Excerpt 09 : The Art of Losing

Read the whole essay here. - by Ruth Ozeki in Shambala Sun Magazine :

So what is the difference between losing and letting go? What makes losing feel like such a disaster? On an obvious level, it’s about control. When I let go, I’m in control; when I lose, I’m not. Letting go is a willful act; losing, a violation of my will.

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I think there’s a powerful link between creativity and death. We make things because we lose things: memories, people we love, and ultimately our very selves. Our acts of creation are ways of grappling with death: we imagine it, struggle to make sense of it, forestall or defeat it. 

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To care for a parent with Alzheimer’s is to practice losing every day. I wrote a lot during that time, which was part of my practice. These are some entries from my blog :    

May 25, 2004 

A lot has happened. My mother turned ninety last month and we had a little birthday party for her. 

“How old am I?” she asked me. 

“You’re ninety, Mom.” 

Her eyes widened.

“I am! That’s unbelievable! How can I be ninety? I don’t feel ninety.” 

“How old do you feel?” 

“Forty.” 

She was perfectly serious. 

I laughed.

“You can’t be forty. Even I’m older than forty.” 

“You are?” she exclaimed. “That’s terrible!” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

She shook her head.

“You know, I must be getting old. I just can’t remember anything anymore.” 

She looked up at me and blinked. 

“How old am I?” 

Later on, I asked her, “How does it feel?” 

“What?” 

“When you can’t remember things. Does it frighten you? Do you feel sad?”

“Well, not really. I have this condition, you see. It’s called os... oste... ” 

“You mean Alzheimer’s?” I said, helping her out.

She looked astonished. “Yes! How on earth did you know?” 

“Just a guess...” 

“I can never remember the name,” she explained.

 “Of course not.”

 “It affects my memory...”

 “...and that’s why you can’t remember.” 

She frowned and shook her head.

 “Remember what?” 

“There’s not a single thing I can do about it,” she told me, when I reminded her.

“If there was something I could do and I wasn’t doing it, then I could feel sad or depressed. But as it is...” She shrugged. 

“So you’re OK with it?” 

She looked at me, patiently. 

“I don’t have much choice,” she explained, “So I may as well be happy.”

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