Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Life

The Dance

There are those of us who are ruled by our heads, and those of us who are ruled by our hearts.

Each has its advantages. Each has its struggles.

Those of us who for whom the head and heart are equally (or somewhat equally) matched perhaps could be thought fortunate.

Except that it is never as easy as that: the head and the heart rarely find balance without a significant tussle.

And this tussle often proves lifelong.

Those who have the benefit of an active mind rejoice in the thinking.  We revel in the turning of thoughts about in our minds. We gather up knowledge, and ideas and concepts. We sort and delineate. We attempt to make sense of the world.

Those of us who have the benefit of an connected heart rejoice in the feeling. We experience the unfathomable beauty of the world. We know deep, rich, crazy love.

We find that trying to make sense of the unfathomable can cause frustration and difficulty.

We find that trying to be logical, and rational, in the face things inexplicable, yet deeply known, can cause heartache untold.

Thus, we dance in the middle, often alone.

We seek balance, often without success.

In the process confusing those around us.

Yet such is our lot, and an interesting one it is.  We are who we are: beings of the head/heart.

Ruled by both, we hope that those who love us will keep trying to understand us, even as we are trying to understand ourselves.

Ruled by both, we understand the confusion that we cause.

Ruled by both, we hope that those who love us might hear our song, and agree to join the dance.

 

 

river run

February 2012

~~~~~

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!

 

One/Two, Happy New

I love the symmetry of numbers.

Last year was a good year, as far as numbers were concerned. Lots of "1s" in the dates. 1/1/11; 11/11/11. Even better when the clock showed 11:11 on those dates.

That being said, I'm not unhappy to leave 2011 behind. One is a good number, and highly necessary.

But perhaps not as good as 2.

Which I found out early last year, when this former 2 became a 1.

Don't get me wrong. I have much prior experience as a 1: I like being by myself. I am easily amused as a solo earth-wanderer.  I walk, run, write and take pictures, often alone. 

I also like being with other people. I enjoy spending time with my children, my family and my friends.

In particular, I like being part of a duo. I like partnership.

I like the potential synergy inherent. 

Thus it has been very interesting to uncouple: to go from being 2 to 1.

I've learned much about myself in this process. I've learned that as a 1, I am fully whole. I don't necessarily require the presence of a 'significant other.'

I am capable of caring for myself, my children and my household--by myself. 

I don't need to become a 2 in order to experience life completely.

But with the right 1, I am not averse to becoming a 2 again. I'd love to have a playmate with whom to experience this miracle of a world.

I have no expectations, or timeline. For now, I'll simply amuse myself with numbers. 

Today is 1/1/12. 

Tomorrow is 1/2/12.

1. 2. 

Beautiful integers, each.

 

happy, new

Madeleine Point sunset/January 1, 2012

~~~~~

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.

 

Frost-Love

It is the small things that remind us to love life.

This morning I awoke before dawn, and steeled myself against the brisk November air as I gingerly made my way down our black-iced driveway.

Streetlights illumined my way across errant chunks of snow, leftover from our odd October storm.

I knew that I would be too early to welcome the sun across the Eastern shelf, as is often my reward for early morning forays.

My fingers contracted in their thin gloves; my running gear was not quite sufficient to stave off the chill that wove its way around my body.

Briefly I wondered if my weary body was up to a morning jaunt.

Then I caught a glimpse of sparkle along the roadway, as a car made its way past.

I realized that I had been running through a wonderland of frost.

Puddles, overnight, had taken on a glassy patina.

As the morning began to move the night from its path, I appreciated the icy lace which now so delicately adorned the landscape.

My world, in a matter of hours, had taken on the mantle of late autumn.

This moment of transformation had been mine to witness.

A delicate, yet timely reminder to love my life.

 
November 2011

 

 

 

 

Soloist

Many mornings, now, I wake alone.

Our four-bedroom house, purchased to contain a family, contains a single soul.

Me.

Two of children are with their father, who is no longer my marital partner. One, graduated from high school, is in a foreign country.

Thus my morning hours are, half the time, mine.

I've become a mother who now says (half the time), "I've got the kids this week." The other half, I don't.

As a result of this, I am building a solo identity.

I am waking up to days that are once again mine.

The funny thing about my life is that I've always been either intensely surrounded by people or completely alone.  There doesn't seem to have been a middle ground.

I have nine younger brothers and sisters: a veritable pack. I had years of education that placed me in a dorm, then married student housing. My profession is one that necessitates teamwork. I had children at an early age.

All of these populated my life, heavily, with people.

At the same time, I have been a runner, a writer, and a solo medical practitioner.

