The Space Between: Sacred Perception and the Rise of a New Earth

It started with a word I hadn’t heard before: centrophy—Zach Bush described it as the opposite of entropy. Not decay or collapse, but the movement back toward coherence. Toward wholeness. Toward the life-giving order of all things. Something stirred in me—not just curiosity, but a deep, cellular kind of memory. Because isn’t that what the spiritual path often feels like? Not forward, but inward. Not progress, but return. An upward spiral of remembrance, always coming home. A return to the breath—the ruach—of God.

“The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit (ruach) of God was hovering over the face of the waters.” (Genesis 1:2)

When your eyes are attuned to the divine, what might seem like coincidence begins to feel like choreography. These synchronicities don’t just nudge you—they name you. They awaken the remembrance that God still speaks through wind, through whispers, through seemingly small things.

Centrophy became that whisper for me. A thread I followed—not toward more information, but into holy participation. Not to concept, but to communion.

The Hebrew phrase tohu vavohu—“formless and void”—doesn’t mean evil. It means unordered, unformed. The Spirit wasn’t repelled by the chaos; it hovered over it. And from the breath of God came light, rhythm, order, life. This was the first murmuration—the first coherence.

And it’s not just ancient history. This is the pattern written into everything. Into your breath. Into the way a child finds sleep on your chest. Into the way truth resonates like a tuning fork in your body when you finally hear it spoken.

To live spiritually awake is to live as if Genesis 1 is still happening—because it is. The ruach still hovers. It’s the wind before the wings. It's the life-giving coherence waiting to be witnessed—not through striving (after the wind), but by deepening our gaze.

Coherence isn’t just about order. It’s the alignment of inner and outer, the harmony of being attuned—spiritually, biologically, relationally.

In science, coherence means resonance. Things vibrating together. In the nervous system, it means regulation. Calm. Presence. And in the spirit, it means alignment with truth—with love—with the divine design. To live in coherence is to breathe with the rhythm of creation. To fragment is to fall into dissonance, to lose our sacred tempo.

Coherence is not control. It is consent to divine flow. It is ruach—moving through those who make space for it. And the root of coherence is perception.

Jesus said, “The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eye is single (haplous), your whole body will be full of light.” (Matthew 6:22)

That word, haplous, means whole. Undivided. Generous. A haplous eye sees not with scarcity or judgment, but with clarity, reverence, and love. It is the eye through which Eden is visible. It is the gaze of God, echoed through us.

To have a haplous eye is to perceive the sacred order in all things.

This isn’t just poetic—it’s participatory. The way we see determines the way we relate. And the way we relate becomes the pattern we reflect.

If we see with fragmentation, we mirror fear.
If we see with wholeness, we embody love.

Have you ever witnessed a murmuration of starlings—thousands of birds sweeping and turning in fluid, geometric motion?

The murmuration is a living parable of heaven on earth. When only a few birds fly, they form a V line. Predictable. Efficient. Still entrained. But when thousands move as one, the sacred geometry becomes multidimensional—more than the sum of its parts. A field of coherence. A visual, synergistic song. Ruach animated.

The divine isn’t just in the flight—it’s in the trust. The surrender. The invisible unity. Even the wind between the birds becomes holy.

Wendell Berry once wrote, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.”

Desecration doesn’t begin in action—it begins in perception.
It begins the moment we fail to see with haplous eyes.
To desecrate is to forget the sacred breath in all things.
To revere is to remember.

And so we come to the energy that opposes this vision—not a red figure with horns, but a force. A pull.

In Hebrew, Satan means “the accuser,” but more literally, it means “one who opposes” or “obstructs.”
It is not just an entity—it is entropy embodied. The pull toward fragmentation, toward de-creation.

The early church fathers saw Satan not merely as a being to blame—but as a pattern to discern. A principle we participate in when we forget who we are. When we fall out of coherence.

To speak of Satan is not to externalize responsibility.
It is to recognize where we give away our perception, our power.
Where we stop seeing the sacred—and start desecrating—we breathe energy into fragmentation itself, into the very illusion we, like Christ, were born to transmute.

The rise of the New Earth will not come by force—but by vision.
It begins in the haplous eye.
The undivided body full of light.

When we see rightly, we remember the divine order.
We return to the breath.
We let the ruach move between us.

And in that wind, between the wings of starlings, Eden lives again.

Let us learn to see again. Let us tune our vision not to fear or judge, but to awe.

We often expect the sacred to arrive in grand gestures—in parted seas or mountaintop revelations. But more often, it reveals itself in the quiet choreography of a mundane Saturday. In the in-between, if our eyes are tuned to see.

And then, as if to embody this very truth—
I experienced a holy interruption.

I was folding towels in the laundry room when Eden came in, requesting yet another wardrobe change (these are frequent in the West house these days). I embraced the moment rather than seeing it as a distraction. She pointed to a dress hanging there from her Nana—a gift from the Christmas before. I asked her if she remembered who gave it to her. She didn’t.

So rather than simply handing her the dress, I accepted the invitation to attune, connect, and build rememberance. I sat down with her on the cold tile floor, pulled up photos from our time in Palm Springs and Joshua Tree—where my dad, Deanna (her Nana), and Uncle Brent had spent that sacred window of time with us. As I showed her the images, she began to remember—not just the sights, but the feelings. The way her spinny dress danced in the desert sun. The way she laughed while Nana helped her jump off the brick flower planters outside the ice cream shop with the neon colored chairs.

And suddenly, we were there. We transcended the dimensions of time—rooted in the now, yet touching down in another moment. We moved through timelines—threads of memory and presence braided by love.

Sitting on the laundry room floor, I felt her soul speak to mine. All she could do was stand to embrace me. I returned her hug and whispered, “Aw Eden, are you feeling the love from that moment?” She did. And I could tell by the joy emanating from her face and how tightly she held me.

We sat for twenty minutes, wrapped in each other, just seeing. She looked at me with a depth I haven't seen in her toddler eyes as she pressed my cheeks between her hands.

I told her, “I see you, Eden. I see your joy-filled spirit, and it nourishes my soul.” Then I looked up and whispered, “Thank you, Lord, for this holy interruption.”

She saw me. With haplous eyes. Undivided. Present. Full of light. Delighted by the intentional attunement. And I thought to myself, this is presence—the gift motherhood is always pregnant with.

This—this is coherence. This is the New Earth.

May every mother know that moment. May we all learn to sit in it just a little longer. And may we see with whole eyes—that all things are sacred. Even the laundry warm in the dryer.

Let us remember: the space between is holy.

May we not desecrate it with forgetfulness.
May we recognize that separation and fragmentation are illusions—designed to draw us back into tohu vavohu, unless we learn to see again.

In love + light,
April