Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Life

Baseball Boy

When my son was small, he spent hours in the front yard, throwing a baseball against what is known as a "pitchback."

As the name suggests, this tall, flat-surfaced piece of equipment propelled his thrown balls back into his waiting glove.

My son used the pitchback with such intensity and frequency that it needed to be replaced several times between elementary and high school.

It was clear from his earliest years that my boy, who would also hang out in the driveway dribbling and shooting a basketball until long after dark,  loved the repetition and physicality of sports.

He also loved the tactics and gamesmanship required. He loved following stats and discussing them with his dad. He loved the competition. He loved the camaraderie.

He had gained some admirable skills by the time he graduated from high school

This past fall in Guatemala, he played in a local soccer league, and recently he sent a text telling me that he had pitched four innings for a local baseball team.

It did this mother's heart good to hear of his baseball outing.

I was happy because my son was playing baseball for the pure love of the game; he was playing baseball for the same reason that he would spend hours with his pitchback when he was young.

There was no pressure to win for his school or for a premier club team.

He did it because it brought him joy: the joy of a small boy, loving the feel of a baseball in his hand.

 

Campbell, yesteryear

 

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour & Podcast. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Enough, and More

Love is at once complex and simple.

To love someone is often simple. We may be drawn to an individual in ways that defy cognition. We resonate to that individual--to his touch, his smell, his voice.

This part is easy. We cannot, in many cases, help who we love. We love despite ourselves.

The complexity is in the logistics.

And in the fit.

Sometimes we come to find that no matter how much we love another, our life does not fit with his. Try as we might to force this fit, it simply cannot be made to happen.

Which we may only acknowledge after years of painful trying. Perhaps, even, after marrying and having children together.

While working towards a love, and the act of loving, is highly laudable, it can also be achingly ill-advised.

Decades into a relationship, the dismantling of a shared life may be the unfortunate result.

The dismantling of shared life and love rarely takes place without a sense of bitterness and regret; sadness and frustration.

Especially when those involved feel that they have done all they could to make things fit together.

Inevitably there is a feeling of being under-appreciated for all that was attempted, typically from both sides.

When really, the issue was not "being enough."

Rather, it was having the "right fit."

It was having shared vision and goals; it was looking forward in the same direction.

It was being able to work through a complex set of logistics--or even having the desire to do so in the first place.

Love is simple, and also complex.

It should not be squandered, nor should it be taken lightly. 

It should not be assumed that a shared life is the inevitable conclusion.

It should not be assumed that a shared life cannot be made to work.

To love may be simple.

To live love, despite its complexities, near to divine.

 

Popham walk

February 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour & Podcast. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Cliff Walk

When my children were small, their father and I backpacked them everywhere.

We hiked in Vermont and New Hampshire.

We walked trails both coastal and mountainous in our dear state of Maine.

We shoehorned in numerous adventures while completing our medical and legal educations, and working the endless hours required by early professional careers.

It was important that we get outdoors, and connect our kids with the "something bigger" that we both had experienced growing up.

Time passed, and our kids got older. School and sports-related activities bumped our outdoor adventures down the list of priorities.

The outdoor adventures I had once shared became mostly solo jaunts.

My family shifted, and changed form.

This past weekend, I returned to that shared "something bigger" connection, as I took two short hikes with my dearest one.

I showed him the Bates-Morse Mountain hike to Seawall Beach/Popham; he brought me to the Cliff Walk at Prouts Neck. The first was unfamiliar to him; the second unfamiliar to me.

I enjoyed his company, the beautiful oddly-out-of-sync February weather and the scenery.

I also found myself awash in physical memories of earlier days. 

I found myself returning to past hikes with my children and their father. Re-connecting with the experiences that had once been so crucial to my life, and the life of my young family.

It would have been easy to know regret and sadness over these lost days; easy to mourn something that no longer is.

But, instead, I allowed the past memories to be what they were:  joyous recollections.

I found myself singing as I navigated the rock-strewn Cliff Walk. It was as if the overtones of sadness and regret associated with those memories were taking flight from my body and ascending as balloons to the sky.

Making way for new memories. 

Making way for a new life.

And I knew that although my children were no longer always able to be with me in physical form, I would carry them with me in spirit forever.

We would each continue to connect with that "something bigger" in our own ways.

And, in doing so, would connect with one another as well.

 

Prouts Neck, low tide

February 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour & Podcast. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

To Thine Ownself

Sophie Grace, born as she was on Valentine's Day, cannot be other than the child of my heart.

A changeling fifth-grader, today she turns eleven.

Middle school has been an interesting process for Miss Sophie. She is an enigmatic child--wordly wise and innocent in the same instant.

As one might expect of a heart-child, her lanky self is exquisitely attuned to the energy of those around her. She is ever aware of the people who populate her world. 

Her ability to read people and situations  is a gift belying her years.

It is also a fascinating handicap in a world where things are not always as they appear. 

There is, most will admit, a vast difference between what is true, and what others want us to believe.

