I am afraid to own a Body | Day 42
I am afraid to own a Body—
I am afraid to own a Soul—
Profound—precarious Property—
Possession, not optional—
Double Estate—entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir—
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.
- Emily Dickinson, Poem 1090, c.1866This isn’t the most accessible Emily Dickinson poem, but hopefully we’ve been together long enough for you to trust me on this one.
Some notes on the language: “Double Estate” refers to an heir inheriting two properties at once. This situation wasn’t as desirable as it sounds — suddenly being responsible for two estates could quickly run a person bankrupt. By using this image, Emily implies that we’ve been handed a body and a soul as if they were gifts, but actually trying to manage them is unwieldy and draining.
There doesn’t seem to be agreement on the precise meaning of the last two lines, but I read them as saying that even though we think we’re supposed to rule over our lives (be “Dukes” over our “moments of Deathlessness”), we’re still at the mercy of an unknowable infinity lurking just beyond the border. For all we know, that infinity makes our little dukedoms meaningless. But we can’t be certain, because only God knows.
The imagery is a little out of date, but the sentiment is not. Having a body is bewildering. Its needs aren’t always clear, and half the time I don’t know what to do with it. How do I stand? How should I move? What do I do with my hands? A soul is no less mystifying, especially for those of us who don’t have a particular religious doctrine to lean on. What responsibilities do I have to my spirit? To other people’s spirits? What am I supposed to do with “me?”
One answer to that question is that “me” doesn’t exist and the thing to do is work on accepting that. I’m not going to argue with Buddhism (or psychedelics) here, because I don’t think this poem is actually looking for an answer to how to handle a “Double Estate.” This poem is about being in the moment of overwhelm. The first two lines are direct declarations of fear, and the next few lines betray resentment. “Possession, not optional” and “entailed at pleasure” are a little passive aggressive. The p’s sound like spitting. The speaker is scared, overwhelmed, and a little pissed off that God — who knows everything that’s out there — has left her alone to manage these unwieldy gifts.
I empathize with this poem, but I also want to channel some of its fighting spirit. Living is a precious, priceless gift. And it can also be a pain in the ass. Both can be true.
Precarious Property,
Jess