She dangled from the eavestrough of the barn, upside down and balled up, completely content in a matrix of invisible thread. She was about the size of a toonie.
It wasn’t yet 6am, but my mind wouldn’t wait for the alarm. It was hyperactive with ideas and solutions to what has felt like a month of problems. If you could hear the chatter that goes on inside my head you’d not sleep either. I’m part Shakespearean tragedy, part slap-stick comedy, with a little Tarantino in the mix to balance out my Jane Austen, and some Rocky Horror Picture Show to keep it real. I’m all about keeping it real, which is why I found myself having coffee with Annie the Arachnid before dawn broke that day.
I named this spider Annie because I name everything, but also because, in my experience, Annie’s are strong, intelligent, careful creatures. They take no guff, but create no drama. They have a job to do and simply get to it. Self-made. Self-reliant.
With the backdrop of an overcast sky slowly lighting up to a pale grey, I watched Annie move her nimble body across invisible lines, creating knots, weaving a design without need of a pattern. For a moment, I remembered my traumatic experience in Grade 8 home economics class, where Mrs. Kramer told me, in no uncertain terms, that I should never handle stick pins or sewing machines, like ever. Annie didn’t need home ec. class, and neither did I (take that, Mrs. Kramer).
Once upon a time, this Little Miss Muffet would have run off her tuffet, screaming at the sight of Annie, but at this hour of the day, I was marvelling at her acrobatics as her eight legs unfurled in the morning breeze. The birds were starting to chatter. She had to get her morning going without the aid of coffee. Respect, Annie. Respect.
A deer ran across the lawn. The chickens pecked the ground around my feet. The ducks squawked in a conversation that only they understood. Annie worked on, picking up speed and expanding her square footage. I made a mental note not to walk under the awning today. I made a mental note to appreciate this moment. Like everything in life, it won’t last but it’s worth the experience. Soon the winds will be cold. Annie will pack up and go wherever she goes when the frost settles in. Soon I will pack up and go too.
The rain started, lightly at first. Annie didn’t panic. She just moved faster. Bugs were going to move so she had to get that tapestry complete to feed her family. (Side bar: I tried not to think of the little Annie’s around me, because of that whole former Miss Muffet thing).
I have walked through countless spider webs this summer. And yes, for the record, I do apologize to every spider that I have accidentally disrupted. I bet they curse me when I walk by. I bet the arachnids have a chat group to share a good chuckle from tree to bush to fence post at the arm-flapping, mouth-spitting, hopped-up panic dance that I do every time I feel that sticky wisp of spider web cling to my face and limbs.
Yet I know, as fast as I’ve busted up one of Annie’s pal’s webs, they’ll have started another and they’ll make fast work of it too.
Annie knows the secret to life: just keep spinning your web.