There is also, often, a vast difference between who we are and who others may wish us to be.

With heart-children, the pull to make others happy is strong.

We know that by agreeing to believe as we are told, and act as we are "supposed to," that others will find pleasure in our company.

The "Be Yourself" mantra, though popular, does not always win friends.

Heart-children like Sophie witness this truism from their earliest years.

And yet this is what I wish for my changeling heart-child: that she would ever follow the counsel offered by Shakespeare's Polonius...

"To thine ownself be true."

I hope that as her mother, I will have the wisdom and ability to bolster my daughter's strength should she chose to follow this rocky path.

I must admit to having often taken the less rocky path of self-morphing to fit the expectations of others, rather than heed the song of my own tender heart.

But the beauty of parenthood is that it offers us a second chance to right what may have previously been wrong in our own lives, and enables us to move this rightness forward into the next generation.

This Valentine's Day I leave these words to a daughter who may someday chose to read them:

Happiest of birthdays, Miss Sophie Grace.

Child of my heart you will always remain.

May you find the courage to love yourself as much as I love you.

 

 

Burnt Broccoli

The day ended with burnt broccoli.

It was a fitting way to cap off a series of Monday missteps.

Hoping to win the award for best mother ever, I began cooking a late meal for my older daughter, newly home from a multi-hour swim practice.

My younger daughter had been languishing in front of the television, waiting for me to throw a bone her way, snacking on an oh-so-nutritious bag of salt and vinegar chips (yes, even the healthiest of doctors do every so often weary of the fight and allow their children to eat junk).

I had spent the day rushing back and forth doing radio show work, then teaching Qigong.

Several things had not gone as planned: technical challenges with recording interviews with our radio guests...getting lost driving from Westbrook to South Portland (my fellow Mainers know that this is a near impossibility)...not having enough pudding to complete my almost-eleven-year-old's Valentine birthday classroom snack (necessitating four trips to the grocery store in three days)...the list of silly irritations rambles on...

The significant other in my life spent more than a few moments of his valuable evening convincing me that, no, I didn't want to run away and live with the gypsies, rather than face another bit of none-life-shattering nonsense.

Off the phone, I felt I might be in the clear. I was convinced that the tide had turned and that God was not truly laughing at me.

Then the broccoli burned.

Our one remaining "nice" pan boiled dry, and the smell of acrid cruciferous filled the house.

I must admit, I went to my room and turned off the lights.

And hid under the covers.

No, I did not cry.

No, I did not rail at my ridiculous misfortune.

I simply pulled the blankets over my head, and hoped that the day might disappear.

It did not, nor did the smell of burnt broccoli.

Instead, my Valentine baby came in to find me.

She asked if I was OK, and told me that our kitchen issue was not as problematic as it seemed. The pan was salvageable and candles could be used to clear the air.

She suggested that I simply needed to breathe.

Which I did. And despite the large gulp of smoke I pulled into my lungs, I actually felt better.

Not entirely better, but somewhat.

I remembered that burnt broccoli is not the end of the world.

And that tomorrow is another day.

(Happy birthday eve, sweetest Sophie Grace.)

Former Home Farewell

I returned today to the house that my former husband and I once shared, with the purpose of discussing a few clean-up tasks. My former husband met me there.

Our conversation was civil (as it typically is) and businesslike.

Just before leaving, however, I asked if he had found the process as depressing as I had.

He admitted that we were of like mind.

Later in the day, he told me that he had previously refrained from returning to our shared house, because he felt as if it were mocking him.

This is the house I had lived in alone since last spring.

This is the house I moved out of because I could no longer bear the whispers of grief that bounced off of its walls.

I was surprised by how sad I felt to be in the house with my former husband. We have worked through much and have a good relationship now.

But our relationship is based on largely separate lives, rather than the one we once shared.

Returning to the "scene of the crime" brought the shared memories crashing back.

Memories of the past few years include many that cause pain to course through my heart and soul.  These are memories of an increasingly distant relationship, failed communications and deep longing for something that would never again be whole.

But with them, once the veil of sorrow parts, are other memories. Memories of three children and their laughter. Birthdays. Baseball games. Hugs. Warmth.

And gratitude. Gratitude for a home that kept us safe and sheltered.

Gratitude for a relationship that is shifting into a friendship.

Gratitude for love that I have known, and continue to know even as it takes a different form.

I wish my former husband well. I thank him for the time we shared together within the walls of our former home.

I thank him for returning with me to say goodbye.

Moved

I have a new vantage point from which to compose this blog. I have moved, and I am happy. My life is bountiful, indeed.

For the past few weeks I have been preparing for a move from my previous home. This home, as faithful blog post readers may recall, is the one I shared with my three children and their father.

It was the home I had hoped might (help) save our faltering marriage. 

It did not.

The marriage ended, the house went on the market in July, and in September my oldest child departed for a yearlong stint in Guatemala.

This left my two daughters and I rattling around in an overly large, overly empty house. Memories of happier days filled us with quiet grief.

Potential buyers regularly traipsed through our space, rupturing our solitude.

