“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.”

Elizabeth Bishop, in her Puritan sermon-poem “One Art,” teaches us “the art of losing.” And we do know about loss.

Only last week a sock had slyly slithered into hiding, escaping presumably between the final rinse and the end of the dryer cycle. Used to this tendency of socks in general, I consent to live with my loss. Life, after all, is filled with temporary annoyances. One day I shall find it perhaps secreted in the sleeve of a pajama. Its loss is no disaster.

BISHOP:

“Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

Some years ago I had lost my Estes Park pocket knife. Purchased while vacationing in Colorado, I had assigned to it in jest certain talismanic powers – these powers were managed from my left front pocket. One day it was just gone. About a year later the knife dropped to the floor beneath my “read-the-morning-paper-in” chair as I was adjusting its tilt. Such experiences are helping me to master the art of losing.

BISHOP:

“Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.”

Already in my ninth decade, I am in the stage where I am “losing farther, losing faster.” The mind’s archive is being burgled of things I thought I would keep forever. It’s time’s thieves sneaking down back stairs in the brain’s midcenter, pilferers loaded with a lifetime’s dreams, names of long ago friends and the visage of that first date. What was her name? I thought I’d remember her always. It seems now that that which in the beginning brought me forth with such flurry, without a Yes! or No! on my part is taking back what started with a welcome to the world and a whack on my backside. Today, the reality is that I have upon me the smell of autumn. Yet none of this has brought disaster.

BISHOP:

“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.”

I am astonished to be here. I love the mystery of my being which, in turn, enigmatically senses “purposing presence,” choreographing creation’s whirling spheres – answering this inexplicable unfixed hunger I have for eternity. It is difficult to lose to time’s reaping these gifts that have graced my life – feeding mind and spirit and that have sheltered this shambling body of flesh and bone. Not able to stop time’s endless thievery, I anticipate yet the loss of cherished landscapes that have context and nurtured deep reservoirs of my spirit. Lamenting further, what I have gained through the empire of books, music and art will also be stolen away – lost to time’s inescapable harvesting. I shall miss this world; but in the course of things this is no disaster.

BISHOP:

“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.”

Losing becomes painfully personal: “Even losing you.” I am one among a diminishing many – loved ones, friends and colleagues. Within this circle, where intimacies are fleshed with endearments and each dwells in the wonderment of the other’s dreams, there is so much that shall be lost. It is hard to let go of our bodies so pregnant with longing for these others who bring to us their smiles and embraces, who homage us with their affirmations and love.

Still, the poet sees and finally accepts even this losing, having practiced the art of losing through the years. For the poet, this final loss touching upon the personal, may look like disaster but in dialogue with that which was lost she accomplishes her pain and moves into life again. It is the realization that this universe, this Earth, these bodies, gifts of God – everything was given with the intent to be lost.

The Rev. Merle G. Steva is minister of visitation emeritus of First Parish Church in Saco. His email is mesteva@maine.rr.com.