insignificant, and yet when examined may carry the secret to great success.

The two that caught my attention in the past couple of days are Benjamin and my friend Gina.

Benjamin, escorted by his very thoughtful mom, Kaitlyn, has been coming for regular visits to our house since I have been home sitting and knitting.   The wonderful thing about Ben is that he could not care less whether I have one good foot or two, whether I can walk or not, or whether I can do my usual activities.  He is simply delighted to be wherever he is, with whomever is with him.

Over these past two weeks, Benjamin has learned how to crawl and I have been captivated by his progress.  When we first arrived home from Scotland, he was very close to being mobile.  He could figure out how to get up on all fours from his stomach but he clearly could not coordinate his brain with his hands and knees.  If he moved one hand, he was stuck.  His brain could not seem to figure out that the next step was to move the opposite knee.  Some mothers would have got on the floor with him and ‘helped’ him figure it out.  Kaitlyn calmly sat back and said, ‘He’ll get it.’ 

Each day, many, many times, he worked at his new skill.  His next phase was to notice something just out of reach that he wanted, and head down he would strike out toward it.  He would take one or sometimes two crawling ‘steps’ toward it, stop, reach out and measure whether he had arrived at his goal.  Somehow, he must have known this was an important thing to figure out because he did not give up.  Within days he could eye a shiny object and easily crawl to it.  Now he loves to do laps, always pausing in our front foyer to smile and say hi to the baby who lives in the mirror there.

As I have watched this amazing development, I have wondered more than once if most adults, myself included, would be as persistent.  I’m trying to imagine what the equivalent of moving from stomach to fully mobile would be in an adult life.  I do know that when I have tried to learn a new skill, I have often decided that perhaps the particular skill I had been thinking of, was just not one of my ‘gifts’.  I know I have quit long before being able to give myself a satisfying, congratulatory smile in the front hall mirror.

Interestingly, the second observation made by me this week also occurred in our front hall.  On Friday evening, long after the street lights were on and I had settled back in my chair after changing into my ‘comfy’ pants, my front doorbell rang.  It seemed a bit late to be the local kids collecting for a bottle drive and with Jim not yet home, that left me to hobble to the door and to answer the bell.  I was thrilled to find my friend Gina standing on my front porch, bouquet of flowers and a card in hand.  She had heard about my foot and had stopped by to say hi, to see how I was doing and to drop off the flowers. 

Gina stayed only for a short visit; we didn’t even make it out of the front hallway.  Though she hadn’t yet been home from work, she had stopped to check in on me.  I filled her in on our trip and we caught up on our families and other news.  While our visit was short in minutes, its impact has been long lasting. Not only have I been enjoying the gorgeous fall flowers she brought, I have also spent time thinking about her thoughtfulness. 

Gina did not become thoughtful on Friday night.  Clearly, this is a way of being for her.  It is a pattern, or a habit or a way of living.  If it was not so, I can only guess that even if she had had the fleeting thought of stopping in on a Friday evening, she could have easily talked herself out of it.  I’ll bet she has a pair of ‘comfy’ pants that were calling her name that night too. 

To the casual observer, it might appear that this is just easy for Gina.  To the truth seeker, it would be obvious this way of being is not easy, rather it is a practiced choice.

Somewhere in her past, and I have known her for many years now, she had to have started this practice of thoughtfulness.  I imagine that her first attempt took plenty of energy and planning, much like Benjamin’s first crawling attempts.  She may not even have got it perfect the first time.  But over time, she must have believed this was important enough to perfect, and so through years of completing countless thoughtful deeds, she has arrived at the place where it looks easy.

When Gina left, I closed the door and caught my reflection in the mirror.  I was smiling.  I hoped that when Gina arrived home, she too would take the time to circle around her house, stopping at her mirror to smile at the thoughtful friend looking back. 

My inquiry for you this week is ‘Who is in my mirror?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership and personal coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to learn how to focus on matching the person in the mirror with the one you strive to become.

