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.

Breathless

I'm actually doing this. I'm not going to do it; I'm doing it. That's an important distinction. I'm going, and that takes my breath away.

At first I was breathless with fear: paralyzing, stupefying,appalling terror. There was no question what made my hands sweat, my limbs shake, my gut clench, my breath catch: it was fear, pure and simple—that visceral reaction to threat that kept our primal ancestors alive in a menacing world. And fear is still part of it...

But fear is not all of it, not any more. Fear is not even the biggest part of it.

I'm breathless with anticipated grief. I am leaving my family, my theatre family, my friends, my best friend, my students (the only children I've known)... and I feel that loss as if I was already gone. "I miss you" doesn't come close to what I'm feeling, and I haven't even gone yet. I tear up every time I remember those I'm leaving.

I'm breathless with excitement. I feel the things I've always felt before a first date: anticipation, nervousness, hope. There's no knowing how it's going to be: if there will be "chemistry," if we'll be "compatible," if we'll "fit," who we'll be to one another. It's exciting!

I'm breathless with awe. Awe at the prospect of being where my heart has called me for so long, awe at the thought of remaking myself in a new place, awe at the boundless possibilities (including the possibility of epic failure). Awe at the amazing support of family and friends from whom "never was heard a discouraging word," but rather endless encouragement.

Breathless.

Tonight I'm reserving my (one way) ticket. Early in June, I'll book passage for my Harley.

I'm going.