The Holy Habitation of Space

There is no doubt that the Pandemic has altered so many things about what we once thought of as “normal”. Much of what we considered “normal” has been turned upside down and inside out, forcing an entire globe to redefine their sense of space, of connection to home, their defined place on the earth. It matters not which culture is in play: all of us have been forced into similar scenes of quarantine, staying home, adapting all manner of lifestyles into limited variations of what is allowed, what is safe, what is acceptable.

For wanderlusts, the enforced confinement in apartment, house, trailer, condo, cabin - it no longer matters so much what we call it, or how big or small it is: we have been confined to that place called home. Society’s new rules of what is or is not acceptable chafes, rubs, annoys, enrages. Travel is restricted - or for some, forbidden altogether. The need to wander is not gone, simply the permission to do so.

For homebodies, the newly enforced requirements to stay put somehow dim the shine of the comforts of home; nobody likes being told what to do, even when it is preferred. What had seemed cozy now seems confining; the longed-for times of peace and quiet become uncomfortable, unwelcome, the silence deafening instead of rejuvenating; the solitude sad instead of comforting.

The rebel rises up in us all when we are ordered about, told what to do, given rules and restrictions; we strain against the newly defined confines of the four-walled room, the patio, the fenced-in yard, the neighborhood.

There is something in the human heart that seeks what it cannot have, that longs for what is not at hand. The grass is always greener over the fence; the life lived by another is more filled with joy. Always, the “other” is living the life we long to live, occupying the space we want to claim, being the person we think we should be. Dissatisfaction is our mantra, our creed, our sad state of affairs.

Which is a sad state of affairs indeed.

Even as the pandemic raged through last spring and summer - and tediously plodded into the fall, it was not my home that strangled me; it was my sense that I wanted to be elsewhere. Anywhere, but here; anyplace but home. For this self-avowed homebody, it mattered not that I had spent time and money and much effort at making this space warm, cozy, comforting, attractive —it was no longer ‘good enough’ simply because it was all I had; I no longer had a choice.

Until I heard this quote, that turned all of this on its head:

“They know (better than we do) how to live in the places where they live.” Wendell Berry; The Nature Way.

Novelist, poet, essayist, environmental activist, Wendell Berry is a man who lives intentionally on a small farm in Kentucky, having made a commitment to his “place” in this world, his 100+ acres of space. This is from his poem about place, specifically the sacred ability of animals, birds, insects, fish — the quality of wild things to inhabit their space because they “know how to live in the places where they live”.

This phrase touched me to my very core, in a corner of my heart I’d forgotten about; that sense that I have been placed here, in this place, on this land, in this home, with divine purpose. I’d lost the sense that there is no other place or new place that will improve my life, or make it better. I am in the place I was meant to be; and here I must live. Flourish. Nurture the place in which I am.

And so I’m learning how to live in the place where I live.

I have memorized the pattern of the trees in morning’s early light outside my prayer window in the western sky. I discovered the rosy mauve of dawn in that western sky as it reflects the eastern horizon. I see the broken, crooked limbs up high from last summer’s microburst storm, trees marred by a few minutes of angry twisting wind.

I can now fairly accurately estimate the time of day by the position of the sun out my windows— east, south, west —the evolving color of the sky telegraphing the movement of the sun across the same daily arc in the sky - and yet, that trajectory ever minutely changing, the pink-orange-yellow never quite the same.

I hear the call of the cardinal in the morning, and watch for the first bats to swoop out of the sky as dusk falls in mid-summer. Hawks and osprey dance in majesty across the sky, the thrill of the hunt eons old. Our resident wildlife move about their routines with little worry or care; woodchuck, skunk, deer, coyote, fox, racoon— all coexist in the same small plot of land that my husband and I share, having learned to live in the place where they live. We give them space. They watch us. We watch them.

I am not alone in this endeavor to curate the space in which I live. My friend Grace takes photos of the outdoor spaces in her yard, in our town— her eye for what I never see always astounding me in its simple beauty, the complexities of light and shadow reflecting nature’s evolving palette. My friend Betsy in Virginia captures the same wonder of nature and light with her camera, using the tools at hand to curate her outdoor space, to reconcile the wonder of all that is displayed in the constantly changing display of nature and sky. I marvel at their collective ability to expand their hearts into the outdoor spaces of their world, using eye and soul to expand— to learn how to live in the space where they live.

I’m learning there is something sacred in living intentionally in a place, learning to inhabit that space with attention to the miracles that unwind and unfold all about us. I am seeing the intention of curating this allotment of space, this borrowing of the land, this sharing in the habitation of it. I’m learning about earth, sea, sky, wind. I am learning about God. I am learning about me. It is a simple lesson, yet so profound.

Sometimes the deepest wisdom is revealed in the simplest things in life.