On Being on the Shore with a Teaspoon

My doctor once explained to me that the mind was like a river and our thoughts were like the water; effortlessly flowing in the direction of the current.

Brain research suggests that over 90% of our thoughts are the exact same every single day. Meaning that the river of our mind is deeply entrenched, continuing to flow in the same direction and with the same ease, day in and day out. 

But what happens if the water in that river is toxic? What happens if the direction of that current causes us suffering? 

Then what?

If our thoughts and responses are ones of fear and self-doubt, and those thoughts happen effortlessly because we’ve spent years allowing the water to forge a path, then it becomes harder and harder to change over time.

In more formal terms, that river is our neural pathways and those thoughts become so habitual that we don’t even realize they are happening. And just like that, we get swept away by the current of our own thinking.

Those who wrestle with especially anxious thoughts on a regular basis, their river can be even more dangerous because the current is that much stronger and can easily take you under. Keeping my head above water has been a very real part of my life over when the River rages.

That being said, our brains can be reprogrammed. Our neural pathways can be changed and reshaped. And the more we practice doing so, the easier it becomes. A new habit is being formed. 

But it means taking something that has been rushing forth for decades and asking it to move four feet to the left where the terrain is a bit gentler!

A huge part of this healing season for me revolves around changing the path of my river. Creating gaps between the outer world and my inner world. Using language and intention to carve out a new direction. Questioning my thoughts and reflecting on the patterns that have led me down turbulent paths. 

Does shame actually belong here? (Hard no.)

Is it really my job to live up to other people’s expectations of me? (Nopey nopey nope.)

Do I truly have a reason to feel unsafe in my body? (Surprisingly, no.)

It’s a strange experience to witness your own thoughts and to push back against them when they have spent the better part of your life running the show. 

But I believe this is where healing and transformation live—in the questions—in the awareness—in the confrontation of the things that make us deeply uncomfortable. The transformation is in the understanding that we always have a choice about which story to write.

I’m not going to lie though; most of the time it feels like I’m sitting next to the Nile, trying to dig a new trench with a teaspoon. I tend to gravitate towards the familiar—even if the familiar is the same water that is slowly poisoning me.

Healing really is a combination of both deep beauty and deep pain. I hurt a lot of the time. I fight off doubt a lot of the time. I grieve a lot of the time. And yet, I also feel slivers of freedom shining through. The softening of calcification that has happened through the experience of life. Intuition beginning to override trauma and fear. 

It’s very slow and it’s incredibly hard at times. And on days like today, it brings me to my knees. 

But the time is going to pass anyways. 

So I will continue to sit here, teaspoon in hand, on the banks of a river that I’ve spent a lifetime creating.

And as a friend gently reminded today… if I’ve done it before, then I can do it again.

 

On Falling

You know what I love about acorns?

I love that falling is part of their life cycle. I love that crashing to the ground is necessary for growth. I love that letting go is the first step towards becoming strong and wonderful. 

Leaves fall in honour of their tree. They fall so that the tree can withstand the added weight of snow that comes with winter. Leaves let go so that something else can grow.

But acorns fall so that they can grow.

Every oak was once an acorn.

I've been getting a lot of messages lately asking if I'm alright.

"I can't quite tell from your posts if you're doing okay or if you're going through something hard," the gentle words often say.

The answer is yes and yes. 

I'm good. But it doesn't always feel good.

I'm working on lots of fun projects and creating lots of beautiful relationships and untangling a lot of important stuff.

And in between those moments of growing and creating and healing, there are moments of discomfort and frustration and doubt.

Life is funny that way, isn't it?

Even the beauty is lined with very human impatience.

I guess you could say that I'm an acorn who very much wants to be an oak tree!

I fell to the ground and while I know that it's part of what I needed to go through, I feel ready to start growing my new roots and reaching for the sky.

But life, like nature, is not interested in rushing. It does its own work in its own time. And no amount of me trying to tell the Universe otherwise is going to change that.

So I keep plucking away; one day at a time--more learning and reflecting, more untangling, more healing…more falling. Sometimes it feels like I'm taking two steps forward and one heartbreaking step back. Other times it feels like I'm taking two steps forward and an entire plane ride back.

