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37 days

this is a blog by another person
it has a lot to say
why do we study philosophy?
maybe this tells us the real reason

http://37days.typepad.com/37days/2005/01/why_37_days.html

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you probably know why it's
called *37days*, not 38 days or 160 weeks or a fancy fortnight or Half a
Dozen Years Or So. For those who don't know, my stepfather was diagnosed
with lung cancer in late 2003 and died just 37 days later:

"*If I had 37 days left, would I spend my time cleaning the attic, purging
computer files, or attending committee meetings? Would I have passed on my
stories to my children and friends, or would I spend those days regretting
not having time to do so? Am I living fully now, or am I waiting until after
the kids leave for college or my annuity matures or the Colts move back to
Baltimore? It will be too late then.*

*I started asking myself one question every morning: What would I be doing
today if I only had 37 days to live?*

*It's a hard question some days.*

*But here's how I answered it: Write like hell, leave as much of myself
behind for my two daughters as I could, let them know me and see me as a
real person, not just a mother, leave with them for safe-keeping my thoughts
and memories, fears and dreams, the histories of what I am and who my people
are. Leave behind my thoughts about living the life, that "one wild and
precious life" that poet Mary Oliver speaks of. That's what I'd do with my
37 days. So, I'm beginning here."*

The concept of 37 days is an important one, a driver for living urgently in
the now, for paying attention, for saying yes more often, for opening space
for others to live their own wild and precious lives while you live your
own, to the absolute fullest.

*We are all of us dying*--and some of us will be gone in just 37 days.
Others will be, a lifetime later, still upright and breathing, but dead on
the inside, having succumbed to the heartless living we are making for
others, one foot in front of the other asleep and yet with our eyes open, a
whole lifetime of regret or plan-making. I've done my share of that. "I'll
do that *when. *I *can't* do that. I *should *do this, but I really love
doing *that.*" Not knowing when was now, always now.

There is always an unspoken urgency to our living, but we dampen it down
most days, the cause of that urgency too hard to bear on a daily basis. And
so we often come not only surprised to that end but with regrets, too--I
wish I had, if only I had, I should have, why didn't I?

Writing *37days* was, from the very beginning--that first short
essaysent
to 12 friends in early 2005--a labor of just love--pure adoring
amazing
love--and the clearest intention I have ever set for myself. I only wanted
to write my stories for my children, to challenge them, to provide a
guidebook for living for them. It was a singular, finely honed, clear,
unwavering intention. I am in a better place to die now, having written *37days
*for these past three years. This
bookis
my guidebook for Emma and Tess. It is done.

After all the waiting and working,* in just 37 days from today*, that
book--the one that emerged from those years of writing--will appear,
fulfilling my intention to leave behind my stories for my girls. The fact
that others have acknowledged those stories and learned from them, and
laughed and cried with them provides me with such joy. My thanks for joining
me on this journey of exploration and remembrancing. But that is not the
reason I'm here, writing these words. No, they are for Emma and Tess, the
major inhabitants of all the chambers of my heart and the entire solar
system of my soul.

I've never done my best work before, I realized recently, because I always
wanted an "out," an excuse, a way to deflect criticism. "Oh, yeah, I could
have done better if the planets had been in alignment," or "It was a rush
job, not my best work," or "The dog ate my homework." Not this. This book?
It is the best thing I have ever done. And I truly believe it is because of
the purity and clarity of its intention. I *had* to write this book. It *had
* to be illustrated by readers of my blog; a literary and artistic
barn-raising was the perfect way to complete the work.

It feels great to feel that way about something you've created. While I'm
just as scared that this book will be a success (as measured by the Book
People) as I am nervous that it will languish on the remainder shelf at
Costco, the only real thing that matters to me is that very soon (very very
soon!), I will sign a copy to Emma and I will sign a copy to Tess, and in so
doing, I will give them the fullest part of me. I will give them all that I
carry.