What does that mean? For me, it means being a safe person.
An apt metaphor for this state of being is my backyard insect hotel. Yes! It’s a real thing! I stacked up cement cinder blocks under a secluded rose arbor with the lower openings facing inward in which I stored a collection of random bundled twigs, dried out pinecones, and mounded acorns. In the top cinder block facing upwards, I planted annual seeds in homegrown composted dirt. My insect hotel is an intentional invitation for refugee pollinators to come rest, to grow their young, and to get their work done. These re-energized insects can then spread the word to other insect friends that, “we’ve found a safe place that has food, shelter, and water. Come on in!”
As a hostess, I don’t fear an invasion of a swarm, but reap the benefits of their deciding that my backyard is a good place to be. I welcome these industrious workers. I benefit from their health, safety, and well-being. I don’t deter them with artificial light pollution, pesticides, or habitat destruction, but instead, provide hospitality.
Is my life one that pitches a tent, and provides asylum?
I’m becoming increasingly aware of my responsibility for being “sanctuary” and a “ministrant in the tent of