On being spaghettified

 A week ago I watched a PBS news feature on some of the latest discoveries in astrophysics. Science journals have reported on a star swallowing a planet. At least that’s the tentative theory of what was observed from the mega-telescopes. The commentator explained that when stars get older, they get bigger and sometimes will gobble up the planets closest to them. Our sun will do this first to Mercury and Venus. It’s far enough in the future that Earth has time to prepare, we were told.

And then when stars get old enough, they die and in the process can get sucked up into a black hole.

Every galaxy apparently has its own black hole. The commentator defined the black hole as a deep well of gravity that pulls objects, like stars, into it. Sometimes the gravitational pull is so rapid that it stretches the star out like a long thread of spaghetti. This is known in astrophysics as spaghettification.

Although I don’t understand the physics of it, the words are delightful. The black hole spaghettifies the star. The star is, therefore, spaghettified. It’s known as death by spaghettification. Poor star.

The universe is a scary place.

This amazing gem from physics yields another metaphor. Of course.

I think I’ve been spaghettified. Amazingly enough, I’ve survived, but the experience serves me as a lesson and a warning.

In spite of my intention of flowing into a peaceful and gently fruitful old age, in the last month I let myself be stretched thin by too many commitments and activities. I gave three public poetry readings, something I enjoy doing occasionally. I led two large worship gatherings, and gave leadership to several small groups. This in addition to my normal editing responsibilities and writing deadlines.

Groups, noise, and motion trigger my vestibular migraines, so I ended up spinning, nauseous, and exhausted most of the time. Stretched out beyond comfort. Spaghettified.

This week the calendar is refreshingly free. I’m still panting but I expect peace to descend. I’m sitting and breathing, reading a good book, and praying my way back to normality (which is something I’ve never been able to define).

So, have I learned my lesson? Will I heed the warning? Maybe. At least somewhat. But I suspect this is a situation I will continue to face, a lesson I will continue to learn. It’s partly coming to terms with the reality of aging. It may be a cliché to note that I can’t do what I used to do as fast as I used to do it. But cliches can be true.

Are you listening, Nancy?

St. Paul himself experienced aging and overextension. The man was a workaholic up to his death (though it was not through a black hole). But he penned these encouraging words: “… we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Can I permit myself the possible heresy of a paraphrase? As usual, yes. Here goes: “Though outwardly I am being spaghettified, inwardly the sun is shining on a beautiful new day.”

The challenge is to avoid the outward spaghettification while inwardly living into the beautiful new day, sponsored by the One who makes all things new (2 Corinthians 5:17). Even old people.

May the Force be with you.