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.

Airborne & Grounded

Is it better to be grounded or inclined to fly?

The answer depends upon the situation.

This past weekend I stayed on the 8th floor of a hotel with floor to ceiling windows, looking out over the Hudson River in New York City.

This particular hotel is situated, on stilts, above the High Line Park.

I spent a portion of each day in NYC walking about with my dearest one. We explored museums and restaurants; we saw "Wicked" on Broadway.

We spent time at Ground Zero and the Trinity Church on Wall Street, honoring the souls whose physical lives were lost on September 11th.

It was interesting and fun to spend time up in the air; it was similarly interesting to once again be in contact with the ground.

We need both in our lives.

In Traditional Chinese Medicine there are important acupuncture points to be found at either end of the body: both the soles of our feet and the top of our heads.  

One set of points keeps us connected with what is below us, and one keeps us connected with what is above.

When we are able to maintain each of these connections, we are better able to stay in alignment with our lives.

And it is this alignment that was so clearly the message to me this weekend: that in this next phase of my life I must equally spend time with what grounds me as what gives me wings.

I must, like the Greek God Janus, for whom my birth month is named, be able to simultaneously look back into my past and forward into my future.

This notion has become the basis of my integrative medical practice and my writing. It informs the programs we create for our radio show.

It is a theme I ponder often with my patients.

And, this birthday weekend, both grounded and airborne in New York City, I understood its importance once more.

 

Central Park, 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.

 

 

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

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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.

 

It's a Wonderful Life

What better title could there be for a holiday movie than "It's a Wonderful Life?"

The best thing about the title is that it pulls you in, looking for the 'feel good,' then causes you to sit through a remarkably accurate representation of frustration and repressed rage.

Which culminates, of course, in redemption.

How many of us have not felt trapped in our lives in some way?  How many have continued to do the 'right thing,' for years on end, without obvious reward?

This can lead to a sense of bitterness and futility, which is not easily shared with those around us. After all, who wants to become known as a complainer--the person everyone bypasses at the cocktail party in order to avoid the wide swath of negative energy that inevitably issues forth?

(Ok, I take that last part back. I've met many people who don't seem to mind sharing their frustration openly/sending forth negative energy. Realizing it or not, I may have even been that person on occasion...but I digress...)

The alternative to being the cocktail party complainer is to simply swallow our life's disappointments, hoping that some day things will improve. Or simply get used to 'doing the right thing' without recompense.

Or is it? Are those the only alternatives?

Perhaps another alternative is to see, as did George Bailey, that the very concerns which "trap" us are often our blessings, disguised.

That our years of doing good may end up paying us back in ways we could not possibly anticipate.

Perhaps the alternative is come to a new understanding about our life's meaning.

The understanding that, in the final analysis, our life is what we make of it.

And that it can be--in fact it is--a wonderful life.

 

Popham walk

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.

 

 

Solstice Walk

The day began with cold rain--and black ice.

Cars across Maine crawled cautiously along the roadways to their destinations.

Souls braved slippery sidewalks in search of last minute gifts.

As the hours progressed, the overhanging grey was not dispersed from the skies.

But it did not grow colder. In fact, a slight warming caused the evening to take on an ethereal quality, as a fine mist descended from the skies and swirled across the landscape.

Retrieving the mail, I was enchanted by the scene. Christmas lights adorned the neighborhood trees. Streetlamps beckoned me to walk.

Walk, I did.

I am a walker and a wanderer by nature. Seldom do I return from a walk unchanged, and thus I value highly my time spent meandering.

Meandering through misty darkness, on the night of the Solstice (and second night of Hanukkah), I felt myself softened by the jaunt. My worries faded and I pondered my great good fortune at having the chance for a solitary outing in the midst of a busy holiday season.

Families could be seen through windows, watching television and performing household tasks.

Dogs greeted me from doorways, seemingly envious of my opportunity.

I stopped, every so often, to take a photo; slid two letters into the box at the post office.

Important tasks, and not so important, jostled for attention.

