The Art of Losing
One Art
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.
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 beloved 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 a disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
So, how are you all? Here, the Met office is warning people to stay indoors out of the heat, (easy enough if you don't need to work or eat ...) 57 degrees on the school run, the kind of heat that has you hopping from one foot to the other watering the garden even at night. The kind of heat that sears your watch and sunglasses to your skin the moment you step outdoors. People have cooked eggs and cookies in their cars.
Meanwhile, 'home' shivers through a rainy cold June. I was thinking about the beach in today's picture last night - Saunton in North Devon. To me it was summer. Back in the olden days, (as my darling daughter describes my childhood), of long hot summers there were only three clapperboard beach houses by the boardwalk at the foot of the dunes. Our extended family would rent them out, and for a few weeks a year we lived outdoors, surfed, poked around in the rock pools, walked for miles through the dunes. It was bliss - days splashing around in salt water, collecting shells and seaglass, tanned skin perfumed with the smell of Ambre Solaire suncream. To a little girl who (as today's song says), loved Elvis and horses, an endless summer lost in Enid Blyton novels and that endless racing blue sky was heaven.
Aunty Margaret and Uncle Pat (who were more like grandparents), stayed there all summer - nut brown and breezy, never out of their swimming costumes. Margaret fizzed with life - she was a JP, wrote and directed the town pantomime, loved nothing more than a long gossipy meal. Uncle Pat was immensely tall, reserved and kind. They had no children, so we'd often be dropped off at their house in town to play while Mum had a break - I remember they had the most amazing attic stuffed with trunks of panto costumes, Chinese paper lanterns, games from the 40s and 50s.
Aunty Margaret and Uncle Pat (who were more like grandparents), stayed there all summer - nut brown and breezy, never out of their swimming costumes. Margaret fizzed with life - she was a JP, wrote and directed the town pantomime, loved nothing more than a long gossipy meal. Uncle Pat was immensely tall, reserved and kind. They had no children, so we'd often be dropped off at their house in town to play while Mum had a break - I remember they had the most amazing attic stuffed with trunks of panto costumes, Chinese paper lanterns, games from the 40s and 50s.
Margaret passed away some ten years ago, but Uncle Pat soldiered on into his nineties, keeping himself, his house, and his glorious garden in perfect order. He went to Norway. He bought himself a white tuxedo. He was remarkable. But he fell shortly after hearing Dad died, and a couple of days ago he passed away himself. In some crazy way, I like the idea of them keeping each other company. I feel lucky, blessed, to have had these wonderful people in my life, but this art of losing isn't one I want to master. It feels like free-falling - too much is fading away too quickly of the sure beacons that stake out your life in this crazy, teeming world. I'm done with loss.
TODAY'S PROMPT: Why not tell us something good? Fill up that comment box with news about your work, your books, your childhood summers. If you're in the UK, tell us about rain, and green grass, and space (those of us in desert cities could use some ...) The blog tour continues here, with new reviews of 'The Perfume Garden', and posts at the RNA about how to research historical fiction, and at Writer Unboxed about digging deep to find the heart and bones of your stories. Hope they help you with your work. Enjoy x
TODAY'S PROMPT: Why not tell us something good? Fill up that comment box with news about your work, your books, your childhood summers. If you're in the UK, tell us about rain, and green grass, and space (those of us in desert cities could use some ...) The blog tour continues here, with new reviews of 'The Perfume Garden', and posts at the RNA about how to research historical fiction, and at Writer Unboxed about digging deep to find the heart and bones of your stories. Hope they help you with your work. Enjoy x
