Learning to live with our losses

Someone I admire once told me that forgiveness can be defined as being willing to live with our losses.

It costs us something when others hurt us—through abuse or neglect or abandonment, or simple thoughtlessness. It can be a small cost. My kids have broken more pottery than I can remember. It lives in a box in the garage, waiting for the day I buy tile nippers and glue to turn the shards into something new. Each time something else shatters, I take a moment to just let myself feel sad, to be present to this little loss. That pitcher isn’t what it once was. I liked it, I didn’t want it to change, and I don’t appreciate not getting to control this situation.

That’s life. What happens next?

For anyone sentient in the year 2025, there have been a lot of losses. (National parks, libraries, habeas corpus, the rule of law.) For pete’s sake, I’m still processing 2020. It will take another five or ten years to begin to recognize the full damage from the relentless barrage of narcissistic, corrupt executive orders and bills.

I’m tired.

Father’s Day is coming up.

I enjoy conspiring with my kids to celebrate my husband. Watching him parent is healing. Sometimes, when it’s my turn to sleep in, I wake up early just to eavesdrop while he patiently explains to the toddler that one cannot live on jam alone. Our Father’s Days are good ones.

Some of you know that Mild Regards came into being the year I was in the middle of becoming estranged from my father. I read every birthday card in the grocery store looking for just one I could send to a man who was slowly ghosting me. Not “Hope your birthday is as wonderful as you are!” Definitely not “Happy birthday to the man who made me who I am today.” I’m petty, but not that petty.

I finally found one with a pun on it. And, I realized I’m not the only one trying to find a path forward through a murky relationship, trying to honor my needs and the reality of the situation, unable to pretend things are fine. I started writing about cards. Well, about relationships. But through cards.

My father chooses not to be involved in my life. That’s his choice. It’s a little baffling to me, but I hope it’s working okay for him. The kids have asked ‘why?’ so many times that now the middle child asks, “Mama, why is your dad missing all the fun?” I don’t know, honey, but we trust that that’s the right decision for him.

Eventually I stopped sending him cards.

There was a gift in the middle of the loss. I have met a lot of interesting people by writing about cards. I’ve strengthened other relationships, and found tools that help me do so. Community is a treasure.

At some point in this metaphor, I have to accept that the Murano glass shards are never coming back together and chuck it into the box in the garage. I have to accept that I can make a mosaic, but I can’t unbreak my pitcher.

I have to be willing to live with my losses.

There is no grand conclusion here. I don’t have any particular wisdom about how to forgive easier, or faster, or with less pain involved. I’m just over here putting broken pottery in a box, trying to find the ways of living in this broken world that ring true to me.