Doug Bruns

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A Morning Visit

In Death, Family on May 3, 2013 at 6:00 am

I visit my father every morning. Two weeks ago I found him sitting in his desk chair, back to me, upright, but listing. I called, Good morning. I got no response. I approached and looked at his face. His eyes were open, though his lids heavy. He did not respond to my voice. I thought, fighting panic: This is how it should be. Dressed, at his desk, no effort, no struggle. Gone. But he was not gone. I detected his chest moving. I rested my hands on his shoulders. I called to him, softly. Still no response. I stroked his back, the bones now protruding, symbols of only hard things remaining. I activated the sensor he wears around his neck and as I waited I talked to him, telling him it was going to be okay, that I was with him. No response. Help arrived and as the four of us lifted him into his bed his eyes focused and he said, “To what do I owe this attention?” We laughed.

I spent the day with him, at his bedside, and a measure of me hoped that he would be spared further suffering. But as the day wore on, he recovered. I fed him. I read to him. I held his hand.  Late in the day, I left him sleeping. I told the receptionist that I was leaving. She said they would check on him. When I returned a few hours later, he was in his chair, dressed, and trying to figure out his TV remote. We watched a bit of Deadliest Catch together.

The body fails us when we most desire otherwise. And, conversely, it stubbornly marches on when we have perhaps arrived at exhaustion and long for rest. The final act of existence is the release of breath–just as the first act was the gasp for it. There is nothing within our control, but for the thoughts in our head and even those, most precious and of our own design, run wild through the caverns of consciousness.  We carry on together.

Morning thoughts on morning.

In Life, Nature, Writing on April 15, 2012 at 10:33 am

It is the idyllic impoverishment of morning that most appeals. Morning is a vacuum and I prefer to let it stay that way. Day will soon enough suck up the hours.

If I could extend the morning all day long, I would. Early light slants low and stretches like a path to full day. I prefer to linger and step off if the path grows too steep too rapidly. It is best when climbing into day to do so gradually.

Morning begins alone, with a walk. Usually with a dog. Always alone with a dog only. I do not particularly tolerate people well in the morning. It takes me a while to get back to tolerating myself in the early hours and people around only inhibit that process. Some mornings, like this one, I just keep walking, warming up to the day, warming up to myself. I do not rush this business and have learned over the years the penalty of not taking the process seriously.

My daughter once dated a young man who slept until noon. I was angered by this. Not so much because my daughter longed for company in those hours, as angered that the young man was squandering such a precious thing as morning. I know I sound old and like a fuddy-duddy saying that. There are not all that many things I’ve figured out, but I have figured out the worth of morning.

My life goal is simple. I just want all the parts to fit together. In the morning that seems the closest to possible.

12.8.2018

In Family, Wisdom on December 8, 2018 at 8:00 am

Questions I’ve been contemplating recently * : 

  • What’s ultimately the most important thing in life to you?
  • What do you want your life to “stand for” or “be about”?
  • What would you most like your life to be remembered for after you’ve died?
  • What sort of thing do you most want to spend your life doing?
  • What sort of person do you most want to be in your various relationships and roles in life, e.g., as a parent, a friend, at work, and in life generally?

And this one, which really got me thinking:

  • If you had one opportunity to give advice to your child about life, what would you tell them is most important?

 I was discussing this last question with my daughter. She is a nurse, mother of two, wife–in other words a person who is very busy. She got up early this particular morning, went to the gym, then home to write in her journal before the kids got up. She had a good start on the day and her mood reflected it. Then it occurred to me, the advice I would share with my children: Get up early. To get up early is to exercise self-discipline. With self-discipline a life, like a day, begins to take shape and everything follows accordingly from there.

*Thanks to Donald Robertson and the Stoic Mindfulness and Resilience Training program for these questions and many other thought-provoking notions.

 

11.23.2018

In Memoir, The Examined Life, Wisdom on November 23, 2018 at 8:00 am

It is Black Friday, our new national holiday.  Today we are encouraged to attend the Church of Eternal Retail and asked to take communion at the altar of consumption. I was once a dues paying member of this church. I sat in the pew up front, where the big consumers sit, the ones with fancy black cars and multiple properties. We were the ones who just came back from Europe, or some such place, leaving our trail of particulates behind us at 30,000 feet.

Then, slowly, things began to shift. Here’s how that happened.

One day I was walking my property, a large rectangle of many acres. Our house sat at the back, tucked against a state set-aside of several thousand acres. A nature preserve boarded the other side of our estate. We had a pool. And a pool house. You get the picture. As I walked through the woods deer sprinted in front of me. There was a fox den over by the creek. It was idyllic by any measure. But all that was lost on me on this particular morning. Instead my focus was on a tree that had come down in the last storm. And over there, I noticed a patch of poison ivy spreading unabated. And back by the house, I was obsessed by the weeds that returned week after week, despite the garden crew that plucked them every Friday afternoon. Then it hit me: The stuff I owned had somehow come to own me.