I am not a patient patient.  This is not to say I don’t have great patience.  I am just not a patient patient.  This week I seem to be coming to terms with this sad fact.

On our trip to Scotland, I broke my foot.  In several places it would seem.  This happened on the second day of our bike trip.  We had just summitted a peak in the beautiful Highlands and we stopped at the side of the road for a celebratory piece of chocolate, a rest and a picture.  The roads in this part of the country are narrow at best; they reminded me of the bike paths we enjoy here at home. 

While we stood at the side of the road, we noticed the approach of a largish truck.  I thought it would be best if I took one more step away from the road to make sure I was well out of harms way.  As I stepped with my right foot, the earth gave way beneath it and I completely lost my balance.  Realizing I was going to fall I did one of those Rolodex spins of all the possibilities at my disposal.  Since I was facing away from the road, and momentum was winning, the two options seemed to be falling forward into a large thorn bush across the ditch, risking using my wrists to break the fall, or trying to use my left leg to jump over the ditch.  I chose Option B. 

Alas, I am not the gazelle I pictured in my mind.  While I did jump, I clearly underestimated both the width and depth of the ditch.  The ditch was deep and though it was wide at the top it was narrow at the bottom.  My left foot struck firmly near the bottom of it.  Sadly, the ditch wasn’t as wide as my foot is long and so I thoughtfully allowed my foot to bend upward to compensate.  Clearly, Option B was not the ideal choice.  I knew right away that I had a ‘big hurt’.  I thought if I sat and held my foot for a bit, that the pain would subside and I might walk it off. 

The initial lightning bolt pain did ease, but the lingering pain let me know that I might be in a bit of trouble.  Sometimes though, a girl just has to do what a girl has to do.  And so, I got back on my bike, placing the edge of my heel on the pedal and made my way to the closest town, about eighteen kilometres away where there was a medical clinic.  Lest you think this was worse than it was, thankfully, much of the trip to town was downhill or relatively flat.

I was seen fairly quickly at the clinic and the doctor in charge thought it was likely severe soft tissue damage.  I asked her what she thought about my continuing to cycle over the next four days.  Her opinion was that if it was soft tissue damage, it would hurt, but I wouldn’t likely do more damage.  As she said, if we want to X-ray it, we’d have to send you to the next town.  And so, I received the following: a compression tube sock to relieve the swelling, and advice to take Advil and a ‘couple of shots of whiskey’.

Believe it or not, even thought I didn’t really believe her, I was relieved. 

I did not want to be the reason the trip was cancelled or altered.   I was, after all, supposed to be on this trip to bear witness, (see last week’s blog here) not to be the centre of attention.  I felt like I had just been given license to continue as planned.  So I did.

Upon arriving back in Calgary eleven days later, after completing the cycling trip, and then sightseeing in both Edinburgh and Dublin, often using the Hop On, Hop Off (with less emphasis on the hopping and more on the ‘On’ part) I realized I might need to make a return trip to my own doctor.  While she did not criticize my earlier diagnosis and prescription, she did order X-rays.  Two broken bones were quickly revealed, with a third ‘highly suspicious area’ also highlighted.  An air boot cast was fitted along with a prescription for 4-6 weeks of no weight bearing.  I was smart enough not to ask if I could run or cycle but I did have to check if that included dancing?  Yes.  Yoga? Yes.

I was cleared for unrestricted knitting.

This is how I have come to realize that my patience wears thin for being a patient. 

I know I am a coach.  I know I have all sorts of tools at my disposal for seeing this with a new perspective.  I know the only thing I have control of is my attitude.  I know ‘it could be worse’.  I know, ‘I’m lucky I got to finish the trip’.  I even know (because this too really was said to me) ‘It’s good it wasn’t Jim’. 

And yet, I’m still impatient.

