The Art of Losing (Part 1)
The idea for this blog was inspired by one of my favorite poems, Elizabeth Bishop - One Art. I came across this poem two decades ago—the days when I often got lost in the art of poetry and creative writing. It was my best-kept secret as it helped me escape the dry, boring, and mechanical science world that was my life as a college student. Unfortunately, I lost much of my writing because real life got hectic after I left college, and I didn’t get to retrieve my writing from the blogging site that hosted it.
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PERSONAL NOTE: Since Father’s Day is coming up next Sunday, June 20th, I’d like to take the time now to say Happy (early) Father’s Day to you. This story is a dedication to my father. It is also a token of my appreciation to all the fathers and father figures out there who willingly, lovingly, faithfully, and continually show up on a daily—to protect, provide, shelter, teach, praise, discipline, love, care, support, and guide your child/children.
There is an old but well-known proverb that I grew up learning from the Buddhist text, back in Vietnam decades ago. This proverb has been passed down through generations by our elders, to remind us to pay respect and gratitude to our parents or parental figures. There is a line from the proverb that metaphorically attributes a father’s role/labor to the Thai Son Mountain—a majestic and sacred site, a world wonder. I hope you remember that as a father, your presence is as big, tall, and strong as such mountain. All that you do for your child/children matters greatly. You are needed and appreciated.
As I gathered my thoughts to write this story (a two-part story), many questions came up for me about Grief and Loss. I’d like to pass along these questions to you, hopefully to spark some moments of reflection for you.
What does it mean to lose, and to lose something or somebody so close to you? How does one become ‘good’ at losing? Can anyone ever be prepared for any major loss in their life? What are the jewels that can be found in loss and through loss?
Something Lost
Digging through a man’s trash, you can learn quite a bit about who he is and what he values—his habits, obsessions, lifestyle, and things about him that he may not be aware of or may not want to reveal to the world. (Disclaimer: Please understand that this is not a suggestion that you should go and dig up someone’s trash to get to know them better. There are other endearing ways you can do that without getting your hands dirty).
While cleaning out my father’s apartment and rummaging through his clutters, I stumbled upon a large dusty collection of classic Vietnamese literature, beautifully handwritten letters and tin boxes of old photographs—most of them in black-and-white, many in faded colors, few with scratchy surfaces and bent corners. There, among the stacks of photos, I found my childhood pictures and those of my family’s, too—some things that I thought were lost decades ago.
And they took me back, way way back…
An avid photographer, he used to take me on excursions for photography trips around our hometown in South Vietnam. He taught me how to pose and strike a Mona Lisa smile for the camera. He often wished that I would remain that small size forever, so that he could easily pick me up and put me in the back of his bicycle. Together, we would ride along the beach boulevard, with my arms holding onto his waist and the ocean breeze lulling me to sleep. For a few years, that was our nightly ritual before bedtime.
As someone who studied palmistry, a sky-watcher and a believer in the stars, the moon, and the Universe, he taught me how to observe the many phases of the moon—I guess, that’s how I first fell in love with la luna. I was often annoyed when he asked me to raise out my small hands to him, for him to read my palms. When I asked what he saw, he showed me the lines and told me what they stand for.
Often lost in his thoughts, there were worries written on his face. I could hear the deep sigh in his voice every time he looked at those lines. His mood would lighten up a bit and he would smile when he counted the flowers in my hands. He said that the flowers are the marks of talents and creativity. He often compared his hands to mine, and said that I have more flowers than he does.
We have had many debates about philosophy of life, the art of living and destiny over the years. He has always believed that something in life is meant to be, just how my full name found me. And it was born out of poetry. It’s prédestiné! He claimed.
And you were meant to return to me. That is the order of the Universe. He told me in recent months.
He used to liken me to a female character in one of the famous Vietnamese literature. As a child, I upsettingly refused to believe what he said about the lines in my hands. So, I took a bet, and challenged his belief system.