Late last fall I determined that, although our former home had not sold, a change of venue was in order.

It was time to find a space that could again become ours.

We are now in such a space.

Though boxes surround us and much unpacking awaits, I am certain that my decision was the correct one.

I had frequent doubts in the time leading up to the move. There were many important decisions to be made, and it was strange to be making them without the benefit of a spouse.

It was also strange to be packing an entire house primarily by myself.

But I pushed through the trepidation--and the myriad details necessitated by the move--and tonight find myself in a new home, blessedly content.

Creating a blog post while watching the sun slide behind the treetops that frame the nearby river.

Admiring a smoky trail of magenta laid across the February sky.

Moved, and happy.

 

new view

February 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

By My Side

The day began early, and it's not over yet.

My youngest daughter and I are at the regional YMCA, awaiting the end of her sister's swim meet. Prior to this, my almost-eleven-year-old accompanied me on errands and sat quietly in my office as I taught a Qigong class.

Sophie is nothing if not portable.

Having two siblings 5 and 7 years older has necessitated this. Sophie hit the ground running and has never looked back. She began learning to ski as soon as she could walk--she even traversed the trails in utero, as I followed my older kids slowly down the bunny slopes, my belly straining at its temporarily insufficient winter garb.

Sophie has witnessed myriad games, meets and matches; has attended innumerable events and functions not her own.

Tonight, Sophie alternates homework with Hulu-watching, snack-eating and recreational reading.

She is tired--we both are--but her complaints are few and far between.

For this I am eternally grateful, and probably not as vocal about that fact as I should be.

She offers me a quick hug and requests a time check before taking in the boys' relay event and returning to her chair.

The day is not over yet. There are miles to go before we sleep.

But the journey's load is lighter with Sophie by my side.

Friends We Never Knew We Had

It is uniquely concerning to receive a text from one's child describing potentially life-threatening illness symptoms.

Headache, stiff neck, fever, lethargy, vomiting.

These are not a good constellation of descriptors.

Especially when one is a physician who has both treated and seen the aftermath of meningitis--the illness often associated with the constellation of aforementioned descriptors.

Now, add in the fact that one's child is roughly 2, 334 miles away, in a third world Central American country.

And, that one's child is barely eighteen years old.

As you might have guessed, I received just such a text. The past forty-eight hours have been interesting, to say the least.

My child is currently in a Guatemalan hospital awaiting the final results of his spinal tap. Fortunately, preliminary results were negative for meningitis, and he is scheduled to be released today.

The presumed diagnosis (sinusitis) is much less severe and more easily treatable than the one I had feared.

To know that my baby was far away, and I was completely unable to help him, certainly gave me pause.

What also gave me pause was that both his roommate's mother (Jan) and his roommate (Nico) contacted me via Facebook to give me updates on my son's condition.

Both offered up Nico's contact phone number. 

Nico told me that he was taking time off from work to make sure that my son was ok.

Keep in mind that I've never met Jan, and spent only brief amounts of time with Nico during my visit to Guatemala last Thanksgiving.

But these kind souls became, in my moments of parental concern, the friends I needed.

They were friends that I didn't realize I had.

We should all be so fortunate as to be loved by those who owe us nothing.

Our lives, even when seemingly threatened, often reveal themselves to be suprisingly, powerfully blessed.

Campbell & Nico

Guatemala 2011

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

16, my sweet

January 25, 1996 was an auspicious day.

It was the day my Abigail Marie drew her first breath on this earth; it was the day I had a little girl to match my little boy.

Now my little girl is the sweetest of ages: the magical 16.

And I hope that this year will bring her much joy. Though, simultaneously, I am cognizant that joy will not alone be her lot.

I must admit that I love this girl of mine so much it hurts at times.

My Abby long ago ceased to be the baby held against my chest; long ago ceased to need my song lulling her to sleep in the moonlight.

Long ago ceased to carry the name "Nala," as given to her by her big brother, in honor of the girl cub in his favorite movie, The Lion King.

Now, my Abby is a womanchild: one foot still planted in childhood, one foot crossing the threshold of adulthood.

And, with this crossing, the certain undertaking of things adult.

The undertaking of adult situations; adult emotions.

I have seen this take place already. Seen her pain. Felt, myself, bodily hurt and heartsick at her misfortune.

Felt helpless and sorrowful at my inability to shield her from things difficult.

And, at once, fully aware that all happens as it must.

My darling Abby is, at sixteen, eligible to know the sweetness of a larger life.

Eligible to know a greater richness and a more succulent joy.

With which is often coupled the stark contrast of other emotions, less welcome.

My little Nala will remain with me always. Her pain will always be my pain; her joy my joy.

And though I know she rarely reads my words, I will leave her with this, on the off chance today she might:

Happiest of birthdays to you, my dearest Abigail Marie.

Thank you for the auspiciousness which you bestowed upon the day of your birth.

And for every day since.

 

Abby, enthroned on the Alice-in-Wonderland chair

Boston 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.