I’ve been thinking and thinking about what has me so out of sorts.  I am coming to the conclusion that I have been trying to convince myself that since I only have control over my attitude, I simply need to make a choice about how I will ‘be’ throughout this process.  This is not working for me.  I’ve been so frustrated and so disappointed in myself for not being able to summon up the grit to ‘be’ who I want to be.

As I’ve gone over and over this in my mind, I recognize I have been focused on only one of the basic principles of coaching.  I have been focused on ‘being’.  Co-active coaching, the type in which I am trained, is all about three key things; being, doing and the relationship between these two.  In other words, how we are being as we are doing.  And what we are doing, as we are being.

Even with the prescription for no weight bearing, it is time for me to get ‘doing’.  I cannot do my regular things.  However, there is plenty I can do and I have a feeling that once I get started in this direction, the part of me that has been disappointed in myself might disappear.  As my first step (no pun intended) I have heard about a former colleague of mine who is temporarily in a care facility as she recovers from an unsuccessful surgery and as she awaits the new surgery to fix her issue.  I have a feeling she would be happy to see me.  In person.  I also have a feeling that I will be just fine, sitting with her, ‘doing’ nothing.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Being while doing? Or doing while being?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership and personal coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to learn how to focus on both   being and doing.
 

Early this past spring, Jim and I were invited to join my brother, Daniel, and his partner, Victoria, on their cycling trip to Scotland.  At the time of invitation, we had no idea whether we would go or not.  We had known they had been planning this trip for several years and we had known the trip was to occur in September of this year.  We simply had not known or even considered, that an invitation would be offered to us.

For some reason we had trouble making the decision of whether to accept the invitation or not.  (Read my earlier blog on this here)

The key issues for us were threefold; did we want to go to Scotland, a country that was not on our imagined Life List; did we have the money in our budget; was Jim’s heart up for a week long ‘moderately difficult’ cycling adventure?

Jim and I talked it over, put the decision aside, took it out again, re-examined it and finally said, “We’d love to!”  The truth was, of the three issues guiding our decision, we really hadn’t been able to give an unequivocal ‘yes’ to any of them.  Scotland wasn’t on our list so we had no idea if we wanted to go, we did not have a secret stash of money set aside for such an adventure and cycling would more than tax Jim’s heart.

The carefully weighed three factors influencing our decision turned out not to be the spark that lit the ‘yes’ fire under us after all.

Four years earlier, in September of 2014, Victoria’s dad, Bob, had embarked upon this identical trip.  Solo.  Eight months earlier, Victoria’s mother had died and in the ensuing months Bob spent a lot of time with Daniel and Victoria, hiking, biking, horseback riding and snowshoeing.  For our part, we simply set one more place at the table and included him in all our family events.

Unknown to anyone, Bob had undiagnosed heart issues and he died suddenly while on the second day of his cycling trip in Scotland.  Victoria wanted to finish the trip for her dad, hence the September 2018 bike trip.  She wanted us along because of our relationship with her Dad.

And this was how we found ourselves cycling along some very narrow roads through the breathtaking Highlands of Scotland last week.

As it is with so many things in life, what starts out for one reason, often continues for others.  So it was with this trip.

Each of us thought we were completing the trip for Bob.  We were to follow his exact route and we hoped to find the place where his journey had ended, and then to continue on to complete the trip.  We had a picture from his cell phone, the last picture he took, that showed him in front of a distinctive sign.  We also had the police report describing the location – on the corner near the farm of ….  We also knew his time of death.  With this information in hand we set out on Day Two of the trip like amateur detectives with somewhat nervous hearts.  Jim’s role was that of navigator, Daniel was support person and I was simply bearing witness.

After about two hours of cycling we came to the sign from the pictures.  There was no question we were getting closer.  We stopped and thought about Bob here and imagined how his adventure had been going.  Once we started cycling again, we climbed a short hill and noticed the road bearing to the right.  Immediately after the curve was the farm described in the police report.  Clearly Bob had taken his final picture, one of him smiling with pleasure, only minutes before his death.

