Before you call me depressing, I’d like to confess that I’m a self-dubbed optimist. Not the cheers-for-all, wide-eyed (hopefully not, unless you mistake my occasional spaciness for naivete), perpetually smiley kind, but someone who usually finds something good to say about everything.
And, I think there is something good about loss. More specifically, I think there is something good that arises out of the way we can approach loss and deal with change.
Let’s back up and get a little personal.
When I was 12, my parents decided that I needed a proper British education, and sent me off to boarding school in the UK. Which was all fine and dandy, except that upon graduation I had to deal with the disconcerting reality of having friends and relations who lived in not one, but two corners of the world, a struggle complicated by the fact that I decided to attend college in the US rather than in Britain or Hong Kong. Who was I to keep in touch with? Only those who live in Hong Kong, where my parents reside, given that I am bound to go home during vacations? My closest friends, whose permanent residences were in several different countries around the world? Unlike most kids who go to college and come back to their hometowns during break to discover that their high school friends have either changed little (quite likely) or changed drastically (somewhat likely) since graduation, I was not going to have the privilege of seeing most of my friends more than once or twice a year. This was a painful prospect for someone who had lived away from home for most of her adolescence, and for whom peers at boarding school had become family.
Now, the details of this story may not be exactly familiar to everyone here. But I think that the feelings of being uprooted and the fear of losing connections are no strangers to the many of us who have ever moved away.
To cut a long story short, I tried hard to keep in touch with all the people that I thought I cared about. And
just as surely as I felt that they mattered in my life, many of my efforts were—or at least seemed at the time—to be wasted. Phone calls went unheard, emails unanswered, Facebook stalks ineffective, until I felt like I was a mess over my inability to keep relationships—or rather, keep people close. Besides having to adjust to higher academic pressures and make new friends at university, I was now miserable over how little old friends seem to care and the glum existential fact of how fast people can disappear from your life. To put my distress during that time into perspective, I used to spend every plane ride at the beginning of my college years crying myself to sleep, wondering how this all happened and how it might be stopped. It seemed to me then as if all the people or things one gained in life were, eventually, only to be lost. Was life so cruel that this must go on forever?
For years, this belief in the inevitability and negativity of loss taught me to be cautious in my dealings with people and the way that I approached life, often ending in my avoidance of owning up to my real sentiments, or avoiding liking anyone or anything altogether.
Then, one day, something strange happened. I found myself booking a ticket to Turkey to meet up with two British friends, one of whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over a year. Together, the three of us spent two wonderful weeks in the Mediterranean eating endless bowls of hummus, fresh mussels with rice by the beach, and more pieces of baklava (little puffy pastries) than could ever be good for you. Soon enough, I also flew to Singapore, Barcelona and Taiwan, all on the pretense of visiting the places but really to see people I knew who were there. These visits turned into something magical: old friendships were rekindled, and new ones made with people I had met but not known for years. Filled with laughter and fun, these meetings also made me realise how many of my friends I have kept with me through the years. Even with the geographical distances between us and not seeing one another for years, their characters and thoughts have still influenced mine.
And that is when I realised something important: that you can’t really lose what matters.
Let me say that again: you can’t lose what matters.
At least, though they may sometimes seem to leave our lives forever, the really important people will always come back to you in one way or another. During these recent visits, I have learnt that life is a circle that brings you back to the same spot and the same people with more meaning and more wisdom. And those whom I thought mattered but never spoke to again (or, more realistically, whose facebook profiles I lately fail to stalk with interest) are just that: people you never speak to again. At least not until they matter again. And that is alright, because if they do end up mattering, you will know when they do.
After all, isn’t all that losing touch just part of life’s grander scheme of loss? The best part about this view is that that it makes one realise we don’t just lose; we gain. Some call this grace, others luck, but whatever we say, all of us, I believe, have experienced being given something good unexpectedly. A new friend made in a chance encounter. Discovering an old scarf at the back of the closet that goes perfectly with a new outfit. How are we to gain if we do not clear the space first? Losing is a part of the game, especially in our globalised age where being uprooted is a frequent and even normal experience that we should not try to avoid or be afraid of. The two most important lessons I ever learned from moving away are: Remember that life will treat you with kindness and compassion, if you let it; and, live in the moment.
So lose your friends occasionally—or perhaps, lose your money, your belongings, your place of residence, and lose them bravely. Soon enough, you will gain them back, or find something new. Whatever happens, just don’t lose hope. When the old washes away, we will find more than we ever thought we had—even if that just means more space in our hearts and a clearer head with which to face the future, knowing that what is important can never really leave us.
