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.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

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

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.

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.


-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 (Write it!) like disaster.

"One Art", from The Complete Poems 1927-1979
by Elizabeth Bishop



It seemed to me that 2009 was, in many ways, about losing - both in my own life and in the lives of many I know. This observation is from my own perspective, obviously. I also am aware that this past year brought a great deal of positivity and new beginnings to many - myself included. But at the same time, for me, it was not the best year. It wasn't just the actual, tangible losses suffered - losses of loved ones and friends, for example - but a subtle loss of hope. The economy continued to tank, and my own life just felt, largely, stagnant. It was the build-up of several years of frustration in other matters that still have little to no resolution in sight. Matters that I'd taken too far to heart - matters that, if I kept allowing them to, could have taken my over my life's energy entirely.
With the advent of a new year and new decade (I first wrote 'century'!), there has been a perceptible shift, both in my perspective and in life's actual events. There just seems to be so much possibility that has displayed itself, almost out of nowhere. It's as if the year 2010 came in with so much energy and is inflating us all.

Today I drove by my childhood home, the place I had lived from age 6 until I moved in with a man at age 20. It remained the home of my mother and sister until my mom's death in 1997, when I was 24.
Every now and then I drive by, and each successive time the place manages to simultaneously tug at my emotions more while becoming increasingly unrecognizable as my home. Today was no exception.
I had other things planned after this spontaneous drive-by, but it was all I could do to compose myself for the journey 'home'.

Anyway, I found this poem in a book which I've had for years on my shelf, and serendipitously pulled out this evening, The Girl's to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank.
I'm going to devour this one slowly.