In her imagination, Victoria had a vision of her Dad in a ditch. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.  The little corner where he died was absolutely stunningly beautiful.  There was a wide gravel shoulder, there were two large shade trees and the view overlooked a lush green meadow, dotted with sheep.  There was such a feeling of peace here that we got off our bikes and stood in silence.

Tears soon followed as we remembered Bob together, gave thanks that we were travelling together and that we felt peaceful. 

Victoria let us know when she was ready to move on.  She told us that she was perfectly content and that even if we did not finish the trip, she would feel the journey was complete for her.  It turned out that the journey was not at all about finishing the proposed trip, but rather about finding peace in her Dad’s untimely death.

Each one of us is travelling a journey, many journeys in fact, in life.  We all travel the journey from life to death, but within that we travel many, many smaller journeys too.  Some last only moments, some days and some years.  Some of our journeys are exciting ones; new jobs, new babies, challenging projects, and cycling holidays.  Some of our journeys are difficult ones; navigating cancer, grief, lost dreams and disappointments.

Each of us need good travelling companions as we journey.  We need people to walk with us as we journey.  We need people to read the map and navigate the tough spots when we cannot do it ourselves.  We need support systems and we need witnesses.  At the same time, we also realize that others need these same things from us.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What role am I playing in this journey?’
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Elizabeth creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  She provides leadership coaching for individuals and groups.  Contact Elizabeth to learn how to be your best self as you travel your most important journey of all; the journey of your life.
 

This summer and fall Jim has been working on one of his passions; birding.  Not watching, although he does love that too, not feeding, although he loves to watch the little ones feed at the feeder, but banding.  He’s working on his certification to become an official bird bander.  In another life he should have been a biologist, or a forest ranger or something that involves nature.

Over the winter on any given Friday, he and his friend Daryl could be found in our garage, dust masks in place, sawing up wood to make bird boxes, bat houses and bee houses.  This was part of a project for the Priddis Greens Golf Course who holds status as an Audubon certified golf course, and who needed an upgrade for their bird houses.  The particular birds being attracted there were the Mountain Bluebird (with my new knowledge of the four-letter identification system used, I’m guessing these are the MOBB – I could be wrong but it sure sounds good!)

If you have never seen a Mountain Bluebird (MOBB), you’re missing out.  (I’ve just been told the official four-letter ID code is MOBL – I still prefer MOBB!) Their beautiful bright blue-turquoise feathers are unparalleled in beauty.  They are a medium-sized bird, between the size of a chickadee (BCCH) and a robin (ARBN).  We loved watching for them when we lived on our acreage for they heralded the coming of spring.  Now living in the city, we see less of them since they stick to the Bluebird trail, out of the urban areas.  The Priddis Greens Golf Course happens to be situated on Bluebird habitat, so they were interested in encouraging these little beauties to come to nest on the course.  And so, it came to be that the construction project in the garage took flight.

When spring came, the boxes were mounted just before the arrival of the birds and Jim and Daryl were thrilled that out of 75 boxes put up, almost 50 were inhabited in this first year.  And as it so often happens in life, what starts out as one thing, soon becomes another.  Once the bluebirds arrived, the boys knew they needed a system to keep track of them.   In the early weeks, they went out to the course, clip board in hand and recorded the number of babies in each box. 
A few weeks later, before the babies were ready to leave the nest, Jim went out with an official Mountain Bluebird bander, Don, to learn the official ropes.  Jim loved his day and voila, a new passion was born. 

Before long, the clipboard was replaced with a spreadsheet, the circle of banders was increased to include more friends and new banders at the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary in Calgary.  Jim managed to land himself a volunteer position at the Sanctuary, where once a week, he stole out of bed before five o’clock so he could continue to understand the art of banding.  Each week he arrived home excited to share his new knowledge.

