Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Life

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.

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.

Holding Pattern

I am an auntie many times over. My siblings have, among them, eleven children. The youngest of these was born a mere eleven days ago.

This year the Belisle family had three babies under two months of age at the Christmas celebration: Joseph Charles, son of my brother Matthew and his wife Myriam, joined his November-born cousins, Alexis and Ben.

Babies, galore.

And yet, never enough for me.

I have been holding babies from my earliest years. With nine younger siblings, there was ample opportunity for that.

My own babies (who at 18, almost-16 and almost-11 still like to be "held") are far more than an armful now.

Thus my baby fix typically comes during holidays and special family occasions.

This year, I took full advantage of the infant surplus, snuggling with little Ben as the rest of the family ate Christmas dinner. 

And I was amply rewarded. Small, sleeping babies are one of the world's best soul-soothers. Their bodies can't help but bring joy and calm to the arms that hold them.

I do realize that tiny humans don't always sleep, and that raising babies comes with many responsibilities.

But as auntie, my responsibilities are limited. Mainly, I provide love and a set a of willing arms.

Which I am happy to do.

Belisle babies in multiple? Numbers don't scare me. Bring 'em on.

 

my buddy, Ben

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. Download 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.

Parachuting into Alignment

When aspects of one's life come into alignment, they can do so with breathtaking rapidity.

This can be simultaneously exhilarating and frightening.

Tempted we often are to put the brakes on. As logical as things may seem, we may be worried that things cannot possibly turn out as well as promised.

That is where faith comes in. Faith, and trust in one's own judgement.

If we trust ourselves--truly trust ourselves--seldom will we go wrong.

It is this trusting that takes practice. First we must know ourselves well, then we must apply the principles of self-knowledge. We must understand what positive 'gut feelings' and intuition feel like.

We must also realize that the alignment that has taken place is not always entirely by chance.

In fact, often alignment occurs after much groundwork has been laid. It is simply the fruition of something at perhaps an unexpected place in our existence.

Something that we may have hoped would occur sooner in our lives, but came about in its own sweet time.

This can happen with jobs; it can happen with love.

The key is to remain ready and available. To be willing to jump when the airplane hatch opens.

To know that we have a parachute at the ready.

And be certain that the vista is one worth approaching, appearing before us as it does when we finally come into alignment with our lives.

 

entry point

December 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. Download 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.

 

Dancing Footprints

Part of readying oneself for a house sale/move is the "clearing of clutter."

Or at least, it is often referred to as "clutter."

What it more accurately might be called is "physical footprints."

These footprints include a decade of brightly colored magnets, removed from a refrigerator door; a previous year's calendar marked with children's soccer games.

A closetful of pint-sized furniture.

A bag of stuffed animals.

These latter footprints of childhood are the ones that invoke a bit of wistfulness, as they creep (once again) across consciousness.

My youngest, now in fifth grade, can no longer fit her coltish frame on the tiny chairs I deposited at the Goodwill box this morning.

Neither she, nor her older siblings, play with the Beanie babies and stuffed bears that I found in a bag under the cellar stairs.

So these, too, will find new little ones to love them, as our transitioning home continues to be slowly emptied of childhood ephemera.

This emptying was inevitable. I know this. Perhaps it has occured sooner than it might, given recent life circumstances, but happen it eventually would.

Still, I have mixed feelings as I remember the three very different toddlers who sat in my laps reading bedtime stories.

I miss, more than a bit, these tinier beings who inhabited our emptying house with their father and I.

To be sure, I am blessed by these memories, and by the fiercely wonderful people my babies have become.

And know that although the "clutter" of physical footprints may disappear, their ghost echoes will remain forever dancing in my heart.

 

Land's End

December 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. Download 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.