Musically, I am most often a soloist.

I have had much practice being alone, in many things. Now, at age forty, that practice has extended into my personal life. My bed is no longer shared.

And I am, though connected as I have ever been to my friends, family, colleagues and the new love in my life, a single soul.

Greeting each day anew.

 

Cumberland Town Landing, 2011

 

 

 

 

Liminality & Solo Suspension

I spent much of this past weekend alone.  This is not unusual.  As an every-so-often writer, a considerable portion of my time is spent solo.

This weekend I also happened to be alone and displaced.  Suspended in the liminal space between housing situations. 

The weekend had not gone poorly.  I had set up a makeshift homestead of sorts in the living room at a Camp Ellis beach rental generously provided by a dear friend.  Eschewing the many available beds (for which I had no sheets), I pushed together two couches and slept under several blankets.  I scrounged a forgotten beach towel for showering purposes, and ate the nuts, raisins, garbanzo beans and rice I had carried in with me.

I had spent my weekend time engaged in enjoyable pursuits. I took sunrise walks on the beach and long runs down Route 9.  I finished reading a book. I napped.  I sat in the sun in the upstairs porch, bundled in my winter coat and the aforementioned blankets.

By Sunday evening, I was ready for company.  Any company.  My only criteria was that the parties involved be human.

So I drove to a local coffee shop.  I blogged about loving my feet as I nested amidst college students from the University of New England; listened to their conversations about budding relationships and chemistry exams.   Tried to avoid the eye of the slightly crazy-eyed bearded gentleman who kept looking in my direction.  Exchanged texts with a friend.

Wrote a piece about the new moon and new beginnings.

Thought about my life.

Exchanged texts/emails with another friend.

Consumed multiple beverages to replete my fluid stores (decreased due to run taken earlier).

Waited for a different friend to call.

Ate a sandwich.

Watched the coffee shop guy mop the floor. 

Eavesdropped on a barely intelligible conversation between a lonely developmentally disabled guy with a speech impediment and two semi-tolerant college students.

Checked my phone.

Felt tired.  Knew I had to get up early.  Drove back to Camp Ellis.

Brushed my teeth. 

Began reading the Mary Karr memoir I had purchased earlier in the weekend.

Checked my phone again.

Felt silly and slightly desperate, in an amusing way.  Experienced almost teenager-ish emotions, as my theoretically adult self hoped for a voice--any voice--to break the silence.

Waited a few more minutes.

Gave up. 

The conversation with my friend was not to be had.

Not that I had anything to say anyway. 

Went to sleep, once again, blanketed on the living room couch.  Waited for the next day to dawn.  Anticipated another opportunity to experience the liminal space, this time in the company of my children in the house that is half-the-time mine.

Life is funny. We think we have grown up, only to find ourselves at age 40, lingering by the phone like a lonely teen.

Suspended solo in the liminal space, awaiting the dawn of another day.

Camp Ellis Evening, April 2011

Hail to the Feet

My feet took me on a long run today--from Camp Ellis to Old Orchard and back.  Faithful friends these appendages of mine are. Rarely do they let me down.   Even as my stomach was rebelling against the jog, I knew my feet would pull through. They do daily.

Raised as part of the "Free to Be You and Me" generation, I received the message early and often that I was meant to love myself.  According to the wisdom of the seventies, my fellow Gen-Xers and I were a blessed bunch.  We were told that anything was possible, should we only believe in our personal power.

A little older, and perhaps a bit more realistic now, I know that there are some limits to my abilities.  I will never be an astronaut, or a ballerina.  It is not likely that I will become a firefighter.  I doubt I will ever become president.

All of these potentialities faded with the years. 

A ballerina I may not ever become, but a runner I am yet.  Made possible by my ten tenacious toes and the strength of my sole.

My feet have stood the test of time.

They are indeed as powerful as I was taught the rest of me is.  And I adore them for it.

I spent some time looking at my feet today; spent some time caressing their tendons; tenderly touching my ankles.  Noted the fact that my pink toenail polish is long past due for a refresher.

Gave my gams a quick massage.

Thought about how often it is that we find fault with the bodies in which we dwell.  How it is that we are more apt to denigrate and abuse these physical structures which carry us through our lives than than to thank and nurture them. 

How unusual it is for us to treat them like the temples they truly are, as suggested by more than one spiritual tradition.

How much more likely it is that we forget that we have bodies.  Forget that we have feet.

Let our brains hold sway over our daily existence, while our bodies soldier on, with rarely a complaint.

It isn't typically until our bodies finally cry out for recognition, via illness or injury, that we finally give them the attention they routinely deserve.

