One thing that I appreciate about my childhood is that my sister and I were encouraged to play. During our free time, we would play games such as Cootie, Candyland, Mouse Trap, and Mall Madness. We tried to play Monopoly with my dad, but he always cleaned us out and made us cry; which I now realize was a very interesting way to teach us how to lose gracefully. As we walked down our yellow brick road of toys, we could choose from Barbies and Ponies and Popples-Oh my! We would build forts in the living room with sheets and blankets, create a Wish-World-Kids hotel out of our blocks, and pretend that our stuffed-animals were children at a day care and we were their teachers. Most everything we played, as children, would be considered normal- except for one: we played "funeral."
Since we were savvy on what went into creating a complete funeral, my sister and I decided to gather all of the plants from around the house and place them around our glass-top coffee table. Then, one of us would be the deceased, who laid under the coffee table with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed, and, for some reason, tongue sticking out (I don't know where we came up with that feature, but it was how we portrayed someone in a casket). Whichever one of the two of us was not playing the deceased would stand near the casket and cry. To us, this was normal. It wasn't until we tried to play funeral at the babysitter's house that we realized not every child knew how to play.
My mom received a phone call from Mrs. Anderson, who asked if playing funeral was something we did on a regular basis. My mom assured her that this was normal play at our house. I could only imagine what Mrs. Anderson must have thought as she watched two young girls show her son how to properly look dead.
As morbid as it may sound, I love that my sister and I engaged in this type of play. It seems that if guns and weapon-like toys are acceptable for boys, they should understand that their pretend gun fights could result in a pretend funeral. So many little girls play house and wedding, which may or may not be a part of their future, while neglecting to practice for the most inevitable and final event of their existence. Yes, it could be morbid, but could also be a lighthearted way to accept a circumstance that many people fear the most.
In his book, The Pilgrimage, Paulo Coelho describes a series of exercises that he went through to become a warrior-like human. In one exercise, he imagined himself dead. He laid on the ground, closed his eyes, and imagined what his children and wife would say at his funeral, as he was in his casket unable to answer them. He imagined no longer feeling things like wind, rain, or air swopping in and out of his lungs. He imagined no longer smelling a flower or enjoying the taste of food. He realized how much of the little things in life he had taken for granted.
Upon completion of the exercise, he arose to the feeling of the wind, the breath in his lungs, and the smell of the forest. He then ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and marveled at the flavor, claiming that it is the best food he has ever tasted.
Pretending to be dead and playing funeral isn't necessarily a bad thing. It could establish an acceptance for what will happen, or it could remind one to appreciate the beauty of the little things that we tend to take for granted.
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