At one point in his intriguing and thoughtful The Poetics of Space, French philosopher Gaston Bachelard observes, "Would a bird build a nest if it did not have its instinct for confidence in the world?"
     All of us have seen, I suspect, bird nests.  Some of us have seen them from afar, some of us up close, some only see them during the winter, when all deciduous leaves have fallen, and still others see them, seemingly randomly, on the ground.  Bachelard suggests that we find comfort in the idea of a nest, that a nest connotes, for most of us, a sense of protection and security, a haven and enclave in which we set ourselves apart from the vicissitudes of life, the pains of the world.
     Yet Bachelard notes that a bird would not build its nest unless it had "confidence" in the world.  Ironically, we would not build a nest if we did not believe in the fundamental goodness and resilience of the world.  Even though we may build a nest for protection from the world, we nonetheless believe in the worth of that world.  We want to keep living in it.
     Indeed.  Although nests are havens, those who live in them understand that they are not permanent abodes.  They pass constantly between them and the world.  They use the world to build their nests, they need the world to sustain themselves.  They understand that despite its insecurities, they require the world's presence in their lives.
     Even if we dismiss or fear the world, we cannot live without it.  We would not be here if not for the world, we would not be able to live without the provisions we find in it.
     In many ways, we live between nest and world, hiding as well as appearing, ensconced yet visible and active.  We live as if both are true. We live as if both have dignity and worth.  We live as if, even if we may not necessarily believe it, the world and whatever we do to avoid it, are worthwhile and true.
     We live as if, apart from trying to fathom an accidental universe, there is a God.