So, here's to patience...to nature's timing...and to blooming where we're planted! 🍂

On Dark Neighbourhoods and Begging for Help

Not long after Chester Bennington--lead singer of Linkin Park--died, I listened to a podcast about his struggle with mental illness. He compared it to walking alone, in the dark, through a really bad neighbourhood. As the words lingered in the air, I could feel my throat tighten and a single tear form in the corner of my eye. 

I thought about that interview while I sat in my doctor’s office—with a flood of tears streaming down my face--begging for help that I hadn’t recognized that I needed. 

I know that bad neighbourhood all too well. I’ve been there many times. And though I’m skirting that place right now, it’s possible that I will always have to work harder than others to not veer in that direction.

Into the darkness. Into the fear. Into the isolation of it all.

And part of me still struggles to write about it.

Because I know what people think when they hear the word ‘anxiety’.

I know what it’s like to have someone assume that you’re just too “emotional” or “fragile” or “sensitive”.

I know what it’s like to have someone question your strength, your resilience, your mental stability.

I know what it’s like to be told to just “chill out”, “settle down”, “not worry so much” or “take a walk”…as though that’s an option that had never been considered before.

I know what’s it’s like for people to have no idea how much you’re actually suffering.

I know what’s it’s like to be held hostage by something that you can’t explain while being surrounded by people who don’t understand.

I know what it’s like.

And I did choose to keep it to myself.

Literally. For years.

Because, honestly, I don’t like talking about it.

I don’t like talking about how too many people together in a room makes me nervous. I don’t like talking about the irrational irritability and the tears that threaten to drown me. 

I don’t like discussing what it’s like to lose your memory or your peripheral vision or your sense of safety, or my inability to problem solve in the midst of a panic attack.

I don’t like sharing about the guilt that I carry for the people who love me and have to live with this.

I don’t like explaining to a person how trauma gets stored in the form of seemingly irrational but nonetheless crippling fear.

I really don’t like talking about any of these things.

Because it’s terrifying and painful and makes something inside of me physically ache just looking at the words.

But we need to.

Please hear me again; we need to.

We need to talk about what that dark neighbourhood looks like and feels like and sounds like. There is someone else out there walking in their own dark neighbourhood. Because someone needs to know what anxiety and depression is really like for a person living through it. We don’t need to walk through life alone.

And because the only way out of shame and fear and guilt...is to stop hiding in a corner with it.

There is so much to be said about the need to recognize, nurture and fight for your mental health. Especially now.

I have spent my entire adult life walking in and out of these neighbourhoods. Most of the time, it’s a brief visit after taking a wrong turn. A few times, I’ve wandered alone and lost for much longer than I would have liked.

But each and every time, the only thing that helped me find my way out…was following the sound of a voice.

Not a guiding light or a set of arrows or a sequence of actions; it was a voice.

It was the voice of a friend sharing their own experience. It was the voice of a friend who said “I’ll go with you”. It was the voice of a doctor sending for help. It was the voice of a loved one telling me that they missed me. It is the voice my mom couldn’t find. 

And then....it was my own voice. Sometimes, it was a quiet whisper of desperation and other times, it was a final cry of strength.

Either way, it was the sound of love fighting back.

We need to talk about it. We need more voices.

Friends, let’s reach out. Let’s check in. Let’s call out.

Let’s fight back.

And if you are wandering in this dark and scary place right now, follow the voice that leads you home. Whatever that voice may be.

Especially if it’s your own.

On Being A Mess and the Beauty in the Mud

I wish I could tell you there was another way.

I wish I could give you a road map that was clean and flawless and perfect in every way.

I wish I could pull out the rule book. 

But I can’t, because I’ve never experienced it.

The truth is, I only know one way. And. It’s. Messy. 

Whether it's been creating relationships…creating words…or creating a moment. It’s been messy.

I used to be afraid of the mess; afraid of the flaws that might appear if things got dirty along the way. Until I realized that the greatest beauty I’ve ever known has arisen from the disheveled pieces of a very messy life.  

The most valued relationships I have in my life are with the people who were willing to stand in the mud with me. It seems that there is so much beauty in walking through the trenches with someone, facing their battle, and finding your way out together.