Apparently, to catch the birds, the sanctuary uses something called mist nets.  Think of them as very fine badminton nets.  Birds of all species fly into, and become temporarily trapped in the nets.  Jim and the master bander, Steve, head out to the nets, and one by one they gently remove the little birds from it, and drop them into individual, clean, cotton, draw-string bags.   Surprisingly, the little (and big) birds are not stressed by this. 

Once in the bags, the birds are taken to the banding table where they are identified, examined for health and age, measured, banded and released.  Jim is amazed at the way the birds simply lay back and allow the process to unfold.  Needless to say, the incredible experience of the master handler plays a big part in this.

This whole idea of entanglement, examination and release got me thinking about life.  How often in life do we get tangled up?  We find ourselves in situations that make us feel trapped, afraid and unsure how to move forward.  Often, we are unable to see our own pattern of behaviour that lands us in the same position over and over again.

If only we could take a deep breath, become more master bird-bander-like and use the opportunity for simple observation.   What if we could look at our mess of tangles as a scientist might; with an eye for looking at data without adding all the judgements that could accompany it.  What if we could sit quietly and think about, perhaps even keep notes about, what got us to where we are, how often we find ourselves in a similar situation, how we even build our own nets that trap us, and what we might do differently to avoid finding ourselves there again.  And then what if we could simply set ourselves free?  I’m thinking our four-letter code might become NTGL and a five-letter code might be PEACE.
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My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What does untangled look like for me?’

Elizabeth is a life and leadership coach in Calgary, AB.  She provides leadership coaching for individuals and groups and she creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you or your organization to figure out to stop tangling yourself in your own nets.

What a crazy week it’s been.  In the news, Colin Kaepernick, who I wrote about in an earlier blog, Too Good to Be True?  was revealed as Nike’s newest secret weapon in their newest advertising campaign, and in my little corner of the world, I completed my first ever bike race, the Sea-to-Sky Gran Fondo, a 122km race from Stanley Park in Vancouver to Whistler, British Columbia.

I’ve been preparing for this race since last Thanksgiving when the idea was hatched at the dinner table over turkey and pumpkin pie.  Step one of my training was simply uttering the words ‘I’m in!’.  Knowing full well that bike racing is very different from the road racing (running) I’ve been doing for years, I realized I had a learning curve ahead of me.

My winter training looked a lot like it normally would have. I rode the stationary bike, kept up with yoga, strength training and dance and threw in a few runs for good measure.  With spring refusing to commit this year, it was May before I was able to get my road bike out and dusted off.  My first ride was not pretty.  I did not feel strong, I did not feel confident and I wasn’t sure what a training program should even look like.  The only thing I had to draw on was marathon training.  This, I knew, involved a long run every week, and other shorter runs in between.  With nothing else to guide me, I decided to apply this same strategy to biking. 

Recognizing my lack of confidence, I wondered if having a training partner might help.  Scrolling through the rolodex of my family and friends in mind, I thought of my friend Rhonda.  We had never done any training for anything together.  But I knew she had a bike; she and I had completed one ride together earlier in the year; a 17km ride around the Glenmore Reservoir, followed by a stop at a coffee shop. 

I agonized about whether to ask her.  Most people think these endurance adventures of mine are crazy.  I know this because they tell me.  I wondered what Rhonda would think.  She had been on a few adventures of her own, but not on a bike race.  Back and forth I went in my mind.  My saboteur was having a ball with this one.  Finally, I sent her a text, telling her what I was doing and asking if she would like to join me in a ride once each week to help me train.

Rhonda’s response was quick and sure. ‘Yes!’, was her reply.  Only later would she confess that when I mentioned that we would start ‘short’, perhaps a 60km ride, she began to wonder what she had signed up for.  Sixty turned to seventy.  Seventy to eighty.  Eighty to ninety.  Ninety turned to a double summit of the Highwood Pass.

We clicked right away.  Our riding compatibility just worked.  After a few weeks I dared to suggest that since Rhonda was doing all the same training as me, she might consider registering for the race too.  This time her response was less quick.  I suppose I wasn’t using my saboteur as much by then so she had started paying rent in Rhonda’s head.  It took a few weeks, but eventually the response came, ‘I’m in!’

