Ballooning: Winging it on The Winds of Change

Propelled by intuition and unsettled by the gathering shadows of global change, a couple uproots their life in search of space, soul, and sustainability. Landing in rural France, they follow instinct, nature, and the ancient wisdom of spiders in a story of movement, meaning, and delicate resilience.

Sometimes you just have to move.

Dispersing in order to support vitality, survive adverse changes and access untapped resources is a periodic necessity for all forms of life on Earth. Stretching beyond immediate circumstances strengthens the individual and benefits the species, as well as its networks of connection. For people, relocation is a holistic experience, encompassing body, mind, and soul. The challenges and delights of a journey chosen for personal evolution foster resilience and render us fit for purpose. Life is fundamentally about movement.

*****

My husband and I came to the difficult realisation that what we needed could no longer be found in our country of birth. We would have to emigrate to find an affordable property with space to breathe, surrounded by a healthy natural environment in a rural location. It was a dream we had shared and shelved even before we knew each other, as our lives took us in other directions. A shrivelled, buried yearning for a certain way of life was like a dormant desert seed waiting to be reawakened by the first shuddering drops of a deluge. For us, the storm arrived in the form of unsettling political decay, the rapidly rising cost of living, and a pandemic. It swelled a fertile intuition that we needed to find a place where we could better support ourselves, live more sustainably, and be less vulnerable to global commercial forces. If we were to thrive in the second half of our lives, it was time to move.

We knew exactly what we wanted — I had written an optimistic list — but we had no idea of the location. It was the beginning of a transitional journey that would span several years. There was a great deal of turbulence along the way, with wrong turns and dead ends serving to spin us around until sweeping us off in new directions that felt like the right track. I cannot say we were in complete control. Our task was to keep moving forward, hold on to our dream and power each step with the conviction that somewhere ‘out there’ was a physical place waiting to welcome us.

When we found what we were searching for, it was sudden and surprising, as if turning a corner and abruptly arriving at the pinnacle of a mountain after an interminable climb. In that breathless moment, we stood and stared, awestruck by the stunning panorama laid at our feet. Our extraordinary trek had miraculously deposited us in a place that embodied all we had envisioned, and more. Afterwards, during the unavoidable descent back to practical reality, we continued to clutch a fragile shard of that mighty vista to our hearts and let it guide us like a lantern through the darkness of official paperwork, extensive property renovation and the innumerable hurdles associated with uprooting a life and replanting it somewhere else. 

In the autumn of 2020, we relocated from crowded South-east England to the sparsely populated department of Creuse in Central France as global climate change accelerated at an unprecedented rate. The United Kingdom had begun the drawn-out process of Brexit, severing itself from membership of the European Union after the contentious 2016 referendum. The COVID-19 virus had already brought the world to its knees, and would do so again before it was finished. Our vision of a more soulful, creative life had generated enough force for lift-off, carrying us in the slipstream of destiny until we touched down in the perfect place. Perfect is not at all the same as easy. It would have been easier to stay in the United Kingdom, but then our dream would have been lost and our spirits broken.

A new home. Another country. A different language and culture.

Change is tricky. Unfamiliarity can be tiring. Just a moment ago, I realised that skimming over endless to-do lists before the bridges burned has quietly become a habit. My husband and I are of a generation that benefitted from the European umbrella and the freedoms it offered for travel, work and collaboration. Since January 1973, we had been citizens of Europe, a continent full of history and diversity. We were determined to keep it that way. Brexit came as a shock, but also provided a deadline that demanded focus, and amplified the urgency of our endeavour as the drawbridge was slowly raised. We made it over the Channel from England to France before the second Covid lockdown came into effect, and with just enough time to secure our residency in France under the Brexit withdrawal agreement. Any later and our move would have been a great deal more difficult, with a lot more paperwork. It felt like a lucky escape. The dash still lingers in my body like debris after a hurricane; parts of me are scattered and in need of repair.

*****

Leaning against the open back door of our ancient barn, with its massive oak skeleton rising in dinosaur proportions above my head, I survey a rectangle of long-neglected garden. More lists grow as prolifically as the army of withered thistles spiking the lawn in front of me, their thorns hidden beneath a deceptively fluffy exterior. I am not fooled; thickest gloves will be needed. That Bay tree could do with a prune, and some of those fence posts look rotten. I ponder where the nearest garden centre is, whether the lawn mower will start after being in storage for so long, and if I should buy a kit to test the pH of the soil.

Looking to my left, beyond our dilapidated post and wire fence, I can see another barn across a small, bumpy field. Green ivy trickles up the rough granite walls, and part of the roof has recently been patched with new tiles that starkly contrast the moss-covered originals. I know how they feel. In the orchard on the other side, fading leaves still cling nostalgically to the apple trees. Raucous seasonal winds have yet to complete their cull. I try to peer through to get my bearings, but there are too many sturdy, deeply rooted trunks in my line of sight. I add exploring to the latest list.

Churning thoughts of all the work ahead threaten to overshadow my gratitude for making it this far. Do we have enough money? Will we be able to master the language? When will we feel at home? Enough now. I need a break from all the thinking, organising and hurrying. Sustainability is important; balance must be considered. For a while at least, I will choose to do nothing.

Sometimes you just have to stay still. 

Grabbing a garden chair, I set it up outside and settle down. Breathing deliberately and deeply, I open my heart to this curious land in the slowdown of an autumn morning. A drowsy pastoral atmosphere is enhanced by the eager bark of a dog, the rapturous crowing of a cockerel and the compost whiff of rural life, which reach me from a respectful distance. The sun feels warm on my face, and a barely discernible breeze gently plaits natural scents into loose strands of hair. Winged chirps and calls bounce between branch and bush, and float above like echoes, allowing only brief glimpses of their origin.

