The art of losing…

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.

I read a poem recently that really spoke to me. It was magnetic. I read it once, but then I kept gravitating back to it and re-reading it over and over again. The last line read:

You are not leaving. YOU ARE NOT LEAVING. Even as the light fades quickly now. You are arriving.

This journey isn’t one lots of people talk about. It’s not a journey that a lot of people can really understand. They can empathize, they offer as much support as they can, but there aren’t really words. Or is it that there aren’t enough words? There just aren’t any right words? I can’t really say. What I can tell you is that this journey turns you. Turns you inside out. Makes you raw. Bare. Exposed. When someone you love is slowly and cruelly disappearing, losing their most prized possession, a part of themselves that they have held dear their whole existence, it tears at the flesh, stripping you to the bone. I can’t help but feel like a piece of myself is also disappearing. Dying. Decaying.

[We] lose something everyday. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

A friend asked me recently, “Which part of you is dying?” I didn’t have a good explanation then, but now having thought about it for a while I think I have a better understanding. It is not as simple as saying; well she’s my last surviving parent so it’s connected to the foundation of my being. She brought me into this world. I was her gift. She prayed for me to come. And when all of the memories are gone…when all the connections and associations are gone, what foundation will I stand on then? Who will I go to? Who will I go home to? Who will teach me? Who will be my mother? It is not as simple as saying if she looks at me and doesn’t recognize who I am then who does that make me? Who do I belong to? To all that I’ve grown I’m still someone’s little girl. I have been an adult for a long time, but I am still a child. I am someone’s child. At the very core of me I am someone’s daughter, but where does that all go if she is there but is not there? Her body is here. It has her voice. It laughs like she does. Not enough. Never enough. It cries like she does it. It still sounds like nails on a chalkboard as it always did, but it’s not her “her.” She is in limbo. I am in limbo. We are all in limbo. The place between the pines, between what was and what is to be, between leaving and arriving.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places and names, and where it was you were meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

The more complex answer to that question is that the part of me that is disappearing is really linked to my need and desire to help her…to save her. (Tangent: I overhead a conversation the other day . Two men having a discussion about the bombings in Brussels and the one said to the other that in that moment he would have ran and gotten as far away as quickly as possible and I remember thinking to myself that I would have done the exact opposite. My inclination would not have been to run. I would have assessed the situation as much as I could and then I would have gone back and started looking for survivors and getting people out. Lesson: Some people are runners. Some people stay and fight.) Throughout most of my childhood I felt it was my duty to help my mother, to make her happy, to make her laugh, to bring her joy, to keep her here with us. She belonged with us. She belonged to us and us to her. All parents and children feel this way, no? I’d like to think I helped her, but I can’t help her now. And that is both frustrating and heartbreaking all at once. I literally feel one or the other or both on any given day. I have so much strength, and I just want to give her some to fight this, but it won’t do any good. I have always had such a strong desire to fight for her and I am aware that this feeling is ever-present to this day. I do what I can. At the very least I am able to give her some moments of joy. Moments where she isn’t frightened or sad. I’m still doing what I always did, but there’s still so much energy that isn’t being used. The energy to fight for her. The energy to go back for her, to find her, to reach her, to protect her. The energy to keep her safe. To keep her here. This is what I think is disappearing. Irrational perhaps, but there it is.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

These days I find myself gravitating towards people and activities that make me feel alive. It’s times like this when you need to be reminded that you are here. You still belong. You are not floating away. The foundation may becoming unstable, but the structure that is you, your essence, your heart, your mind…it is all here. It still stands. And will still stand. You are not leaving. You are arriving. I’d like to think that very seldom do I take the good days for granted. I know what the really bad days look like so I try like hell to stain my memory, my mind, and my heart with the moments of pure joy. I tell myself: Remember this. You will need it. It will give you strength.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

The gravity of loss is not something you can ever really put into words. It’s not equitable to anything. The words make it more real I suppose. They help to compartmentalize the grief. Give me back some control. When everything feels messy you fight hard for some sort of control. You fight for stability, consistency, and for things to stand still so you can process. And yet there is an immense part of me that wants to feel alive, wants to move towards the sun, feel the warmth on my face, and bask in the light. I want to be filled up with everything. I want to throw reason and responsibility into the fire and dance. Some days I just want to give it all away. Reckless abandon. It becomes a drug. A high. And I often go through withdrawals.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like disaster.

I am a bent and broken vine. Choking at the spine. Some days more so than others. I know this life will be the death of me, but not today. Today I am here. It is a gift and I will fight like hell to make it feel like one. No running.