A row of webs in various stages of building and/or repair were tucked in between the fat, black metal railings of a bridge: Spider condos.
Beautiful and intricate; particles of morning sunlight slid along these slender strands making them look like precious filigree from a queen’s necklace. They appeared delicate and fragile, which is part of their tricky, sticky allure. In truth spider silk is five times stronger than steel. This is one of those things you learn and realize how little you know about, virtually, everything. It also makes me wonder, what else is sneaky Nature up to? Is it possible that the cure for diabetes can be found in the common dandelion?
It takes a spider anywhere from 30 to 60 minutes to spin a web. Judging from the sophistication and scope of some webs I would have put money down on a week at least, maybe even a couple of months. File under: I was absent in earth science class when this sort of thing was covered. About 60 million years ago (give or take) spiders adapted from water to land. The first thing I think of when I read this is paddling around in some primordial bog when out of nowhere a jellyfish-sized spider comes SWIMMING toward you. I can’t prove it, but I one-hundo-percent know this was true. Being newly minted landlubbers with all of the novel dangers that come with it, spiders developed the ability to spin silk to protect themselves and their eggs. Later on webs became a way for some spiders to hunt by ensnaring prey.
Webs are totally functional, practical. Spiders do not “cry” or “feel sad” if their web is destroyed, though that does not stop me from apologizing or feeling badly. I know my Disney movies and comic books. I’m not taking any chances. It’s simply a natural process for the spider that must be done quickly and efficiently because until that web gets situated she’s someone’s potential brunch. Of course. Still, when I leaned down to study the web in the early morning light and take a few photos I felt like I wasn’t just seeing nature’s efficiency. There was a kind of divine diligence at work, intention that yields, in this case, something beautiful.
For several summers when I was middle-school age range—twelve, thirteen, fourteen—my favorite thing to do was work on one of those tacky oil paint-by-number sets. My mother would have to drive me to a craft store in a neighboring town. This was in the late-1980s. In our town if it didn’t exist at SEARS or K-mart, it basically didn’t exist. I would spend an inordinate amount of time choosing from the three types of sets: lighthouse with ocean; summer garden; horses and barn. Big decisions. I almost always fell for a seacoast scene. Inside each kit were tubs of numbered oil paint; a couple of brushes; and the scene itself printed on thick cardstock board. Every element in the scene was marked with tiny numbers corresponding to the paint color. After dinner most nights I would go down to our finished basement where I had set up a card table with my supplies. I’d play through a stack of cassettes on one of my brother’s old boomboxes and lose myself for hours meticulously “painting” in the minuscule shapes that over weeks and weeks became a rocky jetty, a series of waves, a ribbon of sunset clouds above a lighthouse.
I was the height of cool, clearly.
But I also didn’t care that I wasn’t at the mall or the movies with my friends. Maybe it was about being in that sweet spot of maturing before puberty’s hormone monster wreaks havoc on your body and psyche. It’s a charmed time when for just a little while longer you can still get away with sleeping with a unicorn stuffed animal and having dorky hobbies without feeling self-conscious. I was in a cocoon with just enough magic left in it to insulate me from some turbulence on the horizon. Because when I was laboring over those seriously microscopic shapes, methodically dabbing bits of paint I remember feeling happy. I remember feeling calm. I remember feeling safe.
Some webs are made from invisible threads, but the divine lives in those, too.