Abandon numbers
Here’s the problem I have with numbers.
They’re made up.
And yet we invest such significance in them. They tell us whether something is worth doing, whether we should abandon an idea, how long we should try, whether we are worthy or fat or important. Or not.
They are everywhere. Bank accounts, Twitter followers, Blog stats, Amazon rankings, the number of Facebook friends we have, the number of countries we’ve visited, our precious miles on Delta.
“I wrote a book that makes me deliriously happy every time I look at it.”
“Really? What’s its Amazon rank?”
Not, what’s it about? Or how did it feel to open that box of books from the publisher and want to shout “WOW! A BOOK!” Not, how did it feel to type the last word and send it off, knowing you had done what you could, what you set out to do. But, rather, how big was the first printing?
We are killing ourselves for numbers, marks on a page, marks that WE MAKE on a page, human created as they are. What’s the perfect hip size? Whatever size hip you’ve got. That’s perfect. Because it is. Because it makes it possible for you to move around the world, that glorious hip.
Where do numbers help? Where they form structure around us, allow us to mark the passage of something, numbers in motion, in relationship, counting days and progress. Not otherwise.
“I sailed around the world in 1988.”
“Really? How many countries?”
What’s the perfect SAT score? The one that reflects the very best you could do, your parents haven gotten up to make sure you eat a good breakfast before you go off with your pencils to fill in bubbles that will determine your future.
What’s the right number of friends or followers on Twitter? The number you have before you start a campaign to get more, more, more.
What’s the right pants size? The size that you wear.
What’s the right amount of love to fill the world up with? All of it.
[Image from here]
