Expansion and Contraction

Recently, on a fall trip to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, I found myself mesmerized by the movement of the sardines in the large kelp forest tank.

Watching the school expand and contract, I was struck by how this seemed to occur without communication or effort.

In fact, I learned there that there is no designated leader. When the school changes direction suddenly, the fish at the back will suddenly be in the lead, and vice versa.

 

 

Later that day, driving home around Monterey Bay, I noticed a flock of starlings in flight and realized how similar their action looked, as the flock expanded and contracted, changing direction and shape organically.

 

(These are not my starling photos, but this is a remarkable illustration of what I’m describing.)

 

 

Since then, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about expansion and contraction, in yoga and in the greater world.

In the movements of Surya Namaskar, or the Sun Salutation, the yogi works through a sequence of movements in opposition, both forward and backward bending.

I like to think of these movements, as they occur in yoga, as “exaltation and surrender” – this especially suits my personal definition of Surya Namaskar as a moving prayer – and yet the movements could also be described as expansion and contraction.

Note than when I say “surrender” or “contraction,” I don’t mean “collapse”. Neither do I mean “hardening,” as in hardening or clenching the muscles. I realize that “surrender” and “contraction” aren’t synonyms, but in this context, I’m using them to mean “draw up or turn inward”.

The alternation between bending the front and back of the body in Surya Namaskar is said to balance energy in the body. It is both invigorating and calming.

(As, I have to say, is watching sardines swim or starlings fly.)

In fact, in yoga, as in the world, contraction supports expansion. Without one, the other couldn’t exist. Just as the muscles of the back and backs of the thighs support the upward curve of the body in a backbend, the fronts of the thighs and the pit of the belly should draw up and support the back line of the body in a deep forward bend.

The expansion comes when we trust that the inward-moving side of our body will support our reach into exaltation, just as the earth supports us in our practice. The grace of the practice comes when each side begins to support the other naturally and without strain. (This sounds a lot like a relationship, doesn’t it?)

In the ever-expanding universe, there is always a place for contraction, from the metaphoric inward turn that we make in the fall as preparation for the dark and cold of winter, to the surrender of stars, resulting in the creation of black holes, and, of course, in the fine details, such as the flight of starlings.

 

It’s in concert with these on-going rhythms of the universe that we find grace in our yoga and grace in our lives.

This poem, by Mary Oliver, expresses it all so beautifully:

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,

even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

Namasté.