The Art of Losing June 20, 2021
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”
Elizabeth Bishop
I think of this poem that I read the other day—on the front page, no less, of the New York Times—and it applies aptly to my first day in San Cristobal de las Casas. Half of my remaining possessions just disappeared when the taxi drove away with my second suitcase of warm clothes. At least no one freezes to death in Chiapas.
The next morning, Sunday, the sun shines brightly on the tree studded central plaza, the Zocalo, as families gather at benches. Maya venders walk about, many in calloused bare feet, trying to sell me elaborately embroidered wallets for 15 or 20 pesos, but it has been years since my last wallet was stolen in Mexico City, so I thank them for the offers but decline—“Ahorita, gracias no.”
Instead, I accept the boot-cleaning services of a boy wearing flip-flops and Adidas hat, who happens to be remarkably professional. To demonstrate my approval, I dance for him on the cobblestone in my ancient leather (but newly waterproofed) Vasques. The true test of his work, however, may be this afternoon, as I can already see the mountain rainclouds building.
San Cristobal Cathedral is still closed for earthquake repairs, but this seems of little concern, certainly if one is to judge public opinion by the surrounding graffiti. “Saca tu Rosario de nuestros Ovarios,” reads one feminist critique, or “Take your Rosary out of my ovaries”, while another spray-on editorial warns, “Con la mujer en casa, la revolución se atrasa.” With the woman at home, the revolution delays. Still others call out for unity in the struggle. And, of course, there is the ubiquitous “Zapata lives.” Jesus might envy such popularity.
The narrow one-way lanes are choked with traffic, forcing walkers onto sidewalks only two-feet wide but a full foot above the street, in case of flood. Like other colonial cities, nothing but the churches stand higher than three stories, so no one is excluded from viewing the Catholic domes and spires that have frightened and inspired for five centuries.
Deprivation and suffering are rife—burn victims outside the church with hat in hand, the little girl trying to sell homemade dolls on the sidewalk while she lies down with a sweat and runny nose, the young mother buying salted crickets for her son because she cannot afford the peanuts today, the grandmothers and the great-grandmothers carrying their burden of tapestries into the city—each hopeful for a Sunday morning donation. I see no sign of my winter clothes.
I turn with some alarm to the sound of cries down the cobblestone thoroughfare. It sounds at first like the next revolution has just arrived, but the cries I hear are not “Zapatistas” but “Zapateros.” The shoe-repairmen are coming.
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
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.