And I melted into this longest night, knowing that tomorrow's daylight would begin its slow increase as the year wove its way to the next Solstice.

Knowing that, regardless of the weather our upcoming Maine winter might have in store, the sun would be once again taking his rightful place in the sky.

And my walks would once again be undertaken in the glow of daytime bright.

 

along the fence

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

 

The Whistler

There is a man in Portland's Old Port who whistles.

He does not whistle any particular tune, nor does he seem to do it for any particular reason.

Instead, he sets up shop in the small park off of Exchange Street, or across the way near the coffee shop, and lets loose a tuneless, penny-whistle tone for hours on end.

This can last, literally, for the predominance of a day.

The hours do not appear to have the same significance for this man as they might for those who stream past him on the sidewalks, hurrying to get to their downtown jobs.

Though I can't say whether he is truly homeless, the possibility certainly exists.

As does the possibility that he is not in complete sync with the world around him.

What he does seem to be in sync with is the music coming from his headphones--the music that he may be attempting to replicate with his toneless whistle.

Many people have grown annoyed with "The Whistler," as he has been labelled, in the months since he began sharing his talent with the citizens and visitors of greater Portland.

But he has for so long been at his task as to almost be a part of the landscape now.

I wonder at this--that I, like so many, have so easily grown accustomed to a man who spends hours whistling loudly in the midst of a city bustle.

I wonder at my ability to begin to look past, similarly, other disconnected, downtrodden souls whose shoulders nearly brush mine while walking along busy urban avenues.

No small amount of shame do I carry on this account.

So I suppose I owe some small debt of gratitude to "The Whistler."  Though I find him as annoying as many others do, I find him equally and strangely compelling.

He is, in his own way, a placeholder. 

He prompts me to remember that not all hear the same music I hear; or respond the same way.

He prompts me to remember that we are not all equally placed in this world.

He prompts me to silently offer compassion to those in our midst whose only means of connection is a tuneless whistle, tormenting the ears of those who stride quickly by.

 

Boston

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 an office consult with Dr. Lisa at 847 9393.

 

 

 

 

Living the Question/Walking the Walk

When one does what I do for a living, one must be prepared to walk the walk.

(In my humble opinion.)

My view of health is simple: it is derived from a basic structural, emotional and spiritual integrity.

Wellness occurs when all elements of a life work in concert.

It became clear several years ago that the elements of my life were dissonant. I was, I knew, a good mother. I was a good doctor. I was a good writer.

I was not, however, a good "me."

I did not believe enough in the value of what I had to offer as a human.

Strong words, these, I realize.

As I learned to value myself, I attempted to make accommodations so that the "me" I knew myself to be could fit into the life I had built.

Try as I might, this did not happen. I was not able to be the best mother/doctor/writer/me I could be.

I looked everywhere for solutions to my dilemma. I read books; I wrote.  I ran; I prayed. I did everything but what I needed to do, in order to find the answer.  I did everything but live the question.

Which is what I had so often counseled my patients they needed to do.

Then, one day, I took my own counsel. I began living my own question. Ultimately this took the form of separating from the man I had married nineteen years before.

This question-living has not been straightforward.  It has been very, very difficult at times. And painful. And confusing.  Over the course of my transition, I have by necessity settled into a new "loaner life."

But my loaner life has opened my eyes to great joy.  I have been able to be, finally, "me."

The dissonance has started to clear. My life elements are, once again, working in concert.

And I have begun to know true wellness.

My transition is not complete, to be clear. I am still in my loaner life.

But I am, now, more fully living the answer, rather than the question.

I am, now, finally walking the walk.

walk with the doc

Royal River, 2009

(photo courtesy of Katherine Dall)

Are you walking the walk? Leave a comment below, or send an email to lisa@drlisabelisle.com.Your feedback is most welcome and appreciated.

Need help walking the walk? Give our office a call to set up a consult: 207 847 9393.