The most precious words I’ve ever written in my life are the creations that exist bound by grit and sand. Because there is so much beauty in having a vision, watching it dissolve to pieces, then transform into something new. The most meaningful moments I’ve ever had in my life are the ones spent with my hands and knees covered in dirt.  There is so much grace in having been buried, digging yourself out, and uncovering the strongest version of yourself.

I wish I could tell you there was another way.

But I can’t. Because I’ve never experienced it.

But I CAN tell you that life is often very messy.

And if you’re willing to embrace that mess, there isn’t just beauty on the other side of it, there is beauty inside of it too. Afterall, the lotus flower blossoms from the mud. 

If you are needing someone to join in the mud please reach out. We are in this together. And let me tell you, when we come out of the trenches it will be beautiful.

On the Healing Powers of Writing- A Eulogy

The past couple weeks have been tough. I’ve had to rely on old coping skills and new ones too. On Wednesday, my grandpa died and it seemed like everything in my world became hyper-focused on that. Maybe his death allowed me refuge from other strife. I was asked by my remaining family to write and deliver the eulogy. As I walked picket lines, lugged kids to arenas, and went about other typical and non-typical tasks, these words lingered in my head all week. As we drove to the funeral Friday night here is where I landed. 
To my grandpa. To my grandma. To my mom. To my dad. To my aching heart....**************************
First off, my aunt heather, uncle ray, and uncle gary, Aunt aline, uncle Ken, aunt sue and uncle bob and Diane, my cousins and their families, all want to sincerely thank you for your efforts in being here, not only today but throughout the years. You have filled our hearts with laughter, memories and enduring friendship. 

We wish to also take this moment to publicly recognize the staff at Hanover hospital.  To the unparalleled compassionate care at Chapman house we thank you from the very bottom of our hearts. We encourage those wishing to memorialize Norman Dempsey Yost to consider donating to Chapman House so that other families can continue to benefit from the amazing care they offer. 

As the eldest and best looking grandchild,  I’ve been asked to say some words on behalf of the Yost family. about my Grandpa, Dempsey. But before I begin, I have to say that eulogies are impossible. Eulogies are impossible because words simply cannot capture love. I will undoubtedly fail to perfectly articulate the immeasurable and indescribable husband, father, brother, uncle, cousin, grandfather, great grandfather, and friend that he was. For all of us who were blessed enough to know and love my grandpa, the only things that will truly capture who he was are the warm memories that we each hold within our hearts.  I consider this a great honour to represent our family for you all today. I'll try to do justice to this larger than life person with such a huge, embracing spirit.

It is an odd thing, speaking at the funeral of the man that has served as the narrator of your lives. In the hours and days since his death, It seems as though many of us have lost our words. I suppose it is because he was the person that provided me with so many of them. Listening to stories it seems as though he's provided many of you with such beautiful memories.  So many times over the past few days, as we’ve struggled or hurt or hoped I’ve thought, we should call grandma and grandpa. They’d both get on the phone and jockey for who would have the next word, but they would most certainly help us all to see this the right way. So, together, let’s try to find comfort in the paths we’ve shared as a result of our love for Norman Dempsey Yost. 

My grandfather and I had a number of secrets between us. And as I’m learning so did many of you. Many of the secrets, I can’t tell; the salient feature of a secret is NOT the matter contained within the secret, but the personal relationship and trust implied.

But hey whats a few a secrets between a hundred friends and family.  I think it’s important that we share in celebration, and because I think that my grandpa won’t mind that we chuckle at his expense, I’ll share one of my close held secrets. My grandfather once told me that he would have liked to have been a teacher like me. 

Like I said, it’s a little secret. It’s a little dream. But ever since he told it to me, several years ago now, the image of my grandfather in front of a class, teaching something cool like history, has stayed fixed in my memory. It is something that seems right and true.

Part of this may have to do with the fact that, in a very real sense, my grandfather embodied history to me. I have only just now come to that point in my life where time has loosed itself from its moorings, and memory has begun to develop an appreciable depth. But to me, my grandfather always seemed to have that depth.

We can all remember asking our grandparents about their lives; it’s fascinating to a young person, because here is someone talking about a time and a place that never existed or could exist for that young person. Here, before you, is someone who has traveled through time.

