Bonus Time

In 1905, the shipbuilder and former mayor of Seattle, Robert Moran, was told by doctors he had about one year to live. He was 47.

Moran had recently completed the project that would crown his shipbuilding career, the battleship USS Nebraska. His rise to fame and success was not ordained. He was only 18 years old when he arrived in Seattle, which was, at the time, a very small and recently incorporated outpost. He had left his family and his home in New York City and landed on the other side of the country with barely a penny to his name. He worked on steamboats, saving enough to eventually pay for his mother and siblings to come join him. With his three brothers, he established a ship-repair business that grew and prospered. He was elected mayor of Seattle in 1888 and because of his efforts to coordinate the rebuilding of the city following the Great Seattle Fire of 1889, he was re-elected to a second term. The fire had devastated the business district, including his own company. He spent the next 15 years growing his business, which thrived and culminated with the completion of the naval contract the Nebraska. 

Issues with his health led him to seek medical care, and he was diagnosed with "organic heart disease". Hans Selye would not begin his research into the general adaptation syndrome until 1936. Moran had what would now be considered a case of "executive stress". Regardless of what it was called, both he and his doctors sensed that his health was failing. Robert Moran then did something that changed the trajectory of his life. 

He moved to Orcas Island, in the San Juan archipelago west of Seattle, and began construction on a mansion that would be his final project. He left his company in the hands of his brothers and employed his shipwrights to build the home in which he planned to spend the rest of his life. His mansion, which is now the Rosario Resort, looks and feels like it would be able to embark on a journey at sea. 

Robert Moran did not die of "organic heart disease" that year. In fact, he lived to be 86. Toward the end of his long life, he donated much of his property to the state of Washington, and constructed the roads, bridges, and look-out tower atop Mt. Constitution with his own resources, looking to ensure the preservation and future enjoyment of the land for public use. Foreseeing the potential strife among his family for his estate, he sold his mansion and nearly all of his possessions to an outside party, again working to preserve the integrity of his legacy. 

Why is the story of Robert Moran worth recounting?

What strikes me is that throughout his life, Robert Moran seemed to act as a steward. He amassed great material wealth, yet his actions speak more to a sense that this wealth and these resources were passing through him, not owned by him. As a businessman and public servant, he worked to promote his own interests, but those interests also included the good of those around him.

In addition to stewardship, the story of Moran is a parable of "bonus time." In the case of our shipwright, we can imagine that every day beyond his expected date of expiration could be considered a bonus. His conscious decision to heed the warning signs of his body, to not get trapped in the designs of his ego, and to reorganize how he was living allowed him to live a much longer and much healthier life. Looking out over the San Juan islands, walking in the woods on Orcas, breathing the same air as a family of whales, spending time with loved ones - a chance to pause. Isn’t it all bonus time?

It reminds me of a poem, “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver, which is perhaps the best medium to consider these things:

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? 

(re)Framing Causation

Some time ago, a Scottish philosopher inquired into the nature of human understanding. He saw that perceptions of sense and memory, as they present to the mind, do so in space or in time, but most importantly, in a necessary connection with each other. He reasoned that space, time, and causation are ideas. They do not actually represent the perceptions themselves. Rather, they reflect the manner in which the mind takes perceptions in, processes them, and “understands” them.

Consider the notion that what we perceive as matter - you know, “the hard stuff” of reality - is ultimately a quantum entanglement of light. All of the flavor and the scent, the gift of sound and vision, and the felt sense of perception comes from your body swimming in a sea of electromagnetic radiation.

From and within this sea of light, the mind uses the information from perception to generate ideas and does so in language. How we frame perception and how we (choose to) use language is a creative act.

Each moment in life is a creative unfolding of how we interact with this light. Tuning and turning the mind with intention and attention is a conscious choice that transforms the lens through which we perceive. We can perceive because we are embodied and this embodiment allows us to sense the relationships within and between space, time, and motion.

What if we (re)framed how we think about causation? That instead of being subject to, powerless against, or separate from the process of causation - we are the sequence of time. That essentially causation is thought and action creatively interwoven through the fabric of our reality causing, effecting, and affecting our experience in this life.

Kosmos i jego kontrasty