Many times, as we trained, we wondered if we were crazy.  Neither of us slept well on Monday nights, anticipating our early morning Tuesday rides.  The mountains at Whistler, already big in real life, grew in our minds.

This past week, on September 8th, our big day arrived. We lined up in Stanley Park, in the dark, with Vancouver’s beautiful skyline at our back, along with some 4700 other riders.  The rain clouds loomed and we debated, ‘Rain coats on or off?’, ‘Full gloves or half?’, ‘Foot booties or not?’, ‘Crazy or not?’

The race couldn’t get started quickly enough for me.  As usual, I felt the sting of tears as O Canada was sung pre-race.  And then, finally, we were off.  For seven hours we pounded up those mountains, through cloud, and rain, and cold and even a flash of sunlight.  We stopped at aid stations for fuel and to wait for slower members of our little group.  We laughed as we passed the ‘Bacon Station’, where, you guessed it, they were grilling and handing out bacon!  With one kilometer to go, Rhonda and I waited on the side of the road for the rest of our group to join us so we could cross the finish line together.  I smiled the whole way.

In Colin Kaepernick’s Nike video, he says, ‘Don’t ask if your dreams are crazy.  Ask if they are crazy enough.’  When he first took a knee two years ago, Colin Kaepernick likely wondered if he was crazy.  He also likely could not have imagined what his ‘crazy’ would bring to his life.

This line from the ad kept running through my head as I rode.  I know I am doing things that are just crazy enough when I feel alive doing them. I felt alive when we first talked about this race last Thanksgiving.  I felt alive when first invited Rhonda to join me.  At that time, I could not imagine everything that invitation would bring to my life; a wonderful training partner, an incredible friend, a dream-sharer.  And I felt VERY alive last Saturday.

In any good life there needs to be some crazy; something that makes us feel alive.  It will be different for each of us.  For some it will mean taking a course, for others it means leaving or staying in a job or a relationship.  Some will find crazy in a new hobby or skill.  Each of us knows what is crazy for us. 

My friend, Chad, and his sister Carena, just finished the seven-day, Trans Alpine Run across the alps through Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Italy.  Crazy?  Maybe.  But I’m looking into it.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is ‘Crazy for You?’
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Elizabeth is a life and leadership coach in Calgary, AB.  She provides leadership coaching for individuals and groups and she creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you or your organization figure out how to bring the right kind of crazy into your life.

My sister, Mary, was taking a course in Moncton, New Brunswick in August and she tacked on a few extra days to head to Sussex to visit with our cousins and only living Uncle and Aunt who live there.  Uncle Roy is my Dad’s brother.  He is the youngest of four children.  His six children, our cousins, hold such a special place in our hearts and in our book of childhood memories.

When we were kids, as the end of the school year approached and summer was almost in reach, the excitement in our house would begin to mount.  We knew we would be going to ‘The Farm’ for our holiday.  At the time I believed we were rich beyond belief.  None of my friends went on a driving trip, pulling a homemade tent trailer.  None of my friends had been to New Brunswick.  None of my friends got to help milk cows, and put in hay, ‘go out over the hill’, and even sleep in a hay loft.  None of my friends went to The Farm.  Uncle Roy and Aunt Muriel’s farm.

It didn’t matter that I, and several of my siblings were extremely motion sick and spent most of the three-day car journey in a less than glamourous state.  It didn’t matter at all.  What mattered was that the journey took us to our beloved cousins and their home, The Farm.  The Farm was a dairy farm as were many of the farms in Kings County, located just outside of Sussex, along the Kennebecasis River.  When you operate a large dairy farm, you don’t get to go on holidays away from the farm.  Cows need milking morning and night and this ritual keeps a dairy farmer firmly tied to the farm.  To us as kids, this of course, was all part of the intrigue.  It seemed as though our cousins lived such a glamourous, adventure-filled life and we just could not wait to be a part of it.

