A spider took up residence just outside my studio where I write. I noticed her one morning last June.
She was a garden spider, also called a Writer Spider because of its unique zigzag signatures it inscribes in its webs. Her size—easily an inch long, and a good two inches with her legs extended—along with her stunning colors, yellow and black, immediately drew my eye to her. This spider was always at her web’s center, stone still with her head down. She’d spend her days waiting for something to come to her, while intermittently scribbling, the way writers do.
Making webs requires care, especially patience and the willingness to go at it again and again when the web gets destroyed. Webs are fragile. They may break on their own or be destroyed by birds and strong winds. People walk into them all the time. The spider’s life is an uncertain one, with tasks requiring hours and hours of labor and lots of hits-and-misses. Spiders try to make their connections strong enough so they’ll hold together. So do writers.
For writers and spiders, being on the web is a way of life. I’ve been working the web seriously only since about 1995. Spiders have been at it for millions of years.
I believe many writers, like spiders, are loners. I know I spend hours alone. We both create our webs by various kinds of “spin,” and at times weave tenuous connections. When the threads hold up, it’s great. When they fray, it’s the same for spiders as for writers; go back to zero and start all over again.
I’ve noticed the garden spider always kept her head down. Did this mean that this attitude works better than our folk wisdom that advises us to keep a heads-up to stay aware and to avoid unwelcome surprises in exercising our tasks? Sadly, we cannot know the mind of arachnids. Their experience might prove invaluable in improving our efficiency as writers and human beings. Spiders know; they’ve been getting bugs out of their webs for eons. Spiders can also spot bugs in their webs, instantly. Writers, on the other hand, rarely see the bugs in their manuscripts. Readers and editors see them in a flash.
Once I accidently bumped into her web, destroying it. The Writer Spider decided to weave a new web, again across the door that admits to my studio. I felt like a criminal when I gently, reverently, lifted one corner of her web and put it aside, attempting to communicate to her that I welcomed her presence, only not there. She got the hint and, a few days later, began weaving her web across the frame of a window located next to the studio door. I felt relieved. As a writer I know how it feels to have someone trash your work. It’s very discouraging.
At this juncture, the writer spider and I part company. She may witness the destruction of her web that took some time to create, but she behaves with more character than I do in handling the disappointment. With no evidence of blame or bad humor she just begins again. I rant and rave, denounce my computer for even exhibiting such trash as I’ve just written and swear that writing is a fool’s errand and that I need to get a life.
It’s humbling to realize that a spider can practice some of the essential tenets of the spiritual life more adeptly than I can. If in attempts to achieve the goals we have chosen for ourselves we fall short, Buddhists teach us to let it go, and only begin again. In fact they go a step further and claim that when it comes to being wise and discerning in life’s tasks, at every step we must regard ourselves as beginners. If we don’t, our presumptions and pride will defeat us. Spiders are, above all, patient. On that account, they have a leg up on me.
One day, just like that, the spider was gone. I went to my studio and I looked at her web. Her web was intact. She was nowhere to be seen. I saw no evidence of foul play or any indication of a natural accident. I scoured the immediate area to see if she’d set herself up nearby. No sign of her. I felt sad.
I once read stories about the early solo circumnavigations of the world in small sailboats by men like Joshua Slocum, serious loners. In the middle of the ocean, a petrel might land on the bow of the boat. In their solitude the sailors welcomed the company and conducted long soliloquies with the bird. When the bird left, the sailors grieved their departure and felt the weight of their solitude, as they may never have before.
I miss the company of my writer spider.
Connie Godwin says
George Merrill’s piece on the spider is WONderful.. He’s a good philosopher, as well as a fine writer. It’s save-able to share with other writers and young family. Thanks, George
Jamie Kirkpatrick says
I sympathize with Mr. Merrill. Writers need a muse; a spider will do just fine!