Live Fuller, Not Bigger

Lately, I’ve had a new morning routine. A crisp fall breeze stirs through the window around 7 a.m. and I chant, “Mapleeeeee, come heeeeeere.” My eight-pound Aussie-doodle arises from the foot of the bed, groggily padding her squishy paws toward me. She does a form-perfect downward dog and collapses into my arm. If she is feeling vigorous, she’ll give my ear a little lick. 

Ten minutes later, I intone the next part of the chant, “Go get Mom.” Maple uncurls, yawns her stinky breath in my face, and climbs over my side-sleeper of a wife like a mountain goat. From there, she becomes the littlest spoon, while I tuck my arm under my wife’s tangled brunette bun to transform our family into an ultra-spoon. If it is a good day, one free of imminent newsletter deadlines for me or Ph.D requirements for my wife, we stay there another hour. 

These quiet autumn mornings are among the happiest moments I’ve ever experienced. It’s like when you crack a knuckle that had been heretofore uncrackable. That first pop of tendons strums a chord of unknown satisfaction that goes deeper than the act itself. 

So too with these mornings. They are simple and wholly average acts that humans have done forever. But somehow, they still resonate, with a feeling deep and meaningful. The first time I did that Maple chant, it was like my soul popped into a place that was completely natural and—up to that point—unknown. 

Perhaps these moments feel so important because of the fall air. This time of year is always one of reflection—it is the anniversary of the doctor declaring me cancer-free. When my doctor told me I was going to live, at the ripe old age of 23, I started a new tradition. Each year, I would do some big hurrah of the body, a beautiful sufferfest where I would do something challenging outside. Hiking to Machu Picchu or adventuring through Montana’s mountains—whatever it was, it had to be BIG. Each year, I felt like I needed to top myself and celebrate even harder. More distance, more far-flung destinations, more money spent. Go bigger and bigger, and grander and grander, until life exploded from every pore. 

Then I met my wife, Morgan, and that all felt a little silly. These quiet moments of morning joy feel more meaningful than those hikes ever did. Don’t get me wrong—the outdoors is and always will be my happy place. But being with Morgan has carved out new parts of myself, new sources of joy that I never knew existed. 

This is a phenomenon worth studying. And as my wife and I discussed it, she said something wise. I was “living fuller, not bigger.”