 

Mother-Daughter Words, Shared

The joy of a ten-year-old is that (often) words are without end.  Life is seen as an opportunity for ongoing narration: things observed, felt and learned.  Emotions are fierce, and still freely acknowledged. A mother remains appreciated, and not quite yet uncool.

My Sophie, the baby of our small clan, is an intuit almost unmatched. She is unfailingly accurate with her observations.  She is keenly in sync with the world around her, and has a brain to match her emotional acumen.

A walk in the woods--a walk anywhere--with my now-fifth-grader, is an adventure.

Sophie is always 'on,' and almost always desirous of interaction.  Rarely will she accept the standard parental "ummm-hmmm" in conversation. She wants to be heard, and known.

I suspect when she finds a mate one day (in the FAR distant future), her tolerance for the "yes, dear" response will be minimal.

Being with Sophie is akin to being with a very astute, very intelligent small adult.

(Who occasionally throws in a little pre-adolescent attitude just to be sure we recall her true age.)

Today's woods-walk took us from our home to the town library, down a path I frequently run behind the high school athletic fields.  As we walked, Sophie talked. And talked.  Took a breath.  Then talked some more.

She shared the experiences of her final day of fourth grade.  She made astute (non-judgmental) comments about the relationships between her peers.  She told me of her hopes for the summer.

And she also hatched a scheme.

Sophie's scheme involved one of my favorite pastimes: word sharing. Specifically her scheme involved reading collaboratively, mother-daughter. Chosing duplicates of a book from the library, savoring the words separately yet jointly, then (perhaps) watching the associated movie.

I had done this with my older daughter (now a high school sophomore) years before.

And Sophie, of course, forgets nothing.

Thus, we found ourselves approaching our destination with fresh vigor.  We discussed possible titles, both classic and new.  Harry Potter, Bridge to Terabithia, Hoot: we carefully considered the merits of each.

Once at the library we narrowed our choices based on available selection, and we went with...

Charlotte's Web, by our beloved E.B. White.

No accident (I'm sure) that this particular volume details the story of a weakling runt--saved from certain death by a well-meant child--who experiences an amazing rebirth with the help of a few close friends.

Gotta love the underdog, er, "underpig," who is able to change the course of his existence because he believes he can (and has a willing spider to offer support).

Needless to say, Sophie and I are already several chapters into what, for both of us, is a re-read. We began reaping the benefits of Sophie's summer literary scheme seated shoulder-to-shoulder on a bench in the library garden, a-swoon with the scent of fading lilacs.

We have already shared words about the words written by dear Mr. White. Delicious words, savored. Fine phrases, at once familiar and new.

Thank the Lord (or whatever Great Spirit to whom one might attribute blessings) for ten-year-olds.

Thank the Lord for words, shared. Written and spoken.

And, thank the Lord for my word-sharing ten-year-old, sweet Sophie Grace.

hopscotch (Merrill Memorial Library)

June 2011

 

Snow-Traipsing & Seawall Ephemera

One never knows what one might find when walking a beach. Especially when walking a Maine beach, in winter.

Earlier this month I traveled to one of my favorite Maine beaches, where I was fortunate to see the sun set over a broad swath of tidal pools, in conjunction with the rise of a 'waxing gibbous' moon. (Such droll, birdlike words for our dear bella luna.)

Yesterday I snow-traipsed (some would say hike, but that doesn't give nearly the feel of it) to an extension of that same beach.  

If entering via the state park, or up the road near the Fort, this beach is called Popham. By snow-traipsing the Morse Mountain path, one emerges at Seawall Beach.  I only learned the distinction yesterday, and a curious distinction it is, given that one can easily walk northward and again be on Popham.

Regardless of what it might be called, it is, at any place along its stretch, one of my favorite Maine beaches. It never fails to bring me happiness. 

Yesterday's happiness was of a bubbly sort. 

The temperature this day was, unlike many days prior, above freezing.  Far fewer layers were needed for warmth than had been the case on recent excursions  The path was skied/trod enough to make it easily passable, but still fresh enough to provide adventure.  My fellow snow-traipsers (including a set of back-country skiers) were few in number. 

