Practicing being dead

I’ve told several friends that I practice being dead. I thought that statement probably sounded strange to people, maybe even depressing or deadly, so I hastened to tell them what I meant. Then, I recently purchased a book of poems by a favorite poet, and the statement was in one of her poems! “Today I’m going to practice being dead for a few hours,” wrote Marie Howe. The complete poem is below.

Marie Howe means something different than I do. I think she means she will try to become invisible, non-existent, to make it so “No one can expect anything from me,” her next line. On the other hand, I use this sentence when talking to myself as I interact with my grown children.

Here’s the origin of the internal command for me: Some years ago, around a year after my parents died, I wrote about an “invisible infrastructure” that their prayers and support had formed for me and which was now gone. I mourned, and still mourn, the loss of that foundation of prayers and love from my parents while they were living their earthly lives. At the same time, it occurred to me, “Yet, here I am. Here we are. We’re figuring it out.” I recognized that I would feel better and more confident if I still had that feeling of approval and the knowledge that they’d be there for me if anything went wrong, but I also saw that I was doing all right on my own. Things weren’t perfect; I continued to make mistakes or have second thoughts, but my family was here, on the whole we were thriving, life continued daily, and we did our best.

That realization led to me telling myself, “Practice being dead,” when I am tempted to give advice and opinions as I interact with my kids (We still call them “kids” even though they are all adults, some with children of their own). If any of my kids read this, they’ll think, “Mom, you need a LOT of practice!” Yes, I know. I am a blurter. I blurt out my thoughts without thinking much more often than I should. I often forget or ignore my own advice and hand out advice and opinions to my beloved children. Little do they know, though, how much I hold back!

What are your thoughts? I know many of you have adult children. How do you balance your love and support with the desire to remember that your advice is often unproductive and even counter-productive? Many of you are adult children dealing with parents who have more years on this planet than you and often feel they can help you by giving you the benefit of their experience. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Practicing
by Marie Howe, New and Selected Poems, 2024

Today I’m going to practice being dead for a few hours.

No one can expect anything from me.

No emails. No groceries.

Our little dog Jack watches me walk

from room to room, but,

for a few hours, he is the only one who can,

and he returns contentedly to his bone.

I say bone—it’s what the pet store calls

a bully stick, which is in fact a bull’s penis—

dried out and hard.

That a small dog should chew on a bull’s penis!

Well, we eat swordfish, don’t we?

And the shy octopus whose brains

are in her arms?

The sunlight enters the small kitchen

spilling across the white enamel table

and the chipped blue wooden chair

whether anyone is there to see it, or not.

Meister Eckhart says, There never was a man who forsook himself so much

that he could not still find more in himself to forsake.

Nevertheless, it’s good to have a dog with you when you are practicing

not being there: you don’t feel so all alone.