Our days on The Farm were full.  We loved being able to join in with the work.  Getting up early to go to the barn for milking was magical.  Finding new-born kittens in the hay loft felt like a far better ‘attraction’ than any we might have found in Disneyworld.  Our days were full of farm chores, fresh air and freedom.  Our evenings were spent building forts ‘out over the hill’, playing baseball, coming up with pranks and singing together in the kitchen.  It was magical.

We had six cousins on the farm and two more just on the other side of Great Uncle Frank’s house.  Our grandparents lived there too.  We too had six kids in our family at that time.  We loved that we were exactly the opposite of Uncle Roy’s six kids.  Their order was three boys, followed by a girl, boy, girl.  We were three girls followed by a boy, girl, boy.  Somehow that made us feel even closer.  We usually only stayed on The Farm for about ten days but by the time our holiday there ended, there was crying and grief of the deepest kind.  Each year we vowed to write letters to keep in touch.  As the months of each year went on, the letters dwindled but the memories did not.

You can imagine my shock then, the first night Mary arrived at The Farm for her weekend visit in August when her text arrived, ‘THE FARM IS SOLD!!!!’. 

This shouldn’t have been a shock.  We knew my cousin Terry and his wife Marcia, who took over the farm from Uncle Roy and Aunt Murial years ago, had put the farm up for sale quite some time ago.  But a big, now very modern dairy farm does not sell over night.  So, when one year and then another went by without a buyer, I put it out of my mind.  Even last year, when Jim and I stopped in for our visit during our Canada 150 Tour, knowing the farm was for sale didn’t mean I really believed it would sell.

The truth is, in the last forty years, I’ve only been back to The Farm three times.  That is, in person.  In my mind, I’m a regular visitor there.

For me, The Farm was so much more than just a place to go for a holiday.  The Farm grounded me, and all who went there.  On The Farm, however we showed up was absolutely perfect.  No judgements were ever made and no expectations were put upon us.  Oh, we had to tow the line and follow the rules but never did we believe that we were not enough just how we were.  It was a place of incredible acceptance.  It was a place I felt I could be myself at my best.  It was a place I learned about nature and about the natural cycles of life.  It was a place I found great peace.  And it was one of the few places where after our mother died when I was just ten, I continued to feel ‘seen’.

When Jim and I got married and talked about our dreams for how our life would be, I wanted us to create a home that had a feeling like The Farm.  I wanted people to feel welcome and accepted in our home.  I wanted dreams to thrive in our home.  Jim had not been to The Farm; he had not met my East Coast relatives.  It took us fifteen years to save the money to take our children there when they were eight and ten years old.  It was well worth the wait.  Jim fell in love with it and with my cousins and aunt and uncle just like I knew he would.  I think his favourite part of our visit to the East last year was standing in Terry’s newest barn in fascination, watching the robots milk the cows.  In my mind, my Grampy was sitting on his little milk stool doing the same.

I’m guessing that my heart will eventually catch up to my mind on the selling of The Farm.  It really is time.  It is part of the life cycle of this place. Once I’m done feeling sorry for myself, I know I’ll have an abundance of gratitude and comfort knowing the memories I have of this place have helped make me who I am, have helped create the home I live in, and have given me confidence to believe that I am enough.  That’s a pretty good harvest from one Farm.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘Where is The Farm in my life?’
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Elizabeth is a life and leadership coach in Calgary, AB.  She provides leadership coaching for individuals and groups and she creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you or your organization to figure out how to bring The Farm to your table.

It’s been another sad week for the world.  The news has been filled with stories about the life and service of Senator John McCain from Arizona, who died on Saturday, August 25th.  It isn’t often that a Senator invokes such an outpouring of love and grief upon their death; clearly Senator McCain was a special man.

