104 Days Between The Bed And The Door

Dad sat staring into space; he had been diagnosed with 'that lung cancer'- The one with the long name that begins with the letter 'M' that’s awkward to pronounce - the incurable, unforgiving kind that rips through the body like a black tornado.

I rushed over and knelt beside him, resting my head against his, and cried. I seemed to be under the false impression that cancer was something that only happens to other people.

From the time Dad was diagnosed with 'that lung cancer' to the moment he took his last breath, his ramble here on earth lasted 104 days. Then I blinked, and he was gone.

The second we are born the journey to death begins. How much time we have and more importantly how much living we do in the time we have will vary from person to person.

I often wonder how Dad lived with dying.

So today I ask myself a question.

What if I had 104 days left to live on Planet Earth? How different would my life look?

The purpose of writing this blog is to spend the next 104 days of my life. consciously exploring the space between the bed and the door. ( The space between the bed and the door is the spot where I sit each morning in stillness.) That’s 2496 hours or 149760 minutes or 8985600 seconds left to live each moment like it's my last, rediscover what makes my heart sing, and shine my light.

I won't be the first to attempt this experiment, and neither will I be the last.

Theres no time to waste...

Let the experiment in conscious dying begin ...

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