And as you reconstruct the past with a grandparent, you also reconstruct the person. My grandfather had always been my grandpa: Older, balding, slightly grumpy, and have that perpetual grandpa smell. 

But he was also once a child, born in Hamilton, Ontario to Earl and Meta Yost.

He shared in recent months that he loved to play baseball, hockey, and lacrosse with his childhood friends, most of whom remained lifelong friends. 

He shared, with pride, with work ethic, starting working on farm then entering the workforce in high school. He started at the hosiery Mill, Ontario hydro, PUC and  as the volunteer fire chief in Hanover . I remember seeing my grandpa in his dress uniform and being so proud. At about 17 Norman Yost was given the nickname Dempsey after, Jack dempsey, the boxer. Truth be told I always knew him as and I think many of you recall him the same way, Dempsey. You see, he was a bit of a fighter when he was 17 or 18. He was offered a chance to box In Hamilton but Great Grandpa earl insisted that he lay roots In Hanover with the family and that is EXACTLY what he did. 

What resonates with me is that grandpa lived from a place of service, hard work and dedication in all that he did. And reflecting on his legacy I look at his 5 children and 9 grandchildren and can’t help be be struck by the fact   you have all lived up to his legacy by always striving for excellence.  He was so stinkin proud of each of you, even if I was his favourite. 

If I’m being honest, we were all his “second” favourites because his one true love and his ultimate favourite was undoubtedly Gwendolyn Rose Lahr, whom he married in 1951 Grandma and grandpa lived a fairy tale if I’ve ever heard one. Their fairy tale includes .....

• I’ll spare you much of the sappy details but Grandpa would go hunting while grandma waited for her love to return. Upon his arrival she would faithfully pluck each feather from the goose, clean 100 perch, or prepare the deer for the winter freeze.
• The two of them loved nothing more more than having their family together for a holiday. Grandma would slave over a stove for 2 days, making a beautiful meal for the family that seemed to exponentially grow by the month, grandpa would lovingly remind her about the buns and side plates. Such teamwork!
• They worked hard but they played hard also. Lawn bowling, horseshoes, and more than few trips to Niagara and everything in between. They extended their fairy tale to picturesque Mexico, Portugal and the faired tale of the cruise down the reine into Germany. Grampa would say it was so perfect he wanted to take us all. Not to mention their very romantic trips to Fort Eerie to visit his sister Marie, niece Debbie and her boys Craig and David. 
• They were perfectly coupled  dancers. He would lead his Gwenny through many a dance and even teach Brenda to love the jive. Truly, there is not a thing in this world that I wouldn’t give to see my mom and grandpa jive together. For from my moms perspective this was her superhero. Her dad. Now the three of them are dancing together and I find peace in that. 
• Their love story included camping on manitoulin, long meandering drives, a close kept parenting secret and the occasional.... Grandma turning off his hearing aids 

A place and its history are meaningless unless there is a context in which to place it. The proper context for Dempsey was within his family. How fitting because Families are also the embodiment of history: The individual elements change as the men and women of it pass though time, but the family remains. He had a more expansive definition of family than most. To him, love of family meant extending his embracing arms to include not only my uncle Gary, aunt heather, uncle ken, uncle bob, my mom and his grandchildren, but also of his nieces and nephews, grand nieces and nephews, and friends. Here's where Grandpa breaks the mould, as the kids fell in love he gladly welcomed our loved ones. Even if it meant that aunt heather and uncle ray packed separate suitcases to avoid grandpa finding out they were living together or one of our boyfriends got the glare across the dinner table. His circle of love and caring grew exponentially. Not that I have a biased opinion, but I think he loved his grandchildren most. 

