I live in a fairly wooded, teeming area where the veil is torn between domicile “civilization” and realm of the wild. Access is ample and mutual, much to everyone’s discomfort and awe.
The veil is torn, so we witness wild things and wonders: a rabbit hopping—gleefully?—after my son’s remote-controlled car, a silver fox gingerly searching for leftover birdseed on a moonlit night, a tarantula burrowing into the summer soil for relief, cardinal parents building a nest in the bushes in view from our living room window (I think I will attempt to post a short video of this separately).
And spiders, those blessed fly-eating creatures, who bring their curiosities inside, nestling in the torn veil.
It’s the audacity for me.
Spiders spin webs everywhere. In the past year, I have found spider webs in the crook of corners in the living room, in the folds of curtains, by a bathroom window. These spiders are unafraid and moving ahead; weaving homes, dining in, making a place for their babies. It’s gross and inspiring.
They’ve trained me to stop squealing when I see them now. My chorus has become: “alright, let’s get a cup and move her (I always think it’s a “her”) outdoors where there’s some really good eating.”
These neglected nooks convict me: there are places I haven’t thought to dust or vacuum in my house; there are drafty places and unplugged holes for critters to come through. These spiders exhort me that there are windy, wild places in what I thought was a haven of tamed comfort.
Separation is a construct I erect to help me sleep at night—the comfy assertion that there are boundaries that spiders can see as well as I can; a neon border in screaming colors. This house is mine. Stay out. This is, of course, irrelevant to the spider, who is attuned to strategy, food, patience, and procreation—and testifying.
They not studyin’ me; they go where the wind is—with audacity. They set themselves on staying sensitive to the subtle movement of air.
You get where I’m going with this?
The veil is torn. The space between heaven and earth is lush liminality.
We are Wind people.
And yet.
I won’t speak for you, but as for me, I have grown accustomed to the convenience of forced air. A neat, tame, domesticated house. Efficient, predictable ducts of temperature regulation. I can claim the Wind and yet rarely feel goose flesh from her grazing.
Spiders tucked in unpredictable places have become visual prayers and embodied examination: am I following the Spirit? Am I sensitive to the Spirit? Am I willing to go where the Spirit leads? Do I make my home in the liminal space of on-earth-as-it-is-in-heaven, or do I erect a neon border?
The Spirit is wild. Like when she moved Philip from teaching the Ethiopian eunuch and baptizing him, to plopping him in the town of Azotus. Like when tongues of flame became a visual of mother-tongues. Like when Jesus got up from death.
Yet here I am with my neat stay out, Spirit! borders and neglected nooks, desiring predictability and comfort, the lullaby of the enemy. “Peace and safety.” Content with the forced air of my own making.
No. I pray disruption for my siblings and myself; for the Wind to go where it wishes and move us along, audaciously. To hell with any efficiency and predictability that keeps us from sensitivity to the Spirit. Deconstruct the separation between heaven and earth, Spirit, and be relentless about reminding us that we are dual citizens, bringing relief and God’s love to our neighbors and to the land.
We are Wind people. We were made for a goose-flesh faith.