Violaceous
Lessons in Cobwebs
The things you learn when you let the cobwebs gather.
Our bedroom gives a picture-framed view of Arachnid Dining 101. Intricate lairs are built in an afternoon, their trappings either wrapped or wriggling.
I wrote about the Enlightened Spider back in August (“Not Caught“) that wrestled with a wasp for supper. Though I do not wish death on any living thing, I found myself rooting for the spider (note, if it would have been a butterfly instead of a wasp, I may have felt differently – exploration for a future post, perhaps). When the wasp broke free and fell ten feet, my instinct (as I had suddenly become that spider) was to unravel my filament and go chasing my dinner. It would not slip away!
However, Enlightened Spider knew more. He/she had spun this yarn before. And instead of pursuit, it chose acceptance. It simply braced itself, all eight legs open and connected to the gossamer weave that blew in the breeze and rocked its body, gently. That spider’s life was literally hanging by threads. It would eat another day.
But what happens when you get the catch?
Still studying at the spider school, I learn that patience isn’t only practiced when you lose your lunch. Yesterday, Enlightened Spider reeled it in. A large beetle-kind of insect, plump and prime for any hopeful web-in-waiting. I felt empathy as it struggled in the sticky lines. As its predator held watch, demise was inevitable. Searching for a bright side to the circle of life reality before me, I was at least happy that the spider had a meal.
This was no fast food, though.
Six hours later, I pass the window and check in on wild kingdom. Sadly, beetle friend is still alive and moving beneath thickly wrapped threads. Patience exudes from the delicate limbs of Enlightened Spider who holds sentry nearby. Thin legs make small and deliberate movements, no rush about it. Clearly, this is a process. No instant reward. Calm composure is required, even when the catch is snagged.
Oh, Enlightened Spider, you offer the patience lessons. Reminders that even when our dreams come true, we need to work with them as they unfold. These things we imagine, then bring to form, are not quick meals to be devoured. They are gifts to be savored in a process. All of the risks, just a thread away. All of the promise, plentiful with potential.
That spider at my window knows that dinner’s in the bag. It’s just a matter of time.
There is no hurry.
Besides, what else is there to do?
Fresh Air
It’s true I’ve been thinking about the book. My first, and newly published one. An offering of a year’s chronicles of prose, poetry and photography through a time when I was raising my son on my own, trying to find inspiration as a woman, mother and artist.
Now that it’s out in the world – those words all collected and compact – the stories simmer, potent, in one spot. They steam in the ether. Find their way to me and swirl around.
Releasing them as as a book is the revisiting of an era. A time, that now, is just a helium ballon left over from last week’s party. Where once it pressed against a bedroom ceiling, filled full to be freed into the yonder, it now barely brushes the floor, hovering and wrinkled. This ballon has served its purpose. New celebrations await, with fresh party favors to be had.
So this weekend was the insertion of the needle into the lingering balloon (and when they’re in this state, sometimes it’s no easy pop, more like a strong insertion). The remaining, stale air from that party-of-the-past came falling out in a final deflation.
Not to say my book is a dead balloon. Actually, it’s been more like a hot-air balloon ride lifting me to new perspectives. And that’s the beauty (and challenge) of setting stories free. In my experience, part of the power of telling the tale is letting it go. Once words hit air, they drift from our safe-keeping. Stories shared with others take on new forms, released from our control.
It is in the early dark of my house this morning, when all of this is considered. I’m going through my little ritual. The sun is not yet risen. As usual, my son and husband are still sleeping. Moodah the dog, follows me, room by room, with clicking toenails on the wood floor. I am burning incense, listening to the airy hum of the propane flame against my stovetop espresso maker. And then, all goes silent.
Funny, just last night I wondered how much longer our propane tank would last. We’re subletting this current home, so I’m still learning about the inner workings of our practical infrastructure. I know we have two tanks under the house, with the convenient rigging of a system that allows you to flip a switch to the back-up tank when you run out.
This was pointed out to both the Bohemian and I by the homeowner in our walk-through session before moving in. And I’ll admit it, I only halfway paid attention. Why? Because the Bohemian was squatted there, looking more closely at the mechanisms, and I just decided to let him.
The truth is, in life before the Bohemian, I was taking note of every detail and executing each necessity of home for Jeb and I. There was no husband, no man with which to defer. And there were plenty of broken down hot water heaters, faulty washing machines, and leaking pipes. I hauled propane tanks aplenty. This was an era. One that has since passed. And it is the one of which my book offers a snapshot. The one that’s been expelling the last bits of long-past, party air.
So this morning, I ponder my situation. I definitely want coffee. It is just too stereotypical-helpless-wife to wake the Bohemian and ask for a reminder on how to switch the tanks. I dig around my inner resources for gumption. It’s not too far away. Grab a flashlight and head outside.
The tanks are underneath the house, though no rats are encountered, no cobwebs even. The switch is in plain flashlight view. I make the flip with surprising ease, go inside and fire up the stove. Simple. Just that easy.
Well, then. I’ve still got it (resourcefulness and self-sufficiency, that is).
So, let there be flame, anew! Let there be fresh stories. More parties. Surprising gifts.
An upgrade, perhaps. From a single, helium floater to a hot-air balloon ride, revealing fantastic views.
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