Antinomy

an·tin·o·my noun an-ˈti-nə-mē 1: a contradiction between two apparently equally valid principles or between inferences correctly drawn from such principles

I was first introduced to the concept of antinomy in a beautiful science fiction short story with that title, written by Spider Robinson. The example given in that story was of a devout Catholic whose fiancée experiences a call to be a nun. He might be excused for being resentful—in a sense his fiancée is breaking trust with him—but his devotion to his faith means he is supposed to rejoice for her; he can't even be angry.

This is a term not well enough known.

We've all experienced this: two legitimate principles that contradict one another. How are we supposed to feel? Which side should we be on? Do we have to take a side?

This post is a follow-up to my earlier post, I'm Sorry. If you've read that, I'm sure you see the connection. I have two equally valid principles that contradict one another: on the one hand, I ought to be excited at the new adventure I've chosen, against all odds and despite my own trepidation; on the other hand, I ought to feel sorrow at the people (really, it's the people and not the things) I'm leaving behind. How does one feel excitement and sorrow at the same time?

I don't know that one does. I know that what I do is alternate. In public I (mostly) embrace excitement. I (mostly) save the sorrow for solitude. It isn't that I'm trying to pretend I don't feel sorrow: rather, that which is the cause of both my excitement and my sorrow is also causing others some sorrow, and I don't want to burden them with mine.

There will be a time when we will grieve together. For now, we all have a real need to be functional. Catharsis will have to wait. And when we are suspended between two equally valid principles—when antinomy is the right word for where we're at—catharsis is hard.