Saying sorry

In my work life, I sometimes spend time coaching people on how to accept responsibility for the negative consequences of their actions, even if those consequences are unintended.  A person might say and do things that come out of neutral or even positive intentions, but those words and actions might still have a very hurtful impact on the other person.  This happens to all of us.  And we need to accept that even the best of intentions can still sometimes hurt.  It happens to high level executives.  It happens to front-line workers.  It happens in families.  And it happens to my children. 

Today, I struggled with how to transpose my coaching spiel into a key that my 6 year old might grasp.  I have to say, I have better luck engaging with a client, helping them understand why it is important to meaningfully show the other person that they understand and regret their actions.  I feel like I failed miserably explaining this to my son.

That's because it's probably less about the explanation and more about the simple fact that it's just plain hard to do.  Even for grown-ups.  The initial I-didn't-do-anything denial shape-shifts into the but-he-started-it justification and finally into the but-I-wasn't-thinking-when-I-said-that face-saving posture.  These aren't just the plaintiff cries of a 6 year old.  It's hard to own my part when I feel so wronged by another person.

And yet, learning how to say sorry is so important.  And I say learning because I believe that apologizing is actually a skill.  It is something that we need to learn to do.  And do we ever.  I know that I have been the recipient (and deliverer!) of more than a few lousy apologies in my lifetime.  You know the type, the I'm-sorry-but kind.

This is why I am one of those mothers who insists that her children make the effort to authentically apologize when they have hurt another person.  A former coworker and friend once shared with me her approach to teaching kids about meaningful apologies - three simple steps:

Feeling sorry. 
Saying sorry. 
Showing your sorry.

A fantastic guide for kids and grown-ups alike.  If only it were that easy.

Push

I have been wondering lately whether it might be time to push myself and allow a few of my close friends into my little blogging experiment here.  (I must admit that having conversations with myself is getting a bit boring.)  This thought, however, is always accompanied by a substantive dash of anxiety and terror.

You see, the only people that currently know about this are those in my life whom I know love me unconditionally.  I know my moms won't think any less of me if my writing seems contrived.  Or petulant.  Or just plain sucks eggs.  In fact, I know I can count on them to, at the very least, pretend that the opposite is true.  And I love that about them.

I'm less sure about others.  And whether I can weather the knowledge of their presence.  I suppose this is my precursive plea to them to be kind if and when I muster the courage to invite them here.

Why women leaders quit

Today I started my noon hour with unconscious hopes of getting all the answers.  I was attending a "Lunch and Learn" session entitled Why Women Leaders Quit.  My first reaction was: Do we really need a seminar to figure this out?  Besides, I'm not really interested in hearing about the why.  Believe me, I get the why. What I need to learn about is the how.

How to stay the course.  How not to compromise the important things.  How to passionately invest yourself while not becoming completely depleted in the meantime.

I wonder if men in leadership ask themselves the same questions.  I somehow imagine that their questions would be different from mine but perhaps not.  I don't really know.

I would be lying if I said I didn't think fairly regularly about quitting my job.  But I've come to realize that I don't think that this would solve my problems.  Many of the problems and tensions I face in my role are not unique to the organization I work with.  And they are not unique to me either.  Sure, the challenges that women in leadership face are coloured by the expectations that others, including men, have of us.  But for me, like so many other women, the edges of my palette bleed to greyblack with the near impossible expectations that I place on myself to excel at it all: to be an strong and authentic leader and an attentive and engaged mother and wife and an ever-available listening ear and supportive friend and a contributing community member and and and...

I smiled to myself in the line at the Safeway, where I stopped on my way home this afternoon, as I tried in vain to balance my armload of milk cartons and eggs cartons while digging for a notepad to take down the contact info of the client I had on the cellphone.

I know I am not alone.  It was good to hear this today.  I guess I'll figure out the how some other day.

Snowscapes

Probably the thing I love most about wintertime is the feeling of being wrapped together with the earth in blanket of crisp purity by freshly fallen snow.

Winters north of the 49th in central Canada can be harsh to be sure, but there's nothing like a calm, sunny, post-snowfall day, even if it is -20.  Clean.  Bright.  Still.  Glorious.  It's nigh impossible to be grumpy on days like these. 

For a few days, I get to experience again the innocence that comes with the fresh snow.  I worry less about the chemicals and crap in the cotton-candy fluff that my kids lick from their mittens.  I forget about the litter and crud in the alley, the immaculately cleansed back lane feel like a miracle.  The world is shiny and new.

But, as always, the snow turns yellow brown too fast.  A new generation of Tim Hortons cast away cups defile the once unadulterated beauty.  And everything becomes grey and dirt.  Until the next snowfall breathes its crystal sigh.

So it goes.

For some reason, today I reluctantly remember the mixed feelings that always accompany me during those last weeks of winter, when the snowscapes melt as a harbinger of spring to reveal the disgusting truth of what has been hiding and decaying beneath.  This, bringing with it a final and bitter acceptance of the crumbling facade of winter, leaves me both mourning the clarity and purity of the once whiteness and lusting ravenously after the smells of wet earth and green rebirth that feel so far away yet.