My little cousins, Christopher, Cody, Kaitlyn, Riley and Kelsey, Mckenna, Callan and Carson he was so immensely proud of each your accomplishments and couldn't wait to gloat, I mean lovingly share your experiences with the world. When you would score your first goal he would rush to the shop to get your trophies made up. When Christopher and Kaitlyn got married he brushed off his favourite suit and stood shoulders Pack and grinning to get picture with his little ones. When you purchased houses or graduated he’d set to the workshop to make a special keepsake. He was also one to quite literally make your accomplishments town news by placing ads in Hanover Post. Those ads were then carefully clipped and hung on the fridge with pride for decades. He was quite the woodworker. He made beautiful pieces that included TV stands, hope chests, benches and stunning ducks.  While he enjoyed the technical aspects of working with hands and was a skilled marksman he was not so technical with the gadgets of today. Each technological advancement that the kids brought home garnered new frustrations; the new phones, the GPS, the fish finders. I fondly recall when uncle ray and aunt heather got grandpa a computer and connected him to the inter web. He just could not figure out how to respond to the emails that were piling up in his inbox. Needless to say the computer didn’t last long. Grandpa enjoyed the simple things in life. Watching a hockey a hockey game whether it be at his personal seat at the new arena or in front of his small TV. Wood fires rather than gas. Paper maps and routes by memory over a GPS; tried and tested fishing holes over fish finders;  

He loved to take long meandering drives around town repeating the same stories over and over. It was as if telling those stories took him back to an idyllic place, where all 5 of his kids were together and Gwenny was waiting in the sitting room watching for him to come home. Repeating those stories were his way of holding on with all his might to things and people he held dearest. 

But I think I understand part of it now. Your family is more than a historical context. It shapes you and colors you and binds you. You can feel the tangible connections between us, linked through time from the past and fading into the future. Norman Dempsey Yost wanted us to know about those who had acted within his life, because they would play a part in my life as well, if only indirectly, as their attractions pulled at my grandfather during his path through life.

Grandpa loved thing to be just perfectly so.  He reveled in perfectly pressed hems, 

Perfectly cooked meat, the perfect reviving line and the perfect tone, intonation, and volume of speech. His eye for the very best made us all aim to reach his expectations. As models of his ideals,  my aunts and uncles all made it home by curfew, even if the fire phone would expectedly alarm upon their, you know very, punctual but sneaky arrival home.  

He was, and through his legacy will continue to be a man of tradition. I remember as a 26 year old coming home with my new baby and giddily waiting in bed for grandpa to ring the bell on Christmas morning. “Ho. Ho. Ho. Merry Christmas”. I’m not sure at what age Christopher and I realized it wasn’t really santa, but my 26 year old new mom self believed in every part of that merry Christmas. 

He was the man that taught us about masculinity but also Vulnerability. My word, the man could cry at paint drying just right and I think all of us girls sought men that could show that type of vulnerability. His dinner toasts would bring us all to our knees with his heartfelt gratitude for the family and friends that contributed to his great life. 

He . Here’s where I may reveal some secrets and grandpa please know I do it out of love and adoration (and the need for a couple of chuckles right about now). 

Norman Dempsey Yost was a hunter and angler. On One particular morning as her and uncle gary were returning home from a morning sit in deer season they spotted a large buck walking in the field.  Demps came to a sudden stop and uncle gary and him jumped out of the vehicle, Gary losing the fight to get the rifle.  Demps loaded up, ran to the ditch, leaned his rifle on the fence post and took aim.  Uncle gary waited..... nothing. Click. More nothing. Apparently grandpa had forgotten to take safety off.  By that time the buck had escaped inevitable doom with grandpa reminding uncle gary about the inherent trust that comes with a great secret. “Shhhh don’t tell anyone.” 

The boys also share another secret of the time that the pesky squirrels were menacing so as any protector would, he got the pellet pistol out and to ensure The air cartridge was ready he readied the pistol, put his finger in front of it .... BANG. Not only was the air cartridge loaded, but there was not safety this time.  This secret resulted in a trip to emerg for a quick fix of his finger. 

The little kids- the grands kids, myself included, remember the man who taught us if you find the perfect piece of garden hose and copper tubing you can make campfire wood glow with magical colour. That if you come visit grandpa their is always Chapman IceCream, even if the cones cut your mouth to pieces. He taught us that If you just show up every single time your family is there waiting with small glass, a readied table and a listening ear. But the trick is, just show up, no matter how hard it seems. 

What a small dream my grandfather had, but what a powerful dream as well. I look at most of you now through mt grandpa’s eyes and memories. Who you are to me must spring from the foundation of knowledge he gave me, from the sense of history that he tried to instill within me, about you. It is a good foundation, a good history, and my grandfather’s life was a good life.

