Life's Disappointments

   Reading Martha Nussbaum's text Upheavals of Thought, I've been struck by the distinction between what she refers to as different "ladders of love". Nussbaum analyses different kinds of eschatology, ranging from Platonic to Augustinian, even proceeding forth to Dante and, eventually, James Joyce. I haven't completed this significant text, but one thing that strikes me is the balance between cherishing the Platonic ideal (all that is beautiful in one's life or which one cherishes as "the good") and respecting that one is not always in control of achieving such an ideal. According to Augustine, humans are mired in original sin, and simply have no way to achieve any ideal state of mind except through the grace of God.

    I think that, for me, these experiences represent different forms of introspection. Ideals are always going to exist: I have some template about how my life should proceed, and that stays with me no matter how old I become. However, as I get older, I don't feel that much regret that the ideal is not "realized" in a single human life. This is because I recognize the ideal to be just that ---an ideal--and I don't try to judge my worth by whether or not I have reached such ideals. Whatever standards of achievement, beauty, excellence, success and identity I have cherished at different periods in life (particularly adolescence), I can no longer say that I am guaranteed to achieve, even through hard work or diligent efforts. Does this mean that I don't try to achieve anything at all? That's hardly the case. Achievement and efforts are still worth striving for in themselves, but there is less pressure for me to fulfill them in the specific ways that I had imagined as a younger person. I can't say why this is the case, but I would venture to guess that it's because my soul gets somehow mirrored in whatever I do, regardless of the circumstances. In that respect, even if the mirror is muddy or tarnished--inferior in some way--I start to have faith that I won't lose the soul's beauty and purpose, even if I were to have difficulties in expressing it and manifesting it.

   I will give a specific example. For a long time, I wanted to be a published writer. However, one of the sad ironies is that, no matter how much I write and how many poetry documents I print, I have hardly ever sent any of this work for publication. I think part of the reason for this is a kind of fear of rejection, and another reason is a loss of nerve. I somehow recognize that there are all kinds of mental barriers to action, including the lack of time. But at the same time, I don't worry about it. For example, the fact that I am writing this blog, or anything, for that matter, is proof, to me, of the writer's soul that still lies within me and speaks to me. It is still evidence of a seeking heart, and through even a simple construction of a written piece, I see the beauty of the seeking heart. This, for me, is enough to know that my life is meaningful, and it has some kind of small spark of vitality, regardless of the darkness that might surround me at times. 

   Of course, there are other ways in which I have had the fortune to express my purpose in the world: teaching young students classics, for example, and doing my doctoral thesis. These things will hardly make me famous or world renowned, but when I look deeply into them, I see the soul that set out to be in this world and shed some small beauty into it. And that, for me, is infinitely of more value than all the accolades or stamp of achievement that might come my way, whether by design or accident.