The Wisdom of the Enneagram

enneagramHave you ever bought a car, one you think is unique and as soon as you own it, you notice the same model everywhere you go?

The Enneagram (pronounced ANy-a-gram) is like that for me. A fellow member of my speaking mastermind group suggested I read the Wisdom of the Enneagram when I was wrestling, yet again this spring, with what to be when I grow up.

I borrowed the book from the library and answered 75 quiz questions for each of the nine personality types. I later learned they are available online, see http://www.enneagraminstitute.com/

Over the last three decades I’ve taken a number of personality tests, Myers-Briggs-type measurements of who I am. Some measure me in colours, (I am blue or green or red, depending on the test). Some peg me by letters, CV or IF. Others use animal names to describe the personality types: owls and otters come to mind. Some tests are like horoscopes.

No test has ever come as close to pegging me as the Enneagram did.

In June, I signed up for some ten-minute business coaching. To my surprise, my coach was familiar with Enneagram. She was able to suggest actions to improve my habits that fit with who I am. She helped me focus on my gifts and find tools to work around my weaker areas.

Here is what the Enneagram has taught me so far: I am a Seven, the Enthusiast. I love new beginnings. One of my obstacles to success is my propensity not to finish things, and Enneagram said, especially educational pursuits.

It’s true. I’ve taken several courses and never written the exams so I could get the piece of paper. The knowledge has always been what interests me; the accolades are less important.

But accolades and various pieces of paper matter to the world, especially when one is a leader and expected to show proof of one’s ability to do the job.

A light came on for me. I had agonized whether I would finish my Toastmasters path. I had just one project to go to achieve Distinguished Toastmaster, (DTM), a rather arduous one-year commitment to mentor four Toastmasters clubs. I decided to change my life: to get my DTM by the end of the Toastmasters 2014-2015 season. I’m already three months into the year commitment. And I will finish.

The final bit on synergy I want to share with you (remember that new car?): a few weeks ago I attended a business women’s networking meeting where I met Eileen Head, a lovely woman who spoke about her failed 35 year marriage and how she was using the Enneagram to help others heal their relationships.

Having survived two failed marriages myself, it wasn’t hard for me to imagine how much more enhanced relationships would be if we understood ourselves better. Truly knowing the way others see life would make it easier to collaborate and reach mutually beneficial solutions.

I’ve included a link to Eileen’s business. www.EileenHead.com I urge you to discover your own Enneagram and consider calling on Eileen to help you heal your relationships using this amazing tool.

The best part for me about Enneagram was its declaration of my greatest gift: the joy of living. This is so true of me and now that I know it for sure, I look for ways to celebrate and help others celebrate life everyday.

There is wisdom in the Enneagram.

 

Yellow

yellowrose

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

My grandma’s favourite colour was yellow. (Being Canadian I spell both favourite and colour with “our”).

Her kitchen was yellow.

I loved her kitchen, despite not loving yellow.

She created good things in that kitchen.

The sun always seemed so bright in Grandma’s kitchen.

Perhaps it was the yellow walls. Perhaps it was the sunshine.   Perhaps, and this is what I suspect, it was Grandma.

When my grandpa was dying, over 40 years ago, he dreamed that he painted the outside of their farmhouse yellow. He inferred that he defied conventional wisdom because Grandma liked yellow. It was the perfect metaphor for his devotion, devotion that would otherwise remain unspoken in their Germanic, one-must-not-show-emotion home.

She told me that story several times, always with a catch in her voice, so I knew the impact it had on her.

As a child I had yellow hair. Perhaps that’s why Grandma cherished me so lavishly. (Or not!) I still have yellow hair thanks to Brian, with his roll of tin foil and a purple paste down at the Phoenician Salon.

My grandma had yellow flecks in her eyes. Officially, she called her eyes green, but they were actually yellow. That trait popped up in one of my daughters and one of my granddaughters; they have yellow undertones in their irises. The effect is that their eyes look like they’re the same colour as their strawberry blond hair. It’s weird. Beautiful, exotic, but strange.

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Mustard is yellow. It is my favourite condiment, in my opinion, a must-have for the complete enjoyment of a burger. Perhaps that’s where they got the name. I like the plain stuff. No Dijon, Honey or Horseradish; just plain mustard.

There are other good yellow foods. Nobody exposed me to squash as a child but my yellow-irised daughter shared the secret about the great flavour of butternut squash. I saute it in butter and maple syrup. Mmm!

I used to love Grandma’s pickled yellow beans.   Yellow beans are very tasty, fresh from the garden too. Canned yellow beans are gross; they certainly don’t deserve the title “vegetables”.

There is nothing more heavenly than a homemade lemon pie. Grandma used to make them.   A crust made of real lard, not hydrogenated vegetable oil, a sweet and sour sunshine filling, topped with a cloud of meringue, delicately kissed golden in the oven.   Mmm again!

When I was young I thought it was weird to declare yellow as one’s favourite colour. I preferred purple (my dad’s chosen hue, also unconventional) and blue. Even pink, red, and certain shades of green but not yellow!

I don’t know that I ever saw Grandma wearing yellow. It’s not a flattering colour for many people. Some shades of it make ME look green.

Grandpa always said Grandma looked best in white (good thing she was a nurse) and blue, but that was HIS favourite colour, so he was biased there, don’t you think?

Why would someone select a colour that one cannot wear?

I know blue makes my eyes look bluer than they are (actually they’re a blue-grey-green, depending on the weather and what I’m wearing). I guess I got some of Grandma’s yellow iris DNA too.

Most of the clothing in which I feel most comfortable is blue, like jeans and faded denim shirts, and the fabulous turquoise dress I got for $13 at a dress shop in Phoenix.

See. I know the fun of wearing MY favourite colour!

I wore yellow to Grandma’s funeral. In fact my declaration that I intended to do so inspired other family members to dig out or borrow or buy yellow articles of clothing to wear.

One of the most touching things my husband ever did was show up at my sister’s before Grandma’s funeral, wearing a crisp new yellow dress shirt. He proved he actually listens!

He looked great in that shirt with his dark hair and brown eyes, and miraculously it was exactly the same shade as my yellow jacket. We looked like we had actually coordinated our wardrobe. Quite the feat! Do you have any idea how many shades of yellow there are?

My brother in law’s tie was the same yellow as my sister’s blouse, both of which were totally different from and clashed with our yellow.

In the weeks after Grandma’s funeral I would find myself weeping, often while walking our Golden Retriever, Divot, (our yellow dog), in our local dog park.

One day I felt like I was tapped on the shoulder.

There before me was a meadow of mostly yellow wildflowers, waving at me. My eye was drawn to the buffalo beans. Grandma taught me the name of buffalo beans. As a child, I picked them in the meadow immediately behind her farmhouse.

And there were some Brown-eyed Susans and others whose names I don’t yet know.

The flowers danced while the breeze whispered in my ear, something I didn’t quite catch. It felt like “I’m okay”.   Or maybe, “I’m here”.   Or, “I was here; now it’s your turn!”

At the very least, the message that comforted me was that whenever I see a yellow wildflower I can think of Grandma. And I do.

I think of the many things she taught me.

I remember of the warmth of her unconditional love.

Before her decline in the last few years, we would compare stories about the wonder of being a grandma. I remember laughing with her about the cute things my grandkids would say. And she would repeat the cute things I said when I was her little Grandtoy.

Come to think of it, that was one of the “yellow” moments of my life.

Thanks, again, Grandma!