One Art, one of my favorite poems, is about loss, something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit the last few weeks. The author, Elizabeth Bishop, lists off things that have disappeared—an hour, her mother’s watch, a continent—and claims it’s “not a disaster.” But of course it is. Even with her cool masquerading, the tenderness of her list (the devastating “joking voice,” the anticipatory “next-to-last”) shows her true engagement with these intensely private, personal things. Her losing “two cities, lovely ones” resonates with me, among other things. Walking around a new place until I can patch together a map in my mind—as I was lucky enough to do in London—is a pure joy, and I too am as sentimental about the places I’ve loved and lost as I am about the people. It’s impossible not to be jarred when left with a void, where something important once was. 

Surely, no one reading her poem is convinced that the art of losing isn’t hard to master. But Bishop manages to make art out of losing, and I’m appreciative of that. When I’ve lost something, art is often what I turn to for comfort. 

Like a Spotify frenzy, following one song after another down a rabbit hole, flooding myself with newly discovered loves. Or in a museum, circling back for one more glimpse of the pieces that moved me most, just to make my heart beat faster. These experiences both console me and inspire me. Similarly, Bishop’s poem can read like a list of losses, but also like a love letter to all the people and things that meant something to her. Amassing these, both the ephemeral and the steadfast, is indeed helpful. Since you can lose anything or anyone at a moment’s notice, identifying and savoring what grounds you is a worthwhile act.

Not every attachment needs to be so profound. Food is a good example, especially the modest everyday food you kindly make for yourself. A soft-boiled egg is a simple thing I eat many mornings, and it’s delicious, uncomplicated fulfillment, as well as a positive symbol itself: rebirth, promise, etc.

The inherent fleetingness of most good things (people, experiences, moments of connection and beauty) stresses that one day they will be gone, and you may never be able to have them again. But with food, the takeaway is solely about the satisfaction of having had it, not its demise. You can just enjoy it and take heart in its easy replaceability: here, you can have another one tomorrow. 

Seven-Minute Eggs

These days, for me, a perfect soft-boiled egg means one you can peel and halve, where the white is set but the yolk jammy and thick, a bit oozy. They do require a timer, but it’s worth it. I put a full kettle on, and when it boils, I cover one or two eggs in a tiny pot with the water and put over a low flame. I set the timer for seven minutes. (Then I use the remaining water to make my tea.) After seven minutes, I rinse the eggs under cold water, then peel them. With a little salt and hot sauce, and a piece of hot buttered toast, these eggs make an ideal breakfast, morning after morning.