Investing in Loss

A journey from broken to sort of whole again

Ten years ago, I lost my wife Kate to cancer.  Along with me, she left behind our two children who were six and two at the time. 

For a long time after her death, I lived as if I was caught in a constant state of shock.  People would ask me how I was doing, and I would tell them I was okay.  That was a lie of course, not out of malice or deception, but because I honestly did not know how I felt.  I was disconnected from everything.  The thought of taking care of my children on my own terrified me.  I wanted to escape but couldn’t.  I was sitting on a mountain of rage, and I wanted my pound of flesh, but there was none to collect. 

Moments would replay on a loop in my head.  My therapist explained that this was my mind still working to resolve the issues of Kate’s cancer.  It hadn’t yet caught up with that fact that she was gone, and there were no more problems to solve.  This was just one of several symptoms of post-traumatic stress. 

People close to me were obviously concerned for my well-being and that of my children.  Friends and family behaved in ways that was out of character for them.  They wanted to help me feel better, but were at a loss for how to do it.  Some offered me alcohol and even drugs, knowing that wasn’t something I was interested in.  My doctor gave me a prescription for the latest ‘happy pill’.  I knew all this was coming from a place of concern, and they had good intentions.  But none of them realized this wasn’t something I could avoid through some alcohol or drug induced safe space.  I believed I had to experience all the feelings and emotions that came with the void that was left when Kate died. 

Instead, I leaned hard into the things that have always brought me solace in times of hardship.  I began practicing Shodo (Japanese calligraphy) and ink painting again after taking an extended hiatus to care for Kate and our children.  They both served as a form of meditation, and helped me reflect and quiet my mind. 

I dealt with the difficulties of PTSD by practicing taijiquan (tai chi).  This too was a form of meditation, but also a way for me to deal with the fallout of Kate’s cancer, allowing me an outlet for my anger and frustration in a controlled environment. 

But it was a tai chi concept called investing in loss that would make a lasting change.

A tale of two tea cups

One of the many things I loved about Kate and our relationship was how well matched we were for each other.  Even down to our choice of morning beverage.  We both enjoyed drinking tea, and never adopted the more common habit of starting our day with coffee.  Early in our marriage, Kate gave me a tea cup as a gift.  It was beautiful in its simplicity, a handmade earthenware cup with a primitive painting of a dragonfly on it.  I used it every morning at work to start my day. 

One day, on my way for my usual morning tea, the cup slipped from my hand, hit the floor and broke into several pieces.  I picked up the pieces and carefully tried to fit them back together, to no avail.  I stared at the broken cup in my hands, slowly accepting the reality of the situation.  After a long pause, I walked to the trash can and reluctantly threw it away, still wishing there was some way I could fix it.  Had I known at that time about an ancient Japanese art called kintsugi, maybe I could have salvaged my tea cup. 

Kintsugi is the art of repairing a broken vessel, like a tea cup, by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer dusted with gold powder.  The name translates to ‘golden joinery’.  There are a few anecdotal stories about the origin of kintsugi.  One is connected to Shogun Ashikaga Yoshimasa in the 15th century.  Yoshimasa had damaged his prized tea cup, and sent it to China for repair.  The cup was returned mended, but with unsightly metal staples.  Displeased with the repair, Yoshimasa commissioned his craftsmen to find a more aesthetically pleasing way to fix the broken cup, leading to the development of kintsugi. 

The story highlights how kintsugi is not only about repair, but about embracing imperfection.  Flaws are highlighted and viewed as a unique part of the object's history and beauty, transforming it into a piece of art.  It is still the same object, but also different.  Better in some ways, but forever changed.

In for a penny, in for a pound

In China there is an expression, chi ku, which means to ‘eat bitter’.  The idea behind this is to endure difficulty and accept suffering when necessary.  Professor Cheng Man Ching, considered one of the great modern masters of tai chi, used a similar expression chi kui.  This means to ‘eat loss’, or more commonly to invest in loss. 

Chi kui was my approach to healing through my tai chi practice.  By studying the internal movements of the form, I was strengthening the fascia, tendons, and muscles of the joints in my body.  Practicing the practical applications of the form for strikes, throws and joint locks gave me a way to express my anger and frustration in a safe, controlled setting. 

One of the best training methods for me was push hands.  Push hands is a two-person exercise that resembles sparring.  Actually, it is a kind of play with both people attempting to throw the other off balance.  That is the most general and simple way to describe it.   

At a deeper level, it is a communication with the point being to feel your opponent’s intention and at the same time develop a greater sense of facility throughout your own body.  Both people are working to tap into a deeper sensitivity to better understand themselves and the other person.  Most people don’t understand this.  They think of push hands as a competition with winning being the goal.  They are so prideful about winning, they neglect to pay attention to what they could have learned about the other person and, more importantly, about themselves. 

I have played push hands with my tai chi teacher Dave Briggs on numerous occasions.  This is where he taught me the most about investing in loss.  Dave explained that conventional wisdom would suggest you don’t let someone push you in areas where you are most vulnerable.  You should defend yourself against being exploited in those weak areas.  Actually, he continued, the opposite is true.  You invite your opponent to push you at your most vulnerable points, so that you may understand them better, identify your mistakes and adjust to overcome them. 

It takes a great amount of patience to repeatedly allow someone access to your weakest points knowing full well that you are probably going to lose.  And then when you do, get back up and invite them in to repeat the process. 

I would endure loss after loss, but each time Dave would help me understand why so that I could adjust to strengthen the weaknesses and mend the faults.  Much like the kintsugi artist who transforms something broken into a unique piece of art.  The artist carefully regards the fractures and weak points, piecing them back together to make them stronger than they once were.  So, the process becomes a redemptive journey that leads to new creation.  It embraces understanding flaws to learn how to make them strong and resilient. 

This was my healing process — finding what fits, experimenting and seeing what works and what feels right.  And I was going to see it through, no matter how much it hurt.

Toward being whole

Turns out, these hard-won lessons I learned in a martial arts dojo, also proved useful in my everyday life.  I took care of my children the best way I knew how.  But the world doesn’t care that you are a single parent with post-traumatic stress trying to raise two small children.  So, I had to fail, get back up again, and allow the world access to my weakest points. 

I made mistakes.  Things didn’t always go as planned, and when they didn’t, I had to come up with another plan.  Whenever possible, I tried to consider what Kate would have done.  I did my best to be both father and mother.  My daughter once joked that I did good as a father, but not so much as a mother.  I took no offense. 

For all these years I have questioned why Kate died, why this all happened.  I have not found an answer.  But, in the loss of my wife, I found more of myself, and that is difficult for me to reconcile considering the cost.  Still, I cannot deny that I have become a better man and father for having gone through all this.  It is sometimes necessary to eat bitter, in order to taste sweet. 

I’m not the same person I was ten years ago.  Sometimes I wonder if Kate would even recognize me if she were alive today.  Looking back, I realize that I had to do this so that I could understand myself, like the kintsugi artist patiently examining all the cracks and fractures to see what needs to be repaired.  Yes, this was going to expose weaknesses, but it was also going to strengthen them, and make me better, more unique. 

Today, I use my art to help people affected by cancer.  I donate money from the sale of my artwork to fund cancer research.  I volunteer my time to teach Shodo as an art therapy to help people find ways to relax and cope with the stresses of cancer.  I teach them about investing in loss. 

But it is as much a therapy for me as it is for them.  You see, for every person I help, I get back a little piece of something I lost.  And that gets me closer to feeling whole.  So maybe with enough time they, like me, can be whole again.  Like a unique and beautiful tea cup.

Special thanks to Prof. Dave Briggs for all his help and support.