Earlier this week, my iPad winked out on and refused to come to life anymore. When I visited the service centre and had to surrender it in order to arrange for a replacement, it was literally a heart-wrenching moment.
My iPad had been an extension of me. It was a repository of books, photos, videos, notes, manuals, uke tabs... things that are of great relevance and meaning to my life, and I, of course, did not back up... hence my anguish. Hours and hours of note-taking and work gone - in a blink. I could cry a month of Sundays.
It has been difficult for me to feel grateful that I am getting my replacement iPad for free, being within the last two weeks of the warranty period. Not even knowing that nothing I really valued and lost could not be re-created could stop me from mourning.
In the scheme of life, the demise of my iPad is inconsequential. And yet, losses, even small ones, can be keenly felt. But because I know it is my fault for not backing up, I am bearing it with a serves-you-right stoicism.
Being messy and disorganized, I tend to lose things all the time. The standing joke at home is that Saint Anthony is my favourite saint as I seek his intercession frequently.
Loss is part of life (of course, in my case, it could be reduced significantly if I were more neat and organized). While never welcome, loss can be cleansing and healing, a catalyst for growth. If allowed to be a movement towards new possibilities, it can be an ever-bubbling source of creativity, leading to new discoveries, especially self-discovery.
Loss tests and celebrates the resilience of the human spirit, spring-boarding us to new heights and fresh accomplishments. The trick, though, is to soldier on out of mourning, transforming bitter seeds of sorrow and regret into courage, and a tensile resolve to venture into unknown and strange territory, armed mainly with faith.
Even in my darkest hour of catastrophic loss, my faith has been a lighthouse of hope, guiding me to safe and unimagined new passages. I knew that I was not alone, and that I would never be alone. Jesus was present: in the loving concern of family and friends, the spiritually nourishing and edifying Eucharist, and the mostly unacknowledged beauty of each successive sunrise.
The silent, desolate plains of loneliness were an invitation to go deep into my pain, walk around in it reflectively, then surrender it to the Almighty, and in the process, begin to perceive the upwelling of inner strength that have lain dormant thus far.
My epic losses have evolved into rivers of wisdom and compassion that allow me to bring refreshment to others as they stumble in the wastelands of their grief and anger. How great is that, even as I am humbled that I can be of help?
Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet says this of joy and sorrow:
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain...
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall
find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall
see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
I find this to be profoundly true for the losses in my life had given me an increased capacity for gratitude and joy.
In the final analysis, loss can be a great thing for it can propel us to greatness; as it can manifest as lightning rods of clarity and epiphany in the torrential downpours of life.
There are three things I learned from the death of my iPad:
1) Do not get overly attached to material things. Brilliant as an iPad is, it is only a tool and an enabler. It is not an entity, a sentient being.
2) Nothing is truly ever lost for the transience of life demands constant change. Hence the creative genius in each of us leads us to recover from loss in ways both inventive and marvellous. This is the great hope and mother of all payoffs.
3) Be prepared always, like a wise bridesmaid. To live well (for me it is to be more organized and orderly), ready at any time to travel forward without any luggage. I am a pilgrim, and my journey here on earth is but a small step towards eternity, and a lifetime of perfect joy, with no loss.
My iPad had been an extension of me. It was a repository of books, photos, videos, notes, manuals, uke tabs... things that are of great relevance and meaning to my life, and I, of course, did not back up... hence my anguish. Hours and hours of note-taking and work gone - in a blink. I could cry a month of Sundays.
It has been difficult for me to feel grateful that I am getting my replacement iPad for free, being within the last two weeks of the warranty period. Not even knowing that nothing I really valued and lost could not be re-created could stop me from mourning.
In the scheme of life, the demise of my iPad is inconsequential. And yet, losses, even small ones, can be keenly felt. But because I know it is my fault for not backing up, I am bearing it with a serves-you-right stoicism.
Being messy and disorganized, I tend to lose things all the time. The standing joke at home is that Saint Anthony is my favourite saint as I seek his intercession frequently.
Loss is part of life (of course, in my case, it could be reduced significantly if I were more neat and organized). While never welcome, loss can be cleansing and healing, a catalyst for growth. If allowed to be a movement towards new possibilities, it can be an ever-bubbling source of creativity, leading to new discoveries, especially self-discovery.
Loss tests and celebrates the resilience of the human spirit, spring-boarding us to new heights and fresh accomplishments. The trick, though, is to soldier on out of mourning, transforming bitter seeds of sorrow and regret into courage, and a tensile resolve to venture into unknown and strange territory, armed mainly with faith.
Even in my darkest hour of catastrophic loss, my faith has been a lighthouse of hope, guiding me to safe and unimagined new passages. I knew that I was not alone, and that I would never be alone. Jesus was present: in the loving concern of family and friends, the spiritually nourishing and edifying Eucharist, and the mostly unacknowledged beauty of each successive sunrise.
The silent, desolate plains of loneliness were an invitation to go deep into my pain, walk around in it reflectively, then surrender it to the Almighty, and in the process, begin to perceive the upwelling of inner strength that have lain dormant thus far.
My epic losses have evolved into rivers of wisdom and compassion that allow me to bring refreshment to others as they stumble in the wastelands of their grief and anger. How great is that, even as I am humbled that I can be of help?
Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet says this of joy and sorrow:
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain...
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall
find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall
see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
I find this to be profoundly true for the losses in my life had given me an increased capacity for gratitude and joy.
In the final analysis, loss can be a great thing for it can propel us to greatness; as it can manifest as lightning rods of clarity and epiphany in the torrential downpours of life.
There are three things I learned from the death of my iPad:
1) Do not get overly attached to material things. Brilliant as an iPad is, it is only a tool and an enabler. It is not an entity, a sentient being.
2) Nothing is truly ever lost for the transience of life demands constant change. Hence the creative genius in each of us leads us to recover from loss in ways both inventive and marvellous. This is the great hope and mother of all payoffs.
3) Be prepared always, like a wise bridesmaid. To live well (for me it is to be more organized and orderly), ready at any time to travel forward without any luggage. I am a pilgrim, and my journey here on earth is but a small step towards eternity, and a lifetime of perfect joy, with no loss.
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