As I’ve listened to and read many accountings of stories from his life, from his time in the military, to his capture and holding as a POW, to his release, to his service in politics, to his family life, the thing that is so interesting is the steadfastness with which he travelled his time on this earth.  As people who knew this man well, and some who knew him not as well offer their memories of him, each story sounds the same.  The setting and the characters are different of course, but the theme is always exactly the same.  Anyone who seemed to interact with this man, in the spotlight, behind closed doors or in the quiet of his own home, discovered they were always dealing with the same man.  He did not seem to be one person in one setting and then become someone different in another.  He was consistently himself.  As far as I can tell, that meant he was someone who was honest, kind, who put country before politics, and who believed that service to something bigger than himself was what gave his life meaning.

It’s very easy to write these words. It’s very easy to think that I could aspire to this standard.  In reality, he made it look much easier than the rest of us find it to be.

Times like this give us pause.  For those of us who are introspective, it is times like the death of someone who is greatly admired that cause us to wonder, even if only for a brief moment, what our enduring legacy will be.

I can never be a John McCain.  I’m relieved to know this.  It is far too much pressure to try to be someone else.  Goodness knows, I have trouble enough being myself some days.

As I’ve thought about Senator McCain this week, I’ve pictured people going to see him for the past sixty or so years.  Some may have been seeing him in his place of work.  Some may have seen him at public events.  Some at family events.  Some may even have seen him in regular everyday activities.   What people seem to have been saying is that no matter where they saw or interacted with this man, they always knew what they would get.  They would get the exact same person every time.  What a comfort this is.

It made me think of times when I have gone to see some incredible wonder of our world.  How disappointed I would have been if when I had seen the Rocky Mountains for the first time, they had decided to be less majestic.  Or if when I had gone to Niagara Falls, they had decided to back off on their force.  Or what if the elephants and giraffes had all chosen to lie down on the plains of the Maasii Mara when we had our safari there.  Or if the sand on Bondi Beach had decided to turn grey when we walked that shore.

Recognizing that each of my examples involve non-humans, the idea remains.  We long for things to be exactly how we know they are at their best.  This holds true for humans.  This was true for John McCain and it sounds, by all accounts, as though people were not disappointed.  This too holds true for each of us.  When others choose to spend time in our presence, they long for us to be exactly how they are hoping we will be; they long for us to be at our best.

The question becomes then, what does it mean to be at my best?  It does not mean to become like John McCain, although that would not be a bad thing.  It does not mean that I can never have a bad or weak moment. It does not mean I cannot be disappointed or hurt or in grief.  It does not mean that each seminar, workshop, client appointment, and meal I create must be a work of art.  It does not mean that each bike ride or run I go on must be better than the one before.  It does not mean I need to smile when I am sad, or be the life of the party when I am weary.

It does mean I have a responsibility to myself, to figure out what makes up my character, and to act with integrity to align to that minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.  Our character is something we chose.  It is not gifted to us, nor can it be taken away.

I have a fairly good understanding of what I want my character to be made up of.  I strive to live with integrity, to hold an open mind, to learn to be less fearful of things that are unfamiliar, to have a loving and welcome home, to encourage others in their pursuits, to be a good friend, sister, daughter, mother, grandmother and partner, to be a contributor, to add to society and to continue to challenge myself.  I hope others find acceptance in my presence.  I also strive to recognize my shortfalls, apologize when I notice it is needed and to find joy in all places in my life.

I hope I never get there. It would be such a disappointment to wake up some day and think that I have become as good as I can be.  I think if John McCain had been given another ten years on this earth, he would have continued to have put himself in situations that challenged his character; I also believe he would have found ten more years worth of ways to make his character shine through.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What part of my character am I revealing?’
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Elizabeth is a life and leadership coach in Calgary, AB.  She provides leadership coaching for individuals and groups and she creates and facilitates custom workshops for corporate, public and private groups.  Contact Elizabeth to help you or your organization to figure out how what character you hope to be known for.