His small inconsequential dream of teaching, although he didn’t know it, came true in each of us. It is a history that is still living, as we compose its elemental parts, as we create our world in our own time, linked together and stronger for it.  And stronger for having lived in and of his legacy. 

Thank you grandpa for your lessons. We love you, and honor you. And as befits a teller of history, I shall not forget him and I beg that you won’t either. 

We love you with all we’ve got, Sweet lips 

On the Privilege of Leadership

I was about thirteen years old when I first started working at a local baseball diamond snack bar. This means that I've had many, many years of working for other people. Some of those people were incredible bosses. Some of them were most definitely not incredible bosses. But the experience of it all created a deep curiosity inside of me around the concept of leadership. The curiosity ran so deep that I pursued an additional degree in School Administration, with a focus on interpersonal leadership.

Throughout my time in the workforce, I've had jobs in the retail industry, in restaurants, in crown corporations, in finance, and of course, as an educator. And regardless of how different any of these paths may have been, the common denominator throughout--be it good or bad--was leadership. Even though, at times, I may have been the “boss”, I always had more seasoned leaders to guide me along the way.

And here's the conclusion I've drawn from witnessing countless group dynamics in action...

Your leaders will make you or break you.

They will make or break your businesses.

They will make or break your teams.

They will make or break your goals.

They will make or break your willingness to give your all.

The reason why is because first and foremost, all of these are made up of PEOPLE.

Not profits. Note shares. Not wins. Not medals. Not nepotism.

PEOPLE.

If people aren't treated with respect and worth, then bad things start to happen.

Experience has shown me two dominant scenarios when it comes to running the show; there are those that consider it their right as the boss and there are those that consider it their privilege as the leader. One focuses on what they can get their teams to do and the other focuses on how they can make their teams feel.

Of course, in any setting, productivity and outcomes matter, but in all of my time working on teams, I can confidently say the following: when leaders care about how their teams feel, those teams will naturally, go above and beyond to show you what they can do.

Leaders set their teams up to succeed knowing that the rising tide lifts all boats, whereas on the contrary, bosses set themselves up to succeed believing that the ocean isn't big enough for all of us.

A couple of weeks ago, a candidate in a course I was teaching shared a video about the privilege of leadership (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5jmSZFyWQk) and I was surprised by how deeply it struck a chord with me. It actually triggered me in a way that completely caught me off guard and I needed some time to sift through my underlying feelings about it.

Eventually, I realized it was this line...

"The person you report to, your direct supervisor, is more important to your health than your family doctor..."

This.

THIS.

Then in the depth of my musings I was sent an article from the Alberta Lacrosse Association titled “Why Kids Quit Sport; Alberta Lacrosse Asked Them: July 2017” https://activeforlife.com/alberta-lacrosse-why-kids-leave/.  The article bases its assertion on the statistic that retention, especially in minor lacrosse, is abysmal, yet not many organizations have asked kids why they are not returning. The ALA found that families do not return to lacrosse because of “coaching, sportsmanship, and club culture”. Again….

This.

THIS

Both of these scenarios speak to me about the paramount importance of leadership and relationship building.

It is why I'm so passionate about what it means to be a leader; because 90% of all doctor visits are linked back to stress. Because the majority of that stress is caused in the workplace and by extension bosses. Because I have been on the doorstep of mental health leave due to poor leadership and workplace culture.

It is why I'm so passionate about what it means to be a leader; Because 16% of those that quit lacrosse in 2016 said they were dissatisfied with club culture. Because the growth of the sport I love so much is being threatened.  Because I have watched my own child cry when it comes time to give his all at the local level.   

And because I've witnessed, time and time again, people use their position as a sword to be wielded instead of a tool to serve others.

Understand that waking up every day to hold a piece of another person's life in your hands is a responsibility...not an advantage.

Please understand that volunteering your time to build love and passion for sport, and to teach young athletes to give their all, is a responsibility; not a social hierarchy.

The best leaders I've ever been blessed to work with are also the ones that weren't afraid to say "I'm sorry" and "I was wrong" and "I hope to grow alongside you."

To all of the leaders in my life that truly live from a place of service, thank you from the bottom of my heart. While your guidance and example have shaped me in more ways than I will ever know, your humility and grace will shape the world in more ways than you will ever know.