The windows in the rooms here are huge. They give a beautiful view of the garden in the front and the street down which few cars drive on Christmas Day, the biggest holiday of the year.
Snow is falling down, sporadically, huge flakes circling and dancing in the sky, and the sun is shining brightly, clearly through the snow.
She sits upright in her chair with a mask on her face so she can breathe, looking out the window, and quietly meditating, waiting.
To me, it seems strange that she can sit so peacefully, waiting for death to come. Perhaps because she has known for a few days that her body is irreparably damaged, a war zone of cancer and pain, destruction just lurking.
(Listening to - Dying to Live Again [Hedley])
I imagine myself in that position, and think that I would be anxiously attempting to get up from that chair, walk the long, fluorescent lit halls, instead of sitting with acceptance. Anything to escape death or put it off, pretend it is not near.
Even with the security of faith that leads me to believe the future beyond death is beautiful, there is still this overwhelming and suffocating fear of what is beyond our world.