Until then, though, I am content to sit by the fire and wait in anticipation for the skies to once more cleanse my view.  And, in denial, cover up and over the dirt and decay and wrap me together with the earth, warmed, by a blanket of comfort and a cup of hot chocolate.

Light

I realized last night, with a bit of a start, that it has been 9 years since my Oma died.

One of the things that I remember about my Oma's death was that she passed away on the same day as our first baby was due to be born.  I remember when we found out we were expecting, I was so excited that my Oma would be able to meet our little one.   But.  Our baby died in miscarriage and never met my Oma.  My Oma died in 2001 and never met my other children.  Sadness.

I so wish my boys could see the light in her eyes when they ran into her kitchen.  Would feel her light as she played games with them.  Would taste her light as she unwrapped those raspberry candies that seemed in unending supply at the bottom of her purse.  Would breathe in her light as she hugged them tight.

But of course, she was old.  And she died.  And these things just aren't possible.

I knew her light.  And now all that's left, besides memories, is for me to keep her light alive by seeking to live as compassionately, as humbly and as generously as she was.

Oma, lass die Augen dein uber meinem Bette sein.

Regular

I started my latest project (here) just for fun.  I thought it might be interesting to document regular boring life at out house - imperfect and unposed.  It was the simplest of ideas really.  I decided to take a photograph each day and just put it out there.  It would give our out-of-province family a chance to see more regular pictures of our handsome boys, both regular: every-day and regular: consistent (admittedly, I've not been very conscientious about emailing photos, sorry Mom!).

What I have discovered through this exercise is that I have begun to notice, more acutely, the beauty and wonder in these most regular of moments.  Nicholas tying his shoes.  Andreas working on his music theory.

It is so easy for me, especially when things at work are stressful and busy, to be deceived into thinking that these micro moments are really of no consequence.  Especially when I need to review the financial statements, need to check over the outgoing invoices, need to get that quote finished off, need to email this client confirming a meeting, need to return those phone calls and promised to have this report in the client's hands yesterday.

It is so easy for me to lose sight of the fact that, while work is important, it is not my life.  Life is a series of the simplest and boringest moments.  And if you don't stop and notice them regularly, they disappear.

Paradise

Nicholas, upon taking a bite of chocolate this morning (a rare allowance):   
It's just like falling into paradise!

Oh, to be young and filled with the joy of simple pleasures.
I wish for him that this never ends.

A little dose of crazy

Friends of ours have embraced the idea of home renovations like no other I know. They recently purchased a rickety house down the street from us and have since demolished it to build a new home in its stead.  They are doing this in several phases which means that they have been living on the property the whole time, in various stages of chaos.

Nicholas summed it up precisely when we took a recent tour of the progress:
Wow, that is a big job he has made for himself there!

He is essentially building this whole thing with his own two hands.  He's done it before, taking on projects of epic proportion, working hard and steady to get it done.  And it amazes me.  The idea itself seems just so enormous to me, let alone managing all the details of bringing that idea to life.  I am frozen at the very thought.  It's a good thing my friend isn't.

Slowly, week by week, the lumber stacks miraculously evolve into walls, into joists and floorboards, into a building, a home.  It takes hard work and sheer determination, creativity and big thinking.  And perhaps just a little dose of crazy. 

The outcome will undoubtedly be spectacular.  Their home will stand on the next block as an encouragement and reminder for us to always always dream big and colourful, crazy and all.  Then just work hard to make it all come alive.

I wish

A good friend recently asked me about whether I had ever experienced a time in my adult life when things were uncomplicated.  Unstressful.  Balanced.

I thought for a few moments.  And I surprised her, and myself, by saying yes.

Back in 2002, I think I surprised many people by having no interest in going back to work after the birth of my first boy.  I remember being questioned and challenged by people who were closest to me about what I really wanted and needed.  Didn't I need the intellectual stimulation of being engaged at work?  Wouldn't I feel empty being so baby-focused?  I even had a friend kindheartedly accuse me of not being honest with myself.

I think in some ways I was even surprised at how easy it was for me to leave work behind.  After all, I love my work.  My work/home balance problems didn't just emerge after my babies were born.  You can ask John about that.  But I remember reconnecting with colleagues over tea at the kitchen table soon after Nicholas was born and, while I was genuinely interested in what was going on at work, I really was quite happy to see them out the door and let them to it.

I've been back to work now for 4 years.  And I still grieve the simplicity of a singular focus in my life.  I remember fondly the days of folding diapers.  Of bundling the babies up and taking meandering morning walks on chilly November days.  Of baking cookies or baking anything really.  Of productive afternoons consisting of nothing more than story books and play dough.  It sounds romantic and revisionist.  But it was romantic.  I really loved every minute of it.

It's harder than I ever realized, negotiating this crazy tight rope that stretches between work and family.  The pull between the two means that both are inadequately attended to as I am left alone, teetering midway, immobilized by the competition between my own wants and needs and the screaming demands coming from either side of the great black hole below.

I am a mom.  And a mediator.
And I wish I still had the time and inclination to make yogurt from scratch.