The Art of Losing

I’m thinking about Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, One Art, today.

I struggle with losing things. Or rather, I struggle to keep things. It has always been this way for me. No matter what system I choose to implement, though the misplacing is less, it still feels like a near constant. I have recurring dreams of losing things, too. Class schedules, keys, children, my partner, myself. The racing heart, the anger, the fear, it has happened again. You know, even in my dreams, I don’t accept myself for this, this tendency to forget, to misplace, to lose. 

I’ve accepted, and am accepting, a lot about myself. It’s really, really hard sometimes, but I can accept myself still when I make mistakes, when I’m not kind, when I’m not the best friend, partner, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, community member, human. I can forgive myself for all of these things.

But losing another set of Air Pods? Unforgivable. 

I’ve realized that what happens to me when I realize I’ve lost the ring my grandmother gave me follows a similar trajectory of the poem. Just a small thing, then another thing, then a bigger thing, and then, the biggest. 

I lose my swim bag, my WOOP, and an hour or two roiled in anxiety that I don’t have enough time to get done what I need to get done. 

Then I realize I lost my grandmother’s ring. (Why can’t I be different?)

Suddenly, I remember that there are several more things I haven’t done right. I forgot to pay that bill. I need to go pick up that package. My office is in disarray. I was mean to my partner. I forgot to do that thing at work. I’m not handling my finances well enough. I’ve ruined our whole day. I’m a total mess.

I hate myself. 

Oh, my, goodness, how fast that slope slips. To the mighty root. 

I’m so aware of this tendency, and even so, 

even with all the tools I have in my tool belt, all the practice I have with breath, with somatic release, with speaking kindly to myself, with taking a break, taking a walk, taking a laugh. 

Even still, sometimes I don’t stop that slide until I smack into that mighty bottom. 

However, what growth looks like today, is though I recognize I’m here, I won’t stay at “I hate myself.” Though delayed, I do take that break. Though delayed, I do take that walk. I do apologize to my partner for taking my anger out on them. I do go outside and breathe. I do exercise (though not for a swim at the gym), and you know what? It turns out I have not even ruined the whole day.

I don’t hate myself. That’s a pattern, sliding down that slope. Pema Chödrön said, “Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.” Magically, the lost swim bag and WOOP and ring now can transform from a reason to punish myself for not being perfect to a friendly Sunday lesson, reminders that I’ve still got something to learn here about loving and forgiving myself, and now I can go practice doing it. I can be grateful for that.

I was going to write a story today, and instead I wrote this. I hope if you are out there, losing your hours or your keys or something farther, faster and vaster, that you can take a break, and remind yourself that

YOU 

ARE

OKAY

JUST

AS 

YOU 

ARE.