I once overheard a fellow at a dinner party insist that the true measure of a person’s life was “how much they achieved.” He had, I recall, a very fine watch and a very poor grasp of subtlety. The trouble, of course, is that “achievement” is a notoriously slippery thing. Do we measure it in pounds sterling? In pages published? In children raised? In trees planted?
My parents’ generation often spoke in quantitative terms: numbers of hours worked, houses purchased, miles travelled. Yet what I find myself treasuring most about them are the qualitative traces, the tone of voice with which my mother comforted me, the humour my father brought to a difficult situation, the way both of them opened their table to strangers. These things do not show up on balance sheets, and yet they are the very marrow of memory.
It would be easy to lapse into cynicism and say that numbers mean nothing. But that would be unfair. Quantitative contributions matter, too. Hospitals are built, scholarships are endowed, communities thrive on the measurable sacrifices of time, money, and labour. And yet, if we stop there, we risk missing the flavour of a life. A cake recipe may list the ingredients in grams, but it tells us nothing of the warmth of the oven or the patience of the baker.
What, then, shall I aim for? To be remembered as one who worked hard, or one who loved well? Surely the best lives are those that combine the two: measurable contributions that arise from immeasurable qualities. A check written with generosity, a book published with humility, a project completed with laughter rather than resentment.
When I think of what my nieces and nephews will inherit, I realise it will not be the precise tally of my labours. They will not remember how many meetings I attended or how many emails I answered (mercifully). They will, however, recall whether I made them feel valued, whether I listened to their anxieties, whether I encouraged them when the world seemed hostile.
So let us not pit quantity against quality. Let us instead hold them in tension, like the two strings of a violin. Either one alone makes no music. Together, they give us something worth passing on—a melody of a life both productive and profound, both generous and joyful.