我想跟你聊聊失去。
在你说我沮丧之前，我愿意承认我自认为是一个乐观主义者。我不是一个为所有事情欢呼、睁大双眼（希望不是，除非你把我偶尔的瞪眼误解为天真的表现）、永远面带微笑的人，但我通常会从任何事物中看到好的一面。
还有，我认为失去也有它的好处。具体地说，在我们面对失去的过程中，会产生出一些好的影响，帮我们应对改变。
让我们退一步，讲一些个人的话题。
我12岁的时候，爸妈认为我需要更好的英式教育，所以送我去了英国的住宿学校。这很好很理想，但毕业之后我要面对一个困惑的现实，就是我的朋友和亲人们不在一起，却是在世界上的两个角落，我去美国读大学而不是在英国或香港的决定更加激化了这一矛盾。我今后会与谁保持联系？仅仅是那些在香港的人吗？我的父母住在那里，所以我必然会回去度过假期。那我最好的朋友呢？他们的家在世界的各个角落。与很多去上大学的学生不一样，他们回到家之后，发现自己高中时代的朋友毕业之后或者没有太多变化（这很有可能），或者彻底改变（这也有一定可能），我甚至不会有在一年里能见到我多数的好友多于一次或两次的特权。对于一个少年时期多数时间都离家在外，把在住宿学校里的同辈人当成亲人的人来说，这是一个悲伤的前景。
现在，也许不是所有读者对这故事的细节都熟悉。但我想那种扎根的感觉和那种对失去朋友的害怕对很多曾离家远走的人都不会陌生。
长话短说，我努力去与所有我在乎的人保持联络。但在我很确定他们在我生命中很重要的同时，我的很多努力，至少在当时来看，都即将是白费力气。电话没人接，邮件得不到回复，Facebook上的追踪也失去效用，直到我感觉我没能力保持好我的人际关系，或者说，保持亲密程度。在学着适应更大的学业压力和在大学里结交新朋友的同时，我当时感到很无助，老朋友似乎不再彼此关心，还有朋友可以很快从你生命中消失这一很忧郁但又存在的现实。为了把我当时的悲伤变成一种对人生的理解，在大学刚开始的时候，我总是在每次乘飞机的时候哭泣，直到睡着，不停想着为什么这些事情要发生，怎么样才能阻止。当时，我觉得好像一个人生命中得到的人或事物最终都要失去。生活是不是永远要这么残酷？
好几年的时间里，这种对失去的不可避免性和消极性的坚信缠绕着我，使我在与人相处的时候和对生活的态度都格外小心，时常导致我刻意回避我的真实感受，或对某人某事物的好感。
然而，某一天，奇怪的事情发生了。我订了一张飞往土耳其的机票，去跟我的两个英国朋友会面，其中一个我已经一年多没见过面或通过话了。我们三人一起在地中海地区度过了完美的两周时间，不停地在沙滩上一碗一碗地吃鹰嘴豆泥，新鲜扇贝加米饭，还有一种对每个人都很好的叫做baklava的泡芙点心。没过多久，我又飞去新加坡、巴塞罗那和台湾，都是借着游览的机会，实际上是去看望在那里的朋友。这些游览产生了奇迹：以前的友谊重新找回，还和以前见过但是很多年都不太了解的人建立起新的友谊。这些充满了欢笑和趣味的旅行让我意识到，这些年我与很多人的友谊还保持着。即使我们间距离很远，多年不见，他们的人格和想法始终影响着我。
就在那时我明白了一个关键的道理：重要的人或物你其实不会失去。
让我再说一次：重要的人或物你不会失去。
至少，虽然他们有时似乎永远离开了我们的生活，最重要的人会通过这种或另种渠道回到你身边。最近的这些旅游经历，让我认识到生命是一个循环，会带你回到原点，回到以前那些人身边，却增加了很多意义和智慧。以前那些我认为很重要却很久不曾联络的人（或者，更现实的说，那些人的Facebook页面我最近也没有特别关注）就是这一类型：以后也不会常联络的人。至少要等到他们再次变得很重要。但这是正常的，因为他们以后会再次成为重要人物，他们变化时，你一定会发现。
总之，失去联络不正是生命中更大的所有失去中的一部分吗？关于这个观点的最好诠释是它让一个人了解到我们不仅仅只是失去；我们也获得。有人把这叫做恩泽，有人叫做运气，但是不论如何，我相信我们所有人都曾经收到过意外的惊喜。通过一次偶遇结识了一个新朋友。在衣柜深处发现一条和新衣服很搭配的旧围巾。如果我们不清理空间，又如何去拥有新的收获？失去是一种游戏，尤其在我们所在的这个全球化时代，在外漂泊是常事，甚至是一种我们不应该去避免或害怕的正常经历。我从不断变迁中学到的两个最重要的道理是：生命会给你友善和同情，如果你愿意；还有，活在现在。
所以，暂时失去你的朋友，又或者你的金钱、你的事物、你的住所，请勇敢的失去。很快，你会重新把它们找回，或者有新的收获。不论发生什么，请不要放弃希望。当旧的事物离开的时候，我们会找到更多不曾拥有的东西。也许这只证明我们的心灵需要更多的空间，我们需要一个更清醒的头脑去面对未来，请记住生命中最重要的人或物永远不会真正离开我们。