The Art of Waiting

Spiders that weave these funnel webs are in the family Agelenidae. This spot of woods in West Virginia was full of their mysterious looking "caves." The spider creates a net to catch the insects who careen into the supporting strands above. The cave is where the spider lurks, is alerted by the vibrations of the web, runs out to grab the hapless prey, then retreats to the safety of the cave to dine.























This particular spider was not happy with my attentions. She hunkered down to shrink her body size, ready to confront what was threatening her. In this case, it was only my camera flash, illuminating the shadows and her four-eyed face. Rudely, I didn't ask for her permission to post her image on my blog. She had no choice but to remain silent (unless she could spell words out in her web as Charlotte did.) But it would have a been a nice gesture on my part.

This spider had constructed one of the more impressive dens among the many scattered about the forest floor. These types of spiders live for one year. I like to think that through the cycle of seasons, in her struggle for survival, this spider added a wealth of experience to her instincts.

Imagine the knowledge the spider must have accumulated about insect habits and haunts. Imagine the spider selecting that "just right spot" for this web, maybe her final masterpiece. Imagine her manufacturing-within her own body-a never ending spool of silken thread. Imagine her slowly amassing and shaping the individual strands to create this fine mesh architecture.























Imagine the spider settling into her shady tent. Imagine her waiting hour upon hour for her meal. The sun rises, passes overhead and sets. Crickets chirp, the last butterflies and moths flutter their weary wings. Gnats buzz. In those long hours, does she sleep, does she meditate, does she simply wait--alert and poised to respond-- as only spiders can?

I learned very little about this individual spider and her clan by simply snapping her photo and walking on. If I had been patient, if I had practiced the spiderly art of waiting, perhaps I could have learned much more.

Just As They Came

A rainy evening walk. A path in the woods by a lake.

Just words on paper. Just as they came:

Grace. Graceful living and dying. Acceptance. Quiet. Each true to its own nature.

The sound of rain on leaves. A tired sound. Late summer, early fall. A different sound, a variant drum. Does each leaf sound a different note according to its shape and size?

A Harmony. Cohesiveness. All are in tune and aware of coming winter. Aware of each other.

The shifts. Day/night, the angle of light.

The laurel. More glossy, thick, shiny. Recent rain? Water clings in oblong drops. Bubbles, irregular, rounded shapes. Spatters reflect the light, gray sky.

Gentle breeze, yellow leaves sprinkle like cherry blossoms.

Two older people walk the perimeter.

Spicebush red berries, river birch catkins. Moss and lichen.

The fallen leaves make shallow cups along the path. Hold rainwater. Reflect light like mirrors.

Soft steps. The ground moist. Dry dust tamped down.

Sounds. A cricket, a woodpecker. Rush hour traffic.

My foot hurts. Body shape. Gray hair. Lines.

Water level low. Mud exposed. Water striders.

Twirling leaves caught in web. Spider’s body and legs moving --

agile and purposeful as a weaver’s hands, a knitter’s needles.

The only frantic movement visible.

All is muted, colors, sounds.
Grays, blues, slate green, taupe, dove, sand.

Rotting wood, logs. Startle. A frog jumps.
Frogs singing, insects singing.
Light rain pinging on the surface of the water.
Rhythmic scribbles of light gray on dark. Ripple pattern.

Breeze like green breath.

ABC Wednesday