Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
(From: “Reluctance,” by Robert Frost, 1913)
It began with my misplacing a book. I’d been re-reading The Poetry Home Repair Manual, a down-to-earth and practical approach to writing poetry by Ted Kooser. I’ve had the book for several years, and periodically, I return to it when I feel the need to overcome the nagging voice of my internal critic, most vociferous whenever I attempt to write poetry. Of all the genres I read and enjoy, poetry is what I love most. But as you might expect, I am my own worst critic.
But that’s not the point of this post. The thing is, I thought I’d lost Kooser’s book in a flurry of house cleaning before guests arrived. I hate to admit it, but when I’m rushing about, I sometimes toss the odd thing in the trash without realizing it. For a few days, the mystery of the book’s disappearance was little more than a niggling question that only surfaced fleetingly. Now and then I’d scan my bookshelves. Kooser’s was not to be found.
But I’d been losing things for days. Overloaded with deadlines, appointments and necessary errands, I managed to misplace my car keys, tickets to a film, even one—not two—wool sock that I slip on when I awaken. I was preoccupied with all I had to do, but the mounting number of daily “losses” made me feel bonkers. Then yesterday, enjoying some respite from my demanding schedule, I found it: the missing book, buried among the “P” section of my bookshelf instead of “K,” for Kooser.
“Get used to it,” my husband said as I pranced around the room, overjoyed at solving the mystery of my missing book. “You’ll lose a lot more as you get older.” He’s right, of course, but I prefer not to think about it unless forced to.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
(From: “One Art,” by Elizabeth Bishop The Complete Poems 1926-1979)
The art of losing… It’s not just age or the little everyday losses we all experience, but throughout our lifetime, bigger ones, harder to let go of: love, friends, family members, jobs, our health, even faith or hope.
I thought back to a writing group of several years ago. A dozen people, all living with cancer, were seated around the table, notebooks open as I offered the first writing exercise, a short “warm-up”, something I always do at the beginning of a workshop.
“What’s on your mind this morning? What thoughts or concerns accompanied you to our group?” Within seconds, only their pens, could be heard, moving rapidly across the pages. “Who wants to read what you’ve written?” I asked after a few minutes. One woman, her head covered by a brightly colored scarf, raised her hand.
“I’m angry about losing my hair,” she began. “It’s has been my signature, long and full…” She looked up from her notebook. Her eyes were red and teary. Several of the women nodded sympathetically. I recalled my embarrassment when twice, as a teenager, I sported a bald head after neurosurgery, covering it with scarves when I returned to school and praying no one would laugh at me. I remember how unattractive and vulnerable I felt without my hair.
It grew back, of course, and so did the young woman’s, becoming full and long again over time. She was one of the lucky ones, her cancer in remission and making it possible for her to resume a full, active life. But so many of the people who write with me during their cancer experience lose far more than their hair. When we write about loss, cancer isn’t always at the top of the list. Dreams are lost. Friends are lost. Loved ones are lost—whether by death or by the dynamics of families unable to come together in crisis—and even countries, for some, have been lost. Although many of us may return to a so-called “normal” life, even a new life, what our lives were once will never be the same.
Being human demands that we come to terms, at different times on our lives, with different losses we all experience in life, small or large, continually adjusting to the changing seasons of being alive, and learning to let go, and. It’s no easy task, this business of loss and losing, and yet, it is the thing we all are challenged to master—and learn from.
Write about loss this week—about losing something—small or large—about when you’ve had to let go and accept loss in your life.
Then we couldn’t help expressing grief
So many things descended without warning:
labor wasted, loves lost, houses gone,
marriages broken, friends estranged,
ambitions worn away by immediate needs.
Words lined up in our throats
for a good whining.
Grief seemed like an endless river—
the only immortal flow of life.
After losing a land and then giving up a tongue,
we stopped talking of grief
Smiles began to brighten our faces.
We laugh a lot, at our own mess.
Things become beautiful,
even hailstones in the strawberry fields.
(From: “Ways of Talking, “by Ha Jin, in Facing Shadows, 1996)
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