We expand into the space available.

When my oldest son died I wanted to shrink into myself. The only safe place was home, in bed, and under the covers. The grocery store became a foreign land, never to be revisited. The outside world was filled with bad news - bombs, abductions, and lies. Curiosity and bravery became wings I had to clip. 

And this little voice kept reminding me that Anaïs Nin said, "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." I knew my son wouldn’t want me to shrivel up. 

What scared me was expansion. I didn’t want to feel like a vast empty bowl. The space he left echoed.

But a while back I listened to an NPR segment on how increasing the size of freeways only leads to more cars. Which seemed like b.s. But, according to NPR, scientists found that we take up the space allowed. Thus, if we have a two lane freeway that is clogged at rush hour, it remains clogged even when we build a four or eight lane one. Because more cars will find their way to your highway. Hard to believe. And also: look at LA, Houston and NYC any weekday at 7 am. 

Buildings follow the same pattern. This last week I spent hours at Anschuitz Hospital in Denver helping care for my eighty-six-year-old dad. He had his left upper lung lobe removed to hopefully banish his lung cancer. About twenty-five years ago they found a plot of land that seemed endlessly large, and impossible to ever fill, then they created a behemoth hospital system with plenty of room for growth. But last week when dad got out of surgery we had to wait for a room because their 700 bed facility was full. He was one of the almost three million inpatients they see a year. 

And similarly, I flew out of Denver’s International airport, an airport they’d created for the future. As large as it is, it feels cramped. On a Sunday early morning it took me a half hour to snake through their overloaded security line and then I had to wait for a second train to the terminal since the first was full. I was but one of their 82 million passengers that visit the airport a year. 

So, I keep telling myself that we expand into the space available. If you build it, people will come. Be curious, and leave an epicly big space for good to move in.

How does a person expand their heart rather than shrink it? This week I sat watched nurses stifle their yawns while they cared for my dad at all hours. One time he woke up with urine all over. A nurse took him into the bathroom and closed the door so he could have some dignity. I heard her tell him, “No need to make a big deal of this.” Another time, a nurse stroked his head and told him, “This isn’t forever. You just have to get through the pain.”

My great niece, who is just barely one, came to the hospital and played in the courtyard. With two arms she hugged a sapling and rocked back and forth. She poked her head into drainage ports, and hollered. She picked up rocks and cigarette butts. 

Perhaps I can grow my heart by looking at the world with the care of a nurse, the eyes of a one year old, and the regrets of an eighty-six-year-old.  Let it be a fifteen lane highway, a four thousand bed hospital. Maybe I keep putting myself out there, stomping on my ego, and being present. 

Nothing is going to bring my son back. That ventricle that is dedicated to him will forever be hollow. But every now and then I get a shimmer of Nicholas especially when I’m leaning into my curiosity. Today on the plane home there was a circular rainbow below my window. It was surprising enough that I waved and said quietly, “I miss you too.”