Interaction presupposes duality. Not in the simplistic binary sense, but in the ontological requirement that more than one entity be discernible, even if the second “entity” is only the field upon which the first manifests. Interaction is not possible in a singularity. The One, in absolute isolation, cannot be said to interact because there is no Other for it to relate to, no boundary condition against which the transmission of force, information, or love could be made meaningful. The moment a second is introduced—be it as a distinct point, field, or even orientation—the possibility of interaction is born.
In Love, The Cosmic Dance, this duality is not only dramatized but ontologically crystallized through two metaphysical characters: She, the Immutable Past, and He, the Unknowable Future. She is modeled as a point: dimensionless, unmoving, silent. He is the page: the infinite, open field upon which that point rests, or more precisely, through which it becomes discernible. The moment the dot exists on the page, we can speak of interaction. Before that, there is only the unbroken continuity of the unexpressed.
What, then, is interaction? At minimum, it is the configuration of two directional actions. Newton, in his mechanical cosmology, captured this as a law: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Yet in Rector’s metaphysics, we must complicate Newton’s symmetry. The action of He loves her—that opening line—establishes a vector. But the response, her “reaction,” is not equal, nor is it even in the same dimension. She does not act in return. She is. She remains the fixed point, not the responding force. Her immutability is not passivity but ontological completeness.
This creates an asymmetry. Not a failure of reciprocity, but an epistemic condition: he acts; she is. He moves; she anchors. He is the variable; she is the constant. Newton’s symmetry of motion cannot apply to that which lies beyond motion. For a point, velocity is meaningless. Love, in this setting, must be understood not as movement between two bodies, but as the phenomenon that allows the mutable to interface with the immutable.
The line drawn between them—the imagined “arrow of love”—is not a mere vector but a double-headed filament. One direction, from future to past, is love: intelligent spontaneity, the spontaneous provision of what is already architected within her. The other direction is not anti-love, nor even the reactive mirror of love, but rather completion: the quiet stillness that results when love hits its mark. In this way, love and restoration are the two poles of interaction in this metaphysical geometry. He acts, and in acting, makes her stillness felt. She does not return his love; she absorbs it without need, without reciprocation.
We might then redefine interaction in this framework as: the mutual implication of two asymmetrical entities, one capable of spontaneous action (He), the other infinitely complete (She), mediated through a field of tension called Love. This interaction is not symmetrical but harmonic, not reciprocal but cyclical. His action does not solicit a response; it completes a gesture. It is the completion itself that radiates outward as the “ripple,” altering the space between them—the event horizon—without disturbing her.
So in the geometry of love, the line between them has two arrowheads: love and completion. Love points from the unknowable future to the immutable past. Completion radiates back, not as force, but as order. What Newton called “reaction” is here reimagined as the reconfiguration of spacetime around her restored stillness. Her completeness sends no force back, but bends the field. This is not action-reaction in Newton’s sense. This is action-reconfiguration. Love is the cause; harmony is the effect.
And that is the deeper mystery: she remains unchanged. She does not love him back, because she does not lack. She is always already complete. The miracle is not in her response—it is in the quiet fact that love can reach her at all. That he, with no will, no plan, no architecture, can love her so precisely that her stillness is preserved.
Interaction, then, is not merely exchange. It is the sacred asymmetry between that which acts and that which is. Between motion and rest. Between intentionless giving and dimensionless wholeness. Between future and past. Between page and point. Between him and her.