The view along the path was varied and stunning. The sun had begun its afternoon descent through a milky haze of cloud cover, still casting enough light to engage the evergreens in a shadow dance.  From the top of Morse Mountain, coquettish waves could be seen shining along the staid coastline. 

All was quiet, save for the distant ocean roar.

Emerging from the path (and past the sign informing me that I was indeed on Seawall Beach), I learned that the sands--at least for that moment--were mine alone. No human soul was to be found.

And along the shore, I found my gift.  Bubbles.  Thousands of them.  Millions.  Wobbling fortresses of white sea foam abandoned by the receding tide; shining progeny of the coquettish waves.

Ephemera.  Bubbling, beautiful ephemera. 

Realizing the transitory nature of their being, I chased the bubbles across the surface skim of water leading from the sands to the sea.  A small child I was, fascinating by the glimmering billows.

I could not believe my good fortune.

The tide, quickly moving, made short work of my gift.  The fortresses soon dissolved to scattered clumps, then to the single bubbles from whence they had come.

But I was not saddened by their disappearance.  Such is the nature of ephemera.  It is with us, and then it is not. For the moment it is with us, it is our happiness.

One never knows what one might find when walking a beach. Especially a Maine beach, in winter.

Except, almost invariably, happiness.

Seawall Seafoam, January 2011

 

 

 

Peaks

Snow fields; tunnel traveling; silver sunlight cast upon a luminescent winter sea.

All of these were to be had yesterday on the island called "Peaks."

I was surprised to find myself on that island, as initially my plan had been to travel further up the coast for an easy Bates-Morse Mountain hike.  I enjoy the Morse Mountain path, ending, as it does, at the southernmost tip of Popham Beach.

But plans changed as quickly as they had been made. And in a way unanticipated. Forever a lover of islands, I would not previously have considered a winter excursion to one--at least not to one in Maine.

Truly, I am a fan of sunshine.  Warmth.  Temperate breezes.

Yesterday began with an absence of all three. The sky was blanketed in grey. The ocean was hard and fierce.  Even the ducks could not bear to settle on its surface for more than a few moments at a time.

Yet it was across this stern sea that my friend and I traveled, aboard a Casco Bay Lines vessel, bound for a place I had only ever visited in the heat of the year.

My summer visits to Peaks Island had always been quite satisfactory.  More than once I had run July's road race there.  I had also attended clam bakes and other gatherings.

Clams and runners were in short supply yesterday, my friend and I noted upon arrival.  Instead there was snow--and lots of it. 

Warmth was glaringly absent, as were temperate breezes.

Instead, there were birds resting amidst bittersweet.  Graffitti-adorned bunkers bookending echo-ready concrete tunnels.  Tankers sidling by on the far horizon.

And, eventually, there was sunshine.  Not the easy, unhurried sunshine of an island tropic, but the sharp silver brilliance of a January orb. A sight so piercingly stunning that I could not keep my weather-reddened fingers inside my gloves, so eager were they to capture the image by photograph.

It was, as the island's name might suggest, a peak experience.

While walking, my friend and I pondered the notion of peak experiences.  We discussed that fact that many people (ourselves included) often fall victim to the misconception that such experiences are most likely to occur when planned.  That they belong to vacations, and exotic journeys.  That they are a part of ceremonial gatherings, such as weddings and graduations.

Which they may be.  But they also may be part of everyday life.  They may take place under winter sunshine on a Casco Bay island, during a spontaneous day jaunt.

They may take place as we drive home from work, drinking in the colors of a Maine sunset.

They may take place as we stop for a contemplative moment under a scattering of stars framed by stark pines.

Or they may take place as we enjoy the company of those we love: our children; our friends; our colleagues.

Wherever these experiences may be found--and for however long--they are precious, and worthy of our attention.

These peaks, like the sunshine, offer us glimpses of otherwise hidden beauty.

They intensify our life experiences with their luminescence.

 

bunker tunnel, Peaks Island

January 2011