Bishop's poem burns my skin today: Yes, constantly letting go of people and things
can become an art-form if it must be constantly polished by practice. And naming each loss--tossing it off over our shoulders as we toss salt to keep away bad luck--helps it stop searing the flesh. But, in "One Art" Bishop even inserts self mockery--not heavy, not too light. I imagine her sitting by an open window, her head leaning on one hand, after a long night that finally ends. She wears a long cotton gown and picks up her pen with an ironic smile and writes this self jest. I love her.
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.
2 comments:
This poem and this slideshow of your river break my heart. I try to imagine what it is you must be going through, after all you've gone through. Surely the river has helped to heal-- or helped at least to sanctify-- your time spent living on its shore... I hope its memory will live on in you as a gift that was given to you by the circle of angels that will always have your back.
You're always so compassionate. Deep in your own pain, you're forever sensitive to the load that others carry. You amaze me. Do you know how wonderful you are? Do you understand what a gift you have?
I'm OK. I'm leaving here with so much healing and growth. I've climbed out of a deep hole and can see blue sky again, and I will always carry this river with me. What an incredible blessing to have lived here. The Universe is kind and smiled when I first drove down this lane. I am sad that I can't take good care of this particular place anymore, but that's a reality. And this house deserves a good steward. The sadness will ease. I am feeling better about leaving with every day that passes. Groves of birch trees, pine trees, and other rivers wait for me somewhere else. I also need my mind freed up from "stuff" and caretaking. Instead of worrying about weeds and sprinkler heads, I want to roll down the windows, turn the radio up loud, and just drive. And I want to write, hike some trails, fly fish again, and explore some Native American ruins. Yes, this leaving is hard; I'm not going to lie about that. And it's going to be painful clear up to when the last box is loaded, but it's all good. Life is good. I always turn back to that realization and to my Father, to God. And He's always there.
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