Two Spiders

Two spiders live in opposite corners of my clear-story bathroom window. One prefers waking up early. She’s positioned herself so that the earliest rays of sunlight drench her web. I imagine her up there bustling and busy, tidying and tsk, tsking over every speck of fly poop and gnat plop that sullies her nest.

The other has built her web so as to optimize her view of the sunset. Her web looks west and appears more languid and laid-back, if you can imagine gossamer threads making a gray triangle in the corner between window ledge and wall looking languid. To me it just does. I imagine her up there, with maybe some fruit fly poop or mosquito skeletons laying about. A bit of detritus doesn’t seem to bother this one. She’s looking at and taking-IN the colorful display that happens just before twilight and the falling of night. 

I wonder if spiders can hear the clunk of night as it falls. I wonder if they can hear the sounds of first birds up, or whether they can hear anything at all. Can they feel the warmth of the sun as it passes from east to west in the sky? Do they wonder about us down below using whirring brushes that buff and polish our teeth each night? And, if they can hear, do they prefer BBC News past midnight, or Morning Edition on NPR?

If I were a spider, I’d choose to look west, and reflect on the best of my day before night falls. I’d choose to savor the beauty of sunset, which somehow lasts longer than sunrise, which is all about business and getting things DONE - quick - before the sun reaches the zenith of its arc. 

Yes, I’d like to be spider number two please, a bit more like Mary than Martha. Wasn’t it Martha who did the drudge work in the