In my moments of defiance, I told him, It is also my choices in life that will shape my destiny! Those lines will change. The stars will realign themselves. And the Universe will always look after me if I stay true to my personal path of truth.
My mystical little flower, you’re full of mystery! No one can understand you. Not even me. He has said that throughout my life, and again, in recent days. He hated it when I challenged him. But he has now learned to respect me more.
Something Found
Flipping through one of his books, I found a few handwritten poems that he penned in recent years. They were pressed neatly in between the worn-out pages. His words carry the tone of grief—they all speak of this void he carries inside of him, a long season of loneliness. I could sense his laments through those words, for all the losses he has had in his life, including the most recent ones—loss of health, loss of independence, and once again, loss of home and loss of freedom.
Looking at his old photographs of the man in the uniforms and well-coordinated outfits, who often stood among crowds of women, people and students, I started to put together pieces of the life my father used to live leading up to the war. It was, no doubt, a life with honors, titles, accolades, power, and social status. Then, my thoughts returned to the present moment where he is now—a fragile human being, bound to his wheelchair and the nursing-facility bed in his present days.
These are the only pieces of land I have now. He said sarcastically, referencing his bed and wheelchair during one of our recent conversations. But I could feel the pain in his voice, the pain of loss.
I ended up giving away most of his suits, arts, books, and household items to his neighbors and friends, donated other pieces that were still in good condition, and got the professionals to haul the rest away. I keep one of his suits, some of his button-up shirts and trousers for back-up, should he ever need to change things up. Some of his old literature and Eastern philosophy books have now made their way up on my bookshelves. Hopefully, one of these days, I will have some time to sharpen my mother tongue.
When I told him that I found his late poems, he excitedly shared stories about his younger days as a writer.
You have no idea. Back in the days, so many women fell head over heels for my writing. They admired and loved me so much they would form a circle around me whenever I recited my poems. He said with so much pride.
Amused, I giggled. Many thoughts ran through my mind, Oh, geez! Player alert! Who would have thought he was such a ladies’ man! He got all these women lusting after him because the man had a way with words.
I asked him how many hearts he had broken along the way.
He convinced me that he kept his boundaries and behaved like a gentleman around the ladies, mainly because he didn’t want to pass on “bad karma” to his daughters, especially me. As if he knew that he would have daughters someday.
To bring him back to the current reality, I challenged him with more questions, Where are those women now? Are they here with you? Look around you, father. Who is here?
Followed was a long silence with no answer from him. But I knew he got the message loud and clear.
Personal Reflection
If you ask me, I am quite familiar with men like my father, especially the men in leadership of that era, who spent much of their time and energy living for their community and the world, upkeeping a public image, and impressing the ladies with their talents, their charms, and their status. Yet, they often neglected to tend to the most important place of all—their private life, their family, their home, that which is the fertile ground and the soil that nurture and feed the seeds of their trees, which bear the fruits of their future. Many failed to realize that it is not the man who has all the flowers in the world that is lucky, but it is the man who has one flower and calls it luck.
I do believe that true leadership always starts with Self-discipline. For a true leader is a man* who knows how to lead his family, first. And it is a man’s polished character and his peaceful loving home that shall pave the way for his long-term public success. A great leader, who is worthy of all the glory, is one who serves his people selflessly and spreads the message of peace, love and freedom to all humanity, through his actions. But that can only be achieved once he has learned Self-discipline, and has attained peace, love and freedom within his own home, first and foremost.
*Please understand that the word ‘man’ denoted in my reflection can also refer to either man or woman (or other identities), since in today’s world, we have such great diversity.
DISCLAIMER: This piece is Part 1 of a two-part story. Part 2 will be posted some time later. My father consented for me to write about him. Dialogues and memories captured in this story are small moments of our real-life interactions and conversations. Many more were left out. Perhaps, those other details will someday make their way into another blog, or another story.