Persistence in Weaving

In continuation…

At home I am waging war upon an elusive, extremely large spider that has taken up residence above my front door. This spider – I will call it Jo – is quite brilliant, if I could give him his props. He has positioned himself so that, whenever I get out the Can of Annihilation, he scuttles into a hole between the bricks in the uppermost corner. No matter how well I aim, he hides fast enough that my spray does not hit him and he buys himself more time. Brilliant AND fast – tough combination. But, really, c’mon! Jo is a spider!

Usually, I tremble at the thought of webs and spiders – particularly HUGE, fuzzy Cat Spiders named Jo – however, I am quite fond of the exquisite spider web I spoke of last week. Granted, it is a web. It belongs to – oh my goodness! – a Spider. Therefore, it should be looked upon suspiciously by the general populace. Yet, I am immune regarding this creation with loathing and it has become a reminder of something much, much greater.

I stop each morning for a brief, breathless moment and gaze at the magnificence of that brave creature’s home. I find myself yearning to look at it as I slog through the morning rituals. And, even, I look forward to glimpses of it on my daily breaks.

Each time I stand there – or hustle past, glancing at it out of the corner of my eye – I am moved by the effort of that small being. It isn’t just any shoddy web. It is an elegant work of art. Even more, it is there in broad daylight, right beside our door and completely in the open for all to adore – or abhor.

This creature did not care one whit for the aversion and the shudders created by its work. Nor did it stop to think that even one human could possibly be moved enough to complete TWO dissertations in its honor. It just created – that which it “had” to do – with its whole heart. It created with abandon.

Sadly enough, moments ago, I came back from an afternoon break to find that someone or something has destroyed the web. It appears as though something charged right through the center of it because all that remains are the silky supporting strands fluttering in the breeze. And the little creature has possibly moved on or was killed when the web was brushed down.

Or, perhaps, it is lying wounded at the base of those sentinels, staring at their seemingly endless heights and wondering how the feat will ever be accomplished again. Those trees must seem as looming to that spider as Mount Everest would seem to us!

That got me to thinking about Jo…

I have knocked apart his web so many times I have lost count. (Of course, I do it while he is hiding because I am NOT stupid enough to wage war with my broom while he is visible. Jo in my hair?!! That thought alone is enough to send me to the loony bin.)
On my way out each morning, I notice Jo has stealthily rebuilt the web I knocked apart only twelve hours earlier and invariably there is a tasty treat waiting for his breakfast.

I demolish the web.

I get home from a long day of work to find his dinner waiting in the web he has rebuilt. Again.

I bulldoze it with vengeance.

Next morning?

You got it! Jo has completed yet another web and a feast is waiting.

It is all unnerving, really.

I guess I could call in an exterminator, but now it has become a personal quest.

These spiders, I believe, are here to teach me a lesson. And I have recently learned that lessons don’t always come in forms I want to accept. Much to my chagrin, spiders are my teachers right now.

The little yellow creature accomplished that masterpiece, simply because it “had” to, and did it bold-facedly where humans trod frequently. That work of art lasted for only a short time, but it. was there. And it, in itself, was an accolade to the deed.

Jo continues to build what I tear down. Without a second thought – and without jumping on me every time I appear with my weapon of choice – Jo goes about his life and does what he HAS to do. And he does it with abandon.

Some would maybe call Jo insane – and me too for seeing something greater in a spider’s web – but, really, these two spiders are quite inspirational.

How many times have I had my “web” destroyed and how often have I let that destruction stop me? How many times have I stood at the bottom of the sentinels and opted out simply because it was way too high to climb? How many times has someone crushed my “house” – my esteem, my dreams, my ideals, my heart – and I have laid down in defeat, without even a thought of getting back up?

Then again, how many times have I experienced these same things and I have rebuilt what has been destroyed or have accomplished what seemed impossible?

How many times have I been a Spider?

Web weaving is an intricate art. It requires patience. It requires skills. It requires the correct tools. It requires education, or instinctive intuition. It requires timing. And when the spider is like Jo and chooses a brilliant, but openly attacked high point to build its web upon, it requires persistence.

Life is like weaving a web. It requires patience and skills and the correct tools, with the education on how to use them properly. It requires timing and listening to intuition and, certainly, a large amount of persistence.

Yes, I choose to be a Spider.

I will weave a web – live my life – and I will do it graciously, as well as gracefully. I will weave that web for all to see and I will build it again when it is torn down.

I will live with abandon.

Oh, yes! Jo and I are going to be great friends!

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