November 30
Never say of anything: I have lost it — but rather: I have given it back. Your child has died? It has been given back. Your estate has been taken from you? It too has been given back.
Enchiridion, 11
Listening mode
Never say of anything: I have lost it — but rather: I have given it back. Your child has died? It has been given back. Your estate has been taken from you? It too has been given back.
The word “my” promises more than it can keep. You say “my street”, “my friend”, “my years in this city”, and hardly mean possession by it. Rather a belonging that runs in both directions.
Only when something ends does the word turn strict. Then “I have lost it” sounds almost like an admission: as if you hadn't paid close enough attention, as if there were still some place where you could look. The pain holds on to this claim. As long as something is lost, it is still yours.
Another word could relieve you of this search. But it asks something of you too: to admit that it was never entirely yours to dispose of, not even in the best years. That can feel like a second farewell, this time to your right to it.
Perhaps you switch between the two words, depending on the day. When you talk about the old days, you still say “my street”. No one corrects you.
