Thinking about spiders

Random image of a flower, because not everyone loves spiders. This is a balloon flower (Platycodon grandiflorus)

I

There was a small, dark spider on the wall. I could have killed it, but I didn’t.

It’s not as if I hadn’t killed plenty of spiders before in my life. Cellar spiders, which hang out in corners and keep to themselves, I generally let be. Jumping spiders, like this one, make me jumpy; I have no way of knowing where they might turn up next. For instance, a few times we’ve found a spider in the bed. Not our favorite sightings.

But something felt different this time. For some reason I didn’t understand, I didn’t feel inclined to end the spider’s fragile existence.

As I stood there observing and not killing, an odd thought tapped on my mind: What if the spider were the only other living creature on the planet? Would I want to destroy that spark of life, no matter that it was so alien to mine? How intensely lonely would it feel to be so totally singular? Wouldn’t I wish for that spider to stay alive?

II

On the other hand, if the only other creature alive in the world with me were a tiger ...

III

When I came downstairs to prepare breakfast a few days ago I discovered a crane fly trapped in a bowl of water in the kitchen sink. I quickly grabbed a piece of mail from the recycle bin to try and rescue it. Then I realized that what initially looked like a crane fly was actually a cellar spider, with a similarly tiny body and long, spindly legs.

In hindsight, I wonder: Would I have jumped into action to rescue the creature if I’d realized immediately that it was a spider, or would I have just poured out the water, along with the spider, into the garden?  No matter, really. The fact was that there was a spider struggling in the bowl, flailing its hair-thin legs, trying to get a footing on the surface tension of the water. And I felt bad for its plight.

That spider fought me every step of the way, but I finally fished it out onto the paper and released it into the open window above the sink. Would it be okay after all that thrashing and rescuing? My job was done; time to move on. I closed the window. Survival was now up to the spider.

About an hour or so later I took a peek into the window. I saw that the spider had climbed up into a corner and was perched there, looking as if it hadn’t just escaped a certain-death situation. Was the spider thinking about what had just happened? I doubt it. It looked like it had gotten right back to business—finding a good vantage point, creating a web, and waiting for a meal to fly into it.

It got me thinking: Wild creatures don’t have time to waste time ruminating about bad or unfortunate stuff that happens. What about me? Do I have to rehash everything that happens? Sure, it can be helpful to take some time to learn from life situations, but could I find a way to let go of things more quickly?

#spiders, #cellar spider