Expansion and Contraction: The Rhythms of Life by Dr. Mary Gelfand

This morning, my husband and I loaded seven large orange garbage bags into the car, along with two containers each of paper products and plastics.  Off we went to the local transfer station to dispose of our trash and recycling. Next, we drove to the grocery store and came home with 3 bags of food. Disposables out, consumables in.

This rhythm is familiar from my old urban life as well—haul garbage cans to the curb—shop for more food.  Indeed, it is a pattern repeated multiple times daily across the country, and perhaps even the world. It is a pattern present in our bodies and the bodies of all other living things. Receive food, water, air—release waste products composed of food, water and air. A simple process of in and out—inhale and exhale—repeated ad infinitum until death claims us.

In the Journey of the Universe, cosmologist Brian Swimme discusses the creation of the universe in terms of natural cycles of expansion and contraction. These “two opposing dynamics, expansion and contraction, were the dominant powers operating at the beginning of the universe.  … the universe as a whole…has been shaped by these two opposing and creative dynamics. (p. 6)”

In my most recent piece for FAR, “As Above, So Below:  A Cosmic Tale,” I briefly discussed this dynamic as it applies to our bodies. Expansion and contraction are present in the functioning of our lungs and hearts, our digestive systems, our monthly menstrual cycles, our exercise routines, and probably other things of which I am unaware. When I focus on the ways in which my being mimics these cosmic dynamics, I am awed by the miraculous human body.   

Lately, I’ve been thinking of other ways in which the expansion/contraction dynamic manifests in our lives. From the moment of conception, a human being experiences an on-going expansion of its body and the space it occupies. Expansion and contraction are involved in the process of bringing an infant into the expanded world outside the womb. And as every attentive parent knows, growing up is a glorious multi-year process of witnessing your child’s expansion in every way: body, mind, spirit, emotions, world. 

As the one enters adulthood, the expansion brought about by higher education and/or work, romance, and travel help transform the child into an adult. Generally the body stops expanding at a certain point, but an individual’s world, their understanding of that world, and their emotional reality can keep expanding indefinitely, assuming the right conditions. 

For most of us, there inevitably comes a time when expansion begins to slow, and then stops. Gradually the ever-expanding world begins to contract. At 75, I am in the age group that experiences that contraction on a regular basis. Like me, many of my friends live with medical issues which contract their lives due to mobility concerns, cognitive functioning, and other basic things such as seeing and breathing. Some of my friends are walking beside partners confronting these issues. Some of my friends have died, leaving holes in my heart and world.

I’ve had the honor of walking beside two mothers-in-law as their lives contracted in stages: from house to apartment to assisted living to nursing home. I’ve overseen the contraction of their stuff, accumulated over a lifetime, some of which still lives in my basement.  I’ve witnessed the contraction of the physical space they’re allowed to occupy—from a multi-roomed home to a twin bed in a single room, shared with a stranger. The most painful contraction is the on-going loss of friends and loved ones. My nonagenarian aunt often bemoaned her loneliness. “I have no one to talk to who knows me,” she said. “My children are dead, and I’ve outlived all my friends.” I’d be less than human if I didn’t wonder about my own future.

As I look back at my life, I know that the cosmic processes of expansion and contraction have made me who I am. The glorious process of expansion took me to places I never imagined visiting and I am spiritually richer as a result. Equally, the heart-rendering processes of contraction ultimately taught me to trust myself, to be creative and resilient. 

Until I turned 50, my experience with death was very limited. Then, for the next decade, it seemed that every year another friend, or two, died. When I was 56, I lost both my parents and my first husband—a severe contraction in my life force. I’ve struggled with understanding and accepting death for decades. 

Since moving to Maine 20 years ago, I’ve found great comfort in connecting my human life to the beauty and abundance of life surrounding me.  Although it still saddens me, I’ve learned that everything dies eventually—from the tiny, mangled mice the cats leave as gifts to the magnificent maple tree that collapsed in an ice storm my second year in Maine. Accepting these cycles of life and death as part of the natural world is hard, but it has helped me take a more distant view of life and appreciate that, much as some of us wish it, we humans are not different from other living things.  The same cycles of expansion and contraction manifest in our lives daily.  Now, I rarely weep over the random dead mouse—I say a prayer to honor its place in the cycle of life and return it to Mother Earth.

Here’s the really cool thing. The stars themselves live within this same dynamic. During their early lives they expand continually until they reach a critical mass. And then they begin to contract until they too eventually die.   Our lives mimic the stars!  As conscious human beings we are able to witness and live with an awareness of this connection. I am enriched by understanding that these cosmic processes cannot be avoided or changed—that these processes are not just part of life on this planet but part of the greater cosmos, of which I am a humble part. 

I look for these patterns in my life and the lives of others. For me they now bring comfort and understanding. After all, as Ram Dass* says, “we are all just walking each other home.” As humans we can do this for each other.  But I think the poor stars are left to face their destinies without companions.  I wonder if the stars are conscious.

Walking Each Other Home:  Conversations on Loving and Dying, by Ram Dass and Mirabai Bush, 2018.