After a bliss-filled reflective Father’s Day a couple months ago, I decided to take stock of my life and worked out that I have about 10,000 good working days left.
Obviously, it’s an arbitrary number and not a hard science. I have no plans on ever retiring, nor dying for that matter. Who knows what might come my way, but I think it’s a fairly realistic assessment of my time here.
10,000 days to enjoy the extraordinary family I’ve been given. 10,000 days to soak in the beauty of the earth. 10,000 days to leave a mark on the planet.
Part of my routine each morning has been counting down the days on my white board (I’m at 9952 right now). It’s a bit morbid, but it reminds me my time here is not endless. I am not a machine. I cannot do it all, nor should I.
I spend a moment meditating on the pending end because it gives me heart-piercing clarity on what matters. It helps prevent me from deceiving myself. It’s easy to have busy, efficient, and exciting lives, and still be void of meaning.
Some people feel that death is what makes life meaningless, but the truth is, death makes life burst with meaning. Wouldn’t that next kiss, that next conversation, that next bit of human contact, be phenomenally different if you knew it was your last?
Sometimes my eyes accidentally catch those numbers winding down and it almost always jolts life into me. Thoughts of death have a way of resuscitating me from my waking slumber.
What I do each day matters because I’m exchanging a day of my life for it.
I have 10,000 days left. I refuse to let them slip by. There is still much to do, and change, and become.