The lawn is overlaid with thousands of delicate gossamer threads festooned with droplets of a thawing night-made frost. They flash and pulse in the sunshine like lines of metallic embroidery streaming across the surface of the land. Long lengths of gold and silver glint with undulating highlights in the air, some anchored to structures in the garden and some carried aloft, waving as they disappear into the smooth blueness of the sky. The elements collaborate — earth, air, fire, and water dancing together in a dynamic display I now witness with appreciation. Tiny roots begin to sprout.

I have not seen a single spider, but I know these eight-legged arachnids to be the architects of the twinkly phenomenon spread out before me. My body absorbs the beauty like a salve in the gathering warmth of the day as my imagination conjures images of industrious little creatures, busily weaving their glistening yarn in and out through the dark and light of the world. I see them stretching up to assess the breeze with hairy front legs until sensing the right conditions for momentum, then firing filaments of silk skyward from organs called spinnerets. Once the silk is successfully away, each spider severs the anchor and launches into the void attached to its homespun kite, flying with the wind until touching down again, ready to start over. This is known as ‘ballooning.’

Of course, I know what it is to be swept into the air on tender threads of an instinctual call to venture, risking all for faith in a meaningful life, prepared to leave the familiar behind and hoping to land with grace. The risks are real, but worth embracing for the transformative inspiration of liberty. Logic alone cannot conduct a quest such as this; it is the soul that leaves first, settling into a vision sufficiently distant for the body to be compelled to follow, or risk the torment of permanent separation. For those who heed the call, myriad opportunities are invited into the mix by an unpredictable combination of variables such as clarity of vision, strength of determination, and genetic legacy. It does not mean you cannot be smart about it, although safety is never guaranteed. Life and death are perpetually sandwiched by the other. The point is to launch; otherwise, you never get to land. Spiders have known this for millennia.

I contemplate the intangible animation of life, supported by concealed foundational structures that even the brilliance of human consciousness cannot illuminate. In order to glimpse this genius, I must penetrate the sunshine surface and travel downward, guided only by the receptive glow of the feminine moon. By way of the eternal interior, we may find the crucible of our true nature, a nature that is within and all around us. For me today, gossamer spiders embody this elusive creative spirit: an abundance that casts its silken threads into murmurs of energy that infuse the world with ingenuity at every second of every day in spirals of recycled living, dying, and rebirth.

Spider is ubiquitous in the fabric of life and stitched into the human psyche through stories, myths and legends, which carry a full spectrum of projections from Weaver of the Web of Life to the Embodiment of Evil. Ruthless predators, also capable of creating stunning beauty, we have more in common than we might care to admit while tearing down their webs, poisoning their habitats and shoving them out to the margins of our imaginations. It may be wise to accept an invitation to trail the fine threads without judgment, to dive down and take a deeper look with a humble heart at the nature of the spider, which is also our own.

*****

Closing my eyes, I sink below the shiny veneer, tracking a lineage of four hundred million years. The dreaming self descends to meet the dreaming of the world. Senses adapt and sharpen in order to slip beyond surface tension. Twilight. Shifting shapes disappear off to the edges as I approach, snaking away into distant crevices. Strangers are rare here. I understand and tread lightly, hoping to be accepted. 

Away from the glare, lengthening shadows soften and digest, moulding muted decay into the stuff of rebirth. This is where the seeds of life are nurtured and strengthened, prepared to withstand at least some of the dazzle of it all. Even so, bodies will be bruised, wings will be tattered, souls will be wounded.

I find a web of silvery tendrils drifting with the currents of natural forces, responding to the challenges of existence and moving imperceptibly through evolution: a continuous journey from one way of being to another. I see that Spider creates an exquisite expression of the essentials of Earth’s flourishing. A silky network of relationships, anchored to articulations of life rooted in the planet’s ground of being. Life and death are held in balance throughout this tapestry, spun into an intricate whole that is simultaneously stronger than steel and insubstantial as morning mist. It can withstand the buffeting of fierce winds and torrents of rain, but also be ruined by the swish of a tail or the casual sweep of a hand. 

*****

Returning to the surface, I open my eyes onto the view of our garden, now laced with a deeper perspective and mellowed by tranquillity. Spiders are skilled in the art of beginning again. I could do worse than to weave their blessings into the transformation of my life. 

Like you, I will thrive in nature’s bounty, contribute to our shared community and remember that silk can be recycled. With you, I will support biodiversity and promote a balanced ecosystem. Fear of failure will not hold me back; I can soar when intuition beckons. As you do, I will rebuild with resilience and welcome the winds that blow through, finding strength in flexibility. In time, a patina of moss will cloak my awkward foreignness, and I, too, will belong, no longer The Other.

The land waits to respond in kind to this wafted immigrant. How will she work to weave her way through the light and the dark of her adopted world? Will she spin a strong web of connection, deeply rooted in the land, or will she blow away again on the wind like a loose thread? Only time can tell the tale.

Restored, I stretch and stand, silently thanking Mother Nature for her gentle wisdom. Turning away, I stroll back into the barn that smells of wood and engine oil. From here I can see across a tarmacked courtyard to the house, with its rose-flanked front door and grape vine curling under the kitchen window. It looks like a picture, framed by the massive double doorway of the barn, private and cocooned. I need that right now.

To my right is a mezzanine level stacked with bushels of dry brush that I assume the previous owners had used as kindling for the woodburning stove that still stands in the kitchen of the house. Underneath is an area for logs, full to the brim with a recent delivery that we carefully stacked ourselves. The sawn ends of the horizontally laid logs make a geometric pattern of autumn shades, a comforting wall against the coming cold of winter.