And rarely do we love them.

But I love mine.  Or at least, I love most of mine.  I have a few spots that I argue with every now and again. 

I'm working to come to peace with these areas. 

However, with my feet I have no gripe.

I may even treat my toes to a fresh coat of fuchsia sometime in the near future. And daily I will continue to dedicate a few moments to a sole-ful coconut lotion massage.

Because love my feet I do, and together I hope we will continue to roam.

Hail to the Feet

 

 

 

 

Big Girl Pants & the Stress Scale

This week on our Dr. Lisa WLOB radio segment we discussed the Holmes & Rahe Stress Scale.  This scale (also called the Social Readjustment Rating Scale), gives a number value to stressful events that occur in our lives.  The more stressful the event, the greater the number.  "Death of a Spouse" receives the highest number (100) of "life change units."  Divorce gets 73; job loss 47.

Adding together the number of stressful events in a year enables us to see how at risk we are for illness.

As mentioned here on the blog, I've had a few stressful life events recently.  I know that my risk is above average for illness.

Given this knowledge, I've made an ongoing effort to stay balanced.  I try to meditate, write, eat well and run.  Most importantly, I try to incorporate Qigong into my routine on a regular basis.  The latter has proven especially useful for maintaining a sense of personal normalcy (whatever "normal" means).

All of these things have proven necessary because, despite what stressors I might be experiencing, I have to keep on living.  I have to keep showing up. 

I have to keep showing up for my children, my family, my friends and my patients.

I have to keep being a doctor; keep making a living.

Regardless of how I might be feeling each morning, I need to be able to put on my big girl pants and act like an adult.

This isn't always easy.  In fact, far from it.  My friends and family, with whom I have frequent email/text/phone exchanges will attest to this.  Some days are pretty good; others not so much.

But life is life.  The sun rises and we get up.  We care for our families.  We go to work. We return home. Care for our families.  Go to sleep.  Start again the next day.

And in the midst of this, we try to pay attention to the beauty that is--still--everywhere, no matter what our personal situations may look like.  We savor important moments whenever possible.

It would be great if we were able to stop the play on the field and take a time out when we needed to rebalance; re-equilibrate. 

But life is not a game.  It moves along, with or without us.

And if life is going to move along, I guess I chose to move with it, even in the face of an ever increasing quantity of personal "life change units."

I chose to keep showing up, wearing my big girl pants.

Spring Turbulence, Royal River

March 2011

 

 

Run-shine

I let my legs out for a little run today.  Wobbly at first, after having been forced to lie low for a few days, they quickly righted themselves.  It was if they had been born again.  Born, one might say, to run.

I began running as a youngster.  Dabbling in competitive running over the years, I quickly realized that although I did enjoy speediness, my heart was never quite as happy as when I ran for no reason at all.  I ran for the same reason that I took walks in the woods: because I liked to.  Running gave me the chance to re-connect with myself and my world.

When I don't run for a prolonged period, as was the case recently due to illness, my legs grow concerned.  They get a little confused. They send me subtle messages--reminders of their desire to help me re-connect.  They have me looking longingly out the window, at a morning sky newly pink.  They have me following the sway of the dancing tree branches, beckoning me, as they are, to join their play.

My legs give me an excuse to be an eight-year-old once again, coltishly rounding the playing field in pursuit of nothing save the joy of movement.  When I am running, I may look like I am pounding the pavement in an effort to stay healthy and toned, but these are merely secondary benefits.  I run because I never stopped being a kid: a kid who loved, and loves, to move her body quickly for no reason at all. A kid who experiences wonder, daily, that she lives in a world as beautiful as this.

So today, despite a few minor recent physical setbacks, I let my legs back out to play.  When the sun showed his not-yet-spring face for a few mid-day moments, my legs were thrilled to have the chance to join him in a game of hide and go seek. Over ice-chunked sidewalks, and past still towering snowbanks my legs and I ran, cavorting with shadows cast by leafless tree branches and mostly submerged picket fences.

The sun reigned supreme, as he typically does in any contest.  My legs, though powerful and swift, have not yet the ability to propel me up to the clouds behind which the sun may ultimately take refuge.

But winners we were regardless, my legs and I.  We had romped, however briefly, on an early March afternoon.  We had taken part in a chase both merry and joyful.

My wobbly legs had been given permission once again to claim their running birthright.

We had re-connected with our world, and all was good.

Savannah run, 2010

 

 

 

Buffeted

This morning's wind rattled the windows.  It swept past the house in gusts violent and foreboding.

