On death & week 14 of 52
and superstitions and the joy of exploring the ephemeral (along with a breath practice for aytl)
With inspiration from Montaigne, who emphasized the eternal nature of revision, I made some edits and additions below after my 45th birthday.
I catch myself paying closer attention to the cadence of my breath when I see a tombstone.
As a kid, riding in the back of my parents’ Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais, we were always on the lookout. Mom would say, “Hold your breath!” whenever we approached a cemetery. My sister and I would suck in oxygen and expand our cheeks.
While I don’t remember discussing the reason, I knew we didn’t want ghosts and spirits to recruit us. So I made a game of eluding death by holding my breath for longer increments each time we drove along the cemetery that extended a few blocks on Olentangy River Road. It was a route we traversed often.
After a while, I became boastful about how long I could remain inert. Playing dead to fool the dead, I could suck in oxygen at the traffic light, when the cemetery was barely in sight, and hold my breath comfortably as I squinted to read the names on the stones, wondering at the life stories. I’d hold it beyond the cemetery until my body faltered. Just when we were in the clear, I’d find myself gasping after the inevitable release.
For a long time, I imagined gasping would be how I’d take my last breath.
Now in my mid-forties, I appreciate the wisdom and philosophical framing that arrives with middle age. I wouldn’t go back in time for anything, but I can’t say aging is without its perils. I wonder, for instance, if the cartilage in my right knee is atrophying or if this twinge is just overuse. It’s hard to tell. Small parts and processes of my body are beginning to weaken. There are more foods I cannot tolerate. I appreciate a good nap.
I wonder about the number of years I have left and the quality of those years, but not in a depressing manner. I’m not taking anything for granted.
I have to admit that on my birthday I succumbed to the urge to enter basic lifestyle information into a death calculator online. It told me I had about ninety full years to live. This means I am about halfway through, assuming I’m lucky. This death calculator is likely just a way of collecting marketing information, but even if it might be accurate, this is the sort of data the mind can’t quite digest. It feels abstract, albeit less so than it did in my twenties.
In my thirties, I published a lot of short fiction starring a protagonist named Rattle. He was a seeker, internally tortured, and he seemed to have a proclivity for mocking death. I named the character after reading about the death rattle, which refers to a sound the body emits when a dying person’s fluids build up in the throat and upper chest. But Rattle also had a certain innocence, a wonder.
I do not have children, but friends who do tell me that the sound of a rattle is transfixing. It evokes a sense of curiosity as babies puzzle about where the scattered sound came from. They investigate the object and begin to explore its shape. When a rattle comes from inside, perhaps we find ourselves just as transfixed. Just as curious and in awe.
“Lift your feet so they don’t get wet,” Mom would say if we drove over a bridge over a large body of water. I am pretty sure she made this one up. My sister and I would lift our feet and legs, finding an isometric hold, but we weren’t convinced. If we forgot, we’d laugh it off.
We never forgot to hold our breath.
I still remember the day we drove past a graveyard, and I chose to breathe. I did so defiantly, mocking the spirits. Take that, death, I thought, as my sister looked on in horror, her cheeks expanded and eyes wide. I tried to smile confidently but had reservations about what I’d done.
I took conscious inhalations, feeling everything—the temperature, length, expansion in my body—and, for the first time I can remember, felt total appreciation for every breath. This appreciation wanes and swells to this day, and the older I get, the more I feel it.
After all, what is ephemeral is what makes everything worthwhile.
Prompt: Death is one of the most compelling topics in literature, so I invite you to write a piece about death. A character, a process … an end.
AYTL prompt: One of the most powerful and somewhat disturbing practices that I have in my own life, and one that reminds me of this experiment, is a breath practice in which I not only breathe in deeply, but I breathe out deeply and hold the exhale. To hold our breath out is not easy. I’d recommend trying this simple practice (with care and attention to your own body): Inhale to a count of six, hold for six, exhale for a count of eight, and hold out for ten. Repeat three times. Notice what you feel as you hold out. Notice any struggle or resistance.
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Next week, I’m doing a DEEP dive into rhythm and story and rhythm and life.
In gratitude, Jen
I wrote about death in several essays in my book, The Consequence of Stars. It was both difficult and oddly at the same time, joyful. Does that make semse? It helped me see the death as living again, in a way. My mother always used to say "death is a part of life." I like to remind myself to that.