Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Life

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!

There are those with whom we connect instantly.

And then there are those with whom connection seems strangely off.

Sometimes completely, strangely off...even in cases when this should not be the case: when there enough shared interests so that both parties should theoretically be capable of communicating.

For those of us who are nourished by social connections, it can be painful to find ourselves repeatedly unable to connect with certain people.

Especially if these people play significant roles in our lives.

This can cause us to try overly hard to make a connection, perhaps through humor or an empathic comment.

It can cause us to feel discouraged when the above attempts do not work: when they end up, instead, seeming awkward and ultimately ill-advised.

We may end up having flashbacks to our younger years, and uncomfortable middle school moments spent standing alone on the dance floor, waiting for someone--anyone--to understand us/like us well enough to ask us partner up for "Stairway to Heaven."

We may wonder whether we are still the nerd/misfit/bore that perhaps we once, in our teen years, perceived ourselves to be.

We may question our ability to fit in with the human race.

The answer to the above? Keep trying.

Or don't.

Show up.

Or avoid.

Either way has its merits. Avoidance is, of course, a very good way to keep from feeling awkward in the face of social disconnection. 

Until the avoidance itself becomes so blatant as to be awkward.

Showing up and re-attempting connection will likely, in the short term, cause us some discomfort.

But given the possibility of long-term gain, the repair is often worth the attempt.

And the attempt will give us another chance to find our way out of the middle school mentality: to be the best versions of ourselves, rather than the nerd/misfit/bore.

It will also give us another chance to understand a fellow human being, who may be struggling with his own version of self-doubt and nerd/misfit/bore identity crisis.

A fellow human being who may, as we, be feeling like the middle schooler standing alone at the school dance, waiting to be liked and understood.

Sometimes, we may come to learn, the awkward, strangely off connections are the most important ones of all.

street plea, NYC

January 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!

There is much to be said for physical presence in a relationship.

Modern relationships can be complex. We are connected by text, phone, email and social messaging to an extent never seen previously.

And yet, we are often disconnected physically.

Sometimes this disconnection is unavoidable: we have jobs that require us to travel, or family situations that necessitate our being apart from the ones we love. 

Sometimes we willingly enter into long-distance relationships, with the hope that all of the above technological advances will keep our connection strong.

While this is highly possible, it is less than ideal.

There is something about physical presence that cannot be replicated.

Love is more than just a thought or an emotion. It is (at its best) a physical resonance with another human being. 

This resonance has an indescribable, almost palpable quality to it. When it exists, it opens something within us.

It creates a connection that cannot be captured with words.

It creates, at times, a connection of near-spiritual intensity.

It creates a connection worthy of care and appreciation.

This connection should never be taken for granted.

It cannot be fed solely on texts, phone calls, emails or social messaging.

It must be tenderly nurtured and given its due.

It must be afforded the opportunity for physical presence, whenever possible.

Love is a gift that should not be wasted.

No matter how complex the modern world may be.

I continue to be convinced that I am a doctor because I have much to learn.

Fortunately, my patients bring their wisdom, daily, to my door. I need only open that door and be willing to hear their stories in order to be enriched by the wealth of experience and true courage I see in their lives.

Today I sat with a patient who has arthritis in many of her joints. Her history was complicated by many medical problems, including one requiring brain surgery.

I had successfully treated my patient's arthritis pain with acupuncture in the past, in collaboration with several other highly qualified health care providers of other specialties.  My patient has, herself, taken an active role in her healing, through exercise, lifestyle and dietary changes.

I hadn't seen her for many months. This is a common occurrence with those who have been made well.

Upon her return to our office a few weeks ago, my patient admitted to being greatly discouraged by the limitation of her activities which had occurred due to a recent increase in pain.

Things looked very bleak indeed. She felt ensnared by the darkness of the Winter months.

Now several visits later, she is experiencing relief once again. Her outlook has taken a 180 degree turn.

No longer trapped by her body, she is able to once more connect with that which brings her joy.

She told me that she is often inspired by nature, and specifically by crocuses that come up in the Spring.

She loves the idea that the energy of the life force, even in its dormancy, is ever present.

She told me of the 48 dahlias she has stored in her basement, which though seemingly dead, will soon begin to exhibit growth.  They are merely waiting for the right messages from the spring season.

Just as we, if we are paying attention, might experience the messages of growth and renewal sent forth from the earth.

I was, as I often am, humbled by the gentle wisdom of my patient. 

My patient was my very own message of hope; my very own harbinger of Spring.

I am a doctor because I have much to learn.

I am blessed by those who appear at my door, willing to teach.

blurred brilliance

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!

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.

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.)

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.

Writing keeps me righted.

That is, when I have the chance to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), I am better able to maintain a sense of what is true and real. 

When the flow of words stops, something inside me stops, too.

Or at least, becomes diverted.

Returning to the words enables me to resonate more genuinely with myself and my world.

I have the great good fortune to be connected with many people, through my work, family and pastimes. 

I connect with the outdoors through my running and hiking; I connect with my soul through Qigong and singing.

Writing helps me integrate all of the above connections. It brings me into alignment with myself.

In the past few weeks (months...years...), I have increasingly put my writing aside to attend to "more important" things. 

What I have found is that there is nothing more important than self-alignment.  I have also found that when I am not aligned with myself, I tend to be more easily influenced by the emotional/physical/spiritual energy of other people--and not always for the positive. 

I end up off-kilter, questioning who I am, and what I am doing in the world.

I end up living other people's lives for them: solving problems that are not mine to solve.

I end up striving to attain ideals of perfection that other people have put forth.

I am not as easily able to resonate with my own self.

Which is a funny place to be, given what I do for work.

This week, I have begun shoehorning wordplay back into my schedule.

And, though others may suggest that other activities are more important, I know differently.

The flow of words offers a gentle healing to my world-weary soul.

I am, through writing, righted once more.

word/play

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!

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!

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.