The Weaving of a Web

It used to be the other way around. I’d stir up hot chocolate and tell him a story. But this week, he becomes the storyteller.

No hot chocolate. He’s not even with me. But his voice rides the radio waves across the miles into my kitchen, where I sit with my Diet Coke.

A spider, according to the story, goes to a high spot and casts a thread, which blows in the wind until it sticks to another spot. This becomes the bridge thread.

And from this thread she builds a web. Her silk, which turns from liquid to solid as it leaves her body, is stronger by weight than steel, can stretch up to four times its original length, and can even be layered to form a bulletproof mesh.

Her weaving shows foresight. It’s tightly spiraled, framed, and anchored. And she tailors her web to fit available space, the size of the local prey, and even the weather. She plans for contingencies, fashioning the netting trap so she can tighten the strands when she’s hungry and become quickly aware of snared prey.

But life comes at her. Wind blows. Rain pelts. Animals smash through her work. And despite her competencies, the web breaks down.

So what can a spider do?

Many rebuild, the storyteller says, strengthening their framing threads and securing their anchor points. Some take a temporary rest and scavenge for food. Others move on to a better place. And start again.

Here’s the thing about spiders—they don’t weave in naivety. They sense danger in the world. With their eight eyes, they see it. And with highly sensitive hairs, they feel it.

But they have another sense, as well—that they can always make more silk. And they live in this double knowledge.

This story will likely stick with me, especially when I demolish a spider web. Or when I’m called to make silk in dangerous times.