Earth Experiences #1: The Spider

Embracing our fears to honor another life

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I hate spiders. HATE them. I hate them with a holy hate that is beyond reason. There is no reason for my hate, it just is. They scare me. They creep me out. They move too fast, with all their little spider legs. (Who needs EIGHT legs, Spiders? Isn’t that a little excessive? Calm that shit down!) I’m worried about them laying eggs in my ears while I’m sleeping. (Thanks for that new fear, George.)

But I also understand their beauty and their complexity and their contribution to the world. I like to admire them from afar—from really, really afar. I don’t even like to Google them to find out if they’re going to suck all the blood from my body in the deep, dark night because then they appear on my laptop screen. And once they’re on my screen, I can’t unsee them.

When my kids were little, they had a book of bugs they all loved. I’d point to each critter, and we’d say the name together. I had to skip the spider page every time. EVERY TIME. It’s irrational, I know. But I couldn’t even touch a printed spider in a children’s book. No one ever said that I make sense.

I used to take my four littles to an exotic pet shop that sold everything from iguanas to pufferfish. One day, I was looking at the fish tanks while George was strapped to my chest in his Baby Bjorn and Mary Claire had her face an inch away from the colorful bettas when toddler Gus walked up to me with a tarantula in his chubby little hand. A TARANTULA. I thought I was going to die on the spot, but I willed myself to survive for the sake of my children. On the heels of my fear, I became indignant. I mean, what kind of store clerk puts a TARANTULA in the hand of of a toddler without his mother’s permission? But then I thought, what kind of MOTHER doesn’t realize a store clerk is putting a tarantula into her toddler’s hand? (Self-awareness is hard sometimes, friends.) And I will never forget the cheeky little grin on Gus’s face as he held that furry mammoth out to me. He was so proud of himself.

At least I didn’t pass my ridiculous spider fear onto my children. George has had two tarantula pets since then. Yes, I’ve had grand-tarantulas. The Sheriff and Mister Mayor are no longer with us, but at least I know I’ll never be asked to babysit. RIP, grand-tarantulas.

But two nights ago, this appeared on the end of our rig.

First, I want you to understand how difficult it was for me to share this picture with you. I had to get close enough to zoom in. I was looking through my phone, so that wily beast could have jumped on my head in a heartbeat, and everything would have been so distorted that I wouldn’t have had time to react appropriately. And by appropriately, I mean screaming and crying and wetting myself in an attempt to get away. Next, I had to post that picture on social media to announce to everyone that our new roommate was about ten feet from my pillow, as the crow flies. Yes, she was outside, but what really separates the outside from the inside? Spiders get inside ALL THE TIME. They want to check out your decor and your color choices. I get it. I like to look at other people’s homes, too. THEN I had to send the picture from my phone to my laptop so I could share it here with you. You’re welcome.

Some people are using the word hero.

Julie brought a giant mushroom in from the yard today. She wanted to show it to me before the landscapers came and mowed its little head off. I’d been thinking about The Spider for the past 42 hours, however, so when she brought the mushroom in, I was SURE she was bringing The Spider with it.

She apologized after I regained consciousness.

How cute is this little vase with her jaunty mushroom beret?

“I’ve never seen you jump so high,” she said. “I’m sorry. I would never bring a spider in here to scare you.”

And she wouldn’t. She’s kind that way. That’s why I couldn’t ask her to kill our new outdoor roommate. She saves gnats that unexpectedly land in my wine glass. She lets them crawl onto her finger, and then she takes them outside and sends them on their boozy way. Asking Julie to kill a spider would be akin to asking someone to murder a litter of puppies. And I didn’t really want to kill The Spider—I just wanted to offer it an attractive relocation package.

But I also realize that The Spider was just doing spider things. It had simply chosen our rig for its intricate, beautiful web. It was hanging out waiting for unsuspecting bugs (and possibly small children) to get tangled up in its trap because that’s what spiders do.

How can you fault something for being what it was made to be?

And so, I went to bed last night knowing The Spider could potentially come in through a small crack in the rig, chew my face off in the night, and spawn its children in my ears.

But I made a little whispered pact with it.

I said quietly so as not to startle her, “Dear Spider. I see you. I know you’re there. You know I’m here. You’re just doing your thing, and I’m going to try to have a nightmare-less sleep. Let’s let each other be. Okay? You don’t remind me you’re there, and I’ll not call an exterminator or use a blowtorch in your general vicinity. But if you’d like to embark on a new adventure somewhere else, I’ll bid you safe travels, and we never have to speak about this again.”

Friends, The Spider was gone this morning. 100%, completely gone, web and all. There was no trace of her. It was like she sucked all her silky, magic thread back into her body, packed her tiny spider bags and insect remnants, and set off before sunrise.

I have to admit that knowing where she was made my stomach churn a little less than not knowing where she is. But I’m going to just believe that she’s off on a grand new adventure, far, far away.

And that she didn’t leave our address for her friends and relatives.

There is, of course, a lesson in her visit. It’s the trite and overused, “Live and let live.” I know, I know. But really, isn’t it a valuable one? To let each other be? To coexist peacefully without wishing death and destruction on one another?

I’m sure my queer little existence makes some others uncomfortable. Maybe my slow-moving legs cause others distress as much as fast-moving spider legs cause me distress. Perhaps there are those who don’t like my haircut or the fact that I have an unruly menopausal mustache that’s challenging to control.

There was nothing rational about my fear and hatred of The Spider. But we decided to peacefully co-exist for a short time in our lives, and I’m happy knowing she’s off on a new arachnid adventure.

I would never have hurt her.

And she didn’t hurt me.

If only we could all be so considerate of each other.