It was a simple, yet powerful, awakening. I was not the owner, but the owned, not master but slave. How did this happen? Simply put, success happened, as is measured conventionally. There’s nothing wrong with that in itself. But success can be a seduction. Odysseus had his crew put wax in their ears and ordered them to tie him to the mast. They were sailing past the Sirens and he wanted to hear their song, but not at the cost of casting himself into the ocean, or wreck his ship on the rocks. He was wise. Success was my siren song and I was whistling the tune. I didn’t have the wisdom to tie myself to the mast . Yet walking through the woods that day, I heard the crashing waves and took heed. A little wisdom came to me that morning and things began to change.

That was about ten years ago. It took time to turn the ship, but turn it we did. We got rid of everything–everything!–and purchased a 28’ Airstream trailer. We lived on the road for a year and a half. It was a study in minimalism. Consumption stopped. There was no place to put that new fleece. No reason to look at those new flat screen HD TVs. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “If you seek tranquility, do less…do less, better.” For me, it became, if you seek tranquility (freedom), own less, purchase less, have less–and be better for it. Be free.

So, on this day of national consumption, I exercise my new wisdom. I note with gratitude the path I ended and the new path I embarked on. I turn with appreciation to the few things I own and better cherish them for the scarcity. I reject the consumption that marks this day and embrace the eternal and lasting, as I understand it, wisdom, simplicity, and gratitude.

9.24.2018

In Death, Dogs, Nature, Philosophy, The Examined Life on September 24, 2018 at 1:04 pm

On his deathbed in Concord, Mass., Henry David Thoreau, drifting in and out of consciousness, muttered two works, “Indian…Moose” and died. His mind had gone to Maine and his adventures in the Great North Woods. I thought of Thoreau on this morning’s run. Lucy and I have made this run up the ridge all but two mornings since arriving in Colorado over four months ago. It has taken that long for me to build the endurance to make the run up the mountainside without stopping. I am soon to turn 63 and have the lungs of a 63 year old. Too, there is the matter of being at 9075 feet elevation.

I thought of Thoreau because, if I am lucky, perhaps on my deathbed my mind will turn to these mornings with my dog, these mountains, the chill of the valley shadow and the wild brilliance of sunrise as we crest the ridge. “Come ‘on, Lucy girl,” I call as we get up top. She will have stopped to sniff a tree or chase a chipmunk. One morning last week I spotted a red fox sitting in a beam of morning light. The fox saw me but didn’t move. They are frequently bold if nothing else. I called Lucy and gave a little sprint to distract her. She caught up and did not notice the fox, fortunately. There is a sign at the trailhead stating that the area is populated by moose. Not a morning run has gone by where I don’t wonder what I’ll do if we encounter one. Lucy once spotted a moose from the truck when we were in Maine. She went nuts. This morning two bald eagles soared above us, chirping one to the other.

I have talked here at “…the house…” about my affinity for the morning and won’t belabor it again. I think it is to society’s considerable detriment that our morning is consumed with rushing off to work, with rushing kids off to school, with missing the sunrise. This is a curse we have placed on ourselves, the damage of which is only comprehended when we are released from it to realize the deliberate potential of another day of existence. From the outset our days are numbered and there is no double ledger accounting of where the balance lies.

* * *

As a reader of “…the house…” you are aware of my life quest to live a proper life. In that pursuit I have considered any number of responses to the question, How to Live? Consider my Zen studies and my meditation practice, for instance. In that spirit I have again signed up for International Stoic Week. This year’s theme is living happily.

What is a happy life? It is peacefulness and lasting tranquillity, the sources of which are a great spirit and a steady determination to hold fast to good decisions. How does one arrive at these things? By recognizing the truth in all its completeness, by maintaining order, moderation and appropriateness in one’s actions, by having a will which is always well-intentioned and generous, focused on reason and never deviating from it, as lovable as it is admirable.                                                                                                                                                                                                            Seneca, Letters, 92.3

                            

I invite you to follow the above link and spend seven days living like a Stoic. I hope to share some of my insights and experiences here and invite you to do so as well.

Thanks for reading!

8.7.2018

In Camping, Dogs, Life on August 7, 2018 at 11:29 am

Peak One Campground, Frisco, Colorado

Yesterday while working in the campground I rounded a corner and came upon an elderly gentleman being pulled by three small leashed dogs. I’d met him the day before. His wife had eventually tugged at his elbow, saying, “Enough already, let the man go do his work.” He seemed lonely, though I only thought it because he liked to talk. This morning his wife was not present, only the man and his dogs. I said hello and we talked about dogs for a few minutes. One dog, a white terrier, feisty and keen, was the focus of his comments. As he talked the three leashes became intertwined but the man didn’t seem to notice. The terrier had been his daughter’s dog, he said. She got him when she learned she had breast cancer. She wanted the companionship. The man talked without emotion, in that way people from Kansas do. The flatness of his voice settled on me in emotional way. I began to tear up.  “She told me she wanted me to raise him if she didn’t make it.” We’d had a rain the night before and the tacky aroma of pine was suddenly apparent. I was wearing a jacket, it being cold. I took off my glasses and wiped my tears. The little white terrier was busy sniffing the edge of my boot, likely picking up Lucy’s scent–Lucy, waiting patiently for my return down the hill and across the campground.