From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

Inspired by Beth Kempton's Winter Writing Sanctuary 2024: Measuring a Life

I struggle to think how to measure my life...any life really and I’m unsure of what specifically could or even should be measured. Something about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts (which is not exactly what Aristotle said) comes to mind. To measure is to quantify and present a partial picture that doesn’t allow understanding the totality of a thing… the quality of a thing. How easy it would be to quantify a life in terms of years lived, children produced, or money made, etc., but how tricky it would be to apply any method to measure the quality of a life.

Qualitative measurements are so subjective and easily devolve into a “he-said”, “she-said”, “they-said” - all about the feels with nothing objectively verifiable.

Did you feel that? Just a slight ‘dis’. I embrace the dis – for I know it is so me - my tendency to negate the value and contribution of feelings and to relegate them to someplace not quite up to standard. Yet I know it is in the murky, often misunderstood, broiling arena of feelings and intuition that most of life plays out, and in this place, there are no gauges or standards, only the wonderful certainty that feelings will occur, and intuition will strike at random. It is from what thrives in this place when I dip into its deep well, that I find my most genuine self and feel alive in the best sense of the word.

I must admit, it is a palpable relief to me that not even I can properly measure or enter a score in the gradebook of my life. And yet, despite my relief, I feel it necessary to offer something more, some level of effort to measure, some gentle, insightful way to quantify, or to qualify. As I lolled in this place of uncomfortable feelings and compulsions battling for dominance over my logical mind, two different quotes came to me.

Browning tried to count the ways she might love and proclaimed it to be "By the depth, breadth and height my soul can reach...". Hmm. Perhaps I might apply her method and count things I have done well in my life, and by the same token be tempted to gloss over things not done well…or to ignore them entirely. I could create a slick litany of small triumphs held like a banner in a parade of winners. But didn't Elizabeth counting the ways, even as I read her poem as a child, seem a bit braggadocious and would I not seem so as well should I count the things I am prideful about? And yet, this line will not leave my mind, "By the depth, breadth and height my soul can reach..."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, March 6, 1806-June 29, 1861

Lolling yet again in that place of uneasy feelings, intuitions, compulsions, etc., another quote floats in and demands my attention, "The world began when I was born..." I attempted to research its source and found an old poem, "The Westerner" written in 1919. However, I am certain this is not where I first heard it.

I was back in the 70s, amid all the philosophy, eastern and world religion classes I took in college (I went overboard on electives). It was in this setting that an unpopular philosophical stance was discussed and heatedly debated. As I recall, the consensus was that only an utter narcissist and ridiculous idiot would adopt such a self-centered worldview. And yet, this line refuses to leave my mind, "The world began when I was born...".

Is there some kind of weird synergy between the whole is greater than the sum of its parts and these two disparate statements – one a snippet from a sublime love poem and the other a ridiculous meme?

My sublime self says to me: Perhaps I should measure my life in terms of its depth (how deeply and without holding back have I allowed myself to feel)?  Perhaps I should measure my life in terms of its breadth (how many people have I loved and accepted, including the loveable and not so loveable)? Perhaps I should measure the trajectory of my soul as it reached and aspired to be something better (did I take the high road often enough)?

My ridiculous self rudely intrudes: There I was in my cradle; see how small both me and my world were – all that was beyond the confines of my nursery an unimaginable void...a heaven or hell depending on what my tiny mind might make of it. I was a black hole of need and everything around me had meaning only in how it succeeded or failed in meeting my needs. Is it so outrageous to assert the world [my world] truly began when I was born? I believe there is an undeniable oneness of the Universe, and we are the pieces that constitute its whole and I am inclined to believe that the world as I know it did indeed begin when I was born, just as it does for every other living thing.

Alone only by choice, we dance and intersect with each other to the extent the breadth, depth and height our soul decides to allow. If we choose to remain trapped within our ego and aloneness, embroiled in our own smallness, the Universe will measure our life accordingly. If we endeavor to reach out with respect and embrace other worlds (all living things around us), the wholeness of who we are individually becomes greater than the sum of our separate parts.

This all seems rather deep, and I confess beyond me to truly grasp. I feel some weird combination of the sublime and ridiculous merging in my soul even as I write. Perhaps it is simply ours to embrace the struggle, never mind the quest to quantify or qualify; the intersection and sharing with each other is more than enough. So here I am like a smeary face toddler whose butt is encrusted in its own shit, smiling proudly and happily about the scribbled creation of her life, “Hey, Universe, look what I made!"

Note: “From the sublime to the ridiculous there is only one step” is generally attributed to Napolean, after his failure to conquer Russia in 1812. But an earlier version was put forth in 1794, in Thomas Paine’s, Age of Reason.

Napoleon Bonaparte, August 15, 1769 - May 5, 1821