Waypoints in the Flow

This morning, I came to a sudden stillness.

I learned that a patient I had known for many years—along with her husband and their beloved therapy dog—had been in a head-on motor vehicle collision. She and her husband were killed. Their dog, who had always waited quietly by their side, was injured.

All three were kind, loving beings. My patient and her husband drove more than an hour each way to visit my medical acupuncture practice, once located in a former mill—a cherished space, known for its exposed brick and tall windows overlooking a river that emptied into the sea.

Her husband would sit, smiling and chatting with others, in the waiting room during her sessions. I’d sometimes follow them both out to their car to connect with their sweet pup before they all continued on their way.

I can still picture them: her joyous presence, his quiet patience, their dog’s vigilant love, and the soft rhythm of their mutual companionship. They were part of the landscape of my work—and, I realize now, part of the landscape of my heart.

Because they had no children, there was no obituary. No formal farewell. I only learned of their passing today, long after the accident occurred.

And yet, the grief arrived as if it had just happened.

Such is the nature of medicine. We intersect with lives—sometimes briefly, sometimes for years—and even when time has passed, their stories remain quietly stitched to ours. When those stories resurface, we are moved again, just as deeply.

My first instinct was to call my father.

For 4½ years—throughout his cancer journey—my father and I spoke nearly every evening after I finished my work day. These conversations were our ritual: a space to reflect on patients, grief, gratitude, and the mysterious in-between places of life and death.

The last phone message he ever left me—almost exactly a year ago—was this:

“Love you guys. Love you. Thank you.”

It epitomized who he was. Quiet. Deeply loving. Grateful, even as his body slipped away. His spirit never did.

These are the moments when presence feels fragile and memory feels like a thread.

I’m grateful I can still talk with my mother, who brings her own rhythm and grace to reflection. But I miss those daily waypoints with my dad—small pauses where we processed the work we did and the lives we witnessed.

Which brings me back to the importance of waypoints.

In my first post, I wrote about the quiet morning space I return to before screens or demands. In my second, I reflected on the small rituals that bring me back to myself. Last week, I shared how I move from frenzied to focused—through noticing, naming, and narrowing.

This week, I needed something different.

Waypoints are not milestones. They are moments of meaning.

Places where we pause—not to fix or solve, but simply to mark:

This happened. This touched me. This is part of the journey now.

We can create these pauses in small, intentional ways:

– A breath before the next meeting

– A walk between tasks

– A candle lit beside a photo

– A journal left open for what doesn’t yet have words

– A check-in with someone who reminds us who we are

This reflection brought me back to the words of Portland Art Gallery artist Heidi Daub, a former Radio Maine guest. Her recent series, In the Time of Turning, explores the layered beauty of confluence—rivers, generations, and experience all flowing together.

“I think about my generation, my children, my grandchildren… and the river just keeps flowing.” —Heidi Daub

Heidi Daub, In The Time of Turning

Public health leader Dr. Becca Boulos, this week’s Radio Maine guest, reminded me that the work of return is both individual and collective.

“People crave connection, even as we drift toward division. We’ve been here before—we can return.” —Dr. Becca Boulos

Whether through medicine, parenting, art, leadership, or grief, each story carries the same gentle truth:

Waypoints are not detours. They are where we remember who we are.

A note of gratitude

This week, The Bountiful Path received its first pledged subscriber.

Thank you to my dear friend and colleague in medicine, Karen Longfellow, for your generosity—and for this beautiful message:

“Your thoughts & questions resonate and spark me to live with more curiosity.”

Reflection prompt:

What moment this week deserves a pause?

Where might you place your next waypoint?

Next week, I’ll share more about how I build waypoints into my calendar—and why protecting these spaces is essential for sustainable leadership, creativity, and care.

If this post resonates, I invite you to subscribe and walk with me on The Bountiful Path—a weekly space for presence, perspective, and remembering who we are becoming.

Let’s keep the path bountiful.

Warmly,

Lisa

Spring Peony after the Rain