I went for a run anyway, uncertain as to whether it made sense to wait: whether conditions might improve.

The wind had not changed by the time I finished my morning work.

At noon, I drove to the ocean and sat in the car, watching the whitecaps battle their way to the shore.

Nothing could be done but to wait, still longer, and to observe.  To feel myself, though safely in the confines of my Subaru, buffeted by fierce breezes. To enjoy the spectacle of the dance.

Flags nearby whipped furiously.  Snow crystals raced into the ocean.

And, through it all, the sun shone.

Interesting it is to feel at the mercy of things bigger than ourselves.  We live in a time of theoretical control.  We are connected.  Informed.  We move a mouse; flip a switch; speak a command, and things happen.  Instantly.

We grow impatient when things break down; don't respond immediately in the manner expected.

We want--need--things to occur on our schedules.  Planned, or on a whim.

Our brains grow addicted to these patterns.

When things break down, or when we feel ourselves buffeted by forces greater than our human selves, we are bothered by the unsteadiness inherent in the situation.  We become anxious.  Fearful, perhaps.

But through it all, the sun will shine. 

And eventually, the gusts will dissipate.

We need merely wait. 

And, perhaps, wait longer still.

Or run.

Until things calm, and we can pretend some modicum of control over our lives once more.

drainpipe, Falmouth Town Landing

 

 

Flying Turkeys

Why did the turkeys fly across the road?

I'm not sure, but they looked fairly ridiculous doing it.

On my long run this past weekend, I happened upon a rafter of wild turkeys winging their way over (appropriately enough) Flying Point Road. Although I've seen countless numbers of these ubiquitous birds in the woods of our great state, I must confess that I had never seen one flying.

They were quite a sight: slow, cumbersome, low to the ground, tail feathers dragging. Aerodynamic they were not.

And, as silly as they looked in the air, they looked even sillier upon landing.

None of this appeared to bother them.  They had a place they wanted to be, and they got there.  End of story. They were quite untroubled by their awkwardness.

Would that we, as humans, have such an unselfconscious approach to goal-striving.

I, myself, have had many the chance to feel like a flying turkey in the interest of reaching my goals. Examples are too numerous to name in their entirety, but one in particular stands out.

In 2008, we were launching the book Our Daily Tread: Thoughts for an Inspired Life, in honor of my late Bowdoin classmate, Hanley Denning.  Proceeds from the book were (and are) to go to her organization, Safe Passage. Safe Passage educates children whose families earn a living picking trash at the Guatemala City Dump.

This book, and this cause, were (and are) two things about which I felt (and feel) passionate.  When Hanley died in a car accident on January 18, 2007, I vowed that I would do what I could to help her cause.

So it was that I accepted an invitation to be a runway model at the 2008 Rippleffect "Velvet" gala fundraiser.  Rippleffect is a Maine-based organization that promotes "positive youth and community development through learning adventures in living classrooms." In 2009, more than 55% of their youth participants received some amount of scholarship assistance so that they might attend sea kayaking and challenge course-based training.

Being part of the Rippleffect fashion show seemed to make sense: I could use my modeling "bio" to publicize ODT and Safe Passage, at the same time being part of an event which would raise money for another laudable non-profit.

Except, I've never modelled.  Ever.  Not on a runway.  Not off a runway.

And runway cat-walking is harder than it looks. It involves standing poses.  It involves hip-swiveling turns.  It involves (at least it did in my case) maneuvering an elevated platform in heels and an overlong taffeta gown. Crowd watching.  Music blaring.  Bright lights shining in eyes.  Cameras flashing.

You get the picture.

I truly had no idea what I was getting myself into.  And, once I was there, I felt the absolute turkiest of flying turkeys.  Gawky.  Unsteady on my feet.  Helmet of hair held in place by a million stabbing bobby pins.  Pancaked makeup freezing my face in a 'smile.'  Uncertain of the pivots, turns and poses that fashion show coordinators, Annie & Lucille, had shown me just hours before. 

Fortunately, my friend Beverly (who had nominated me for the modeling gig) was by my side for the pre-show preparations.  And my husband and friends were in the audience.

Fortunately, the expectations for my performance were fairly low.  We made clear, by way of my model bio, that I was a doctor, not a model.

So I took a deep breath, and I flew my turkey self across that stage. I could feel my invisible tail feathers dragging along behind.

But nobody seemed to notice--or perhaps they were too kind to say.

Regardless, it all went off without a hitch. I had done my part to raise awareness for ODT and Safe Passage. I had done my part to raise money for Rippleffect.

I had crossed that road, and I had done so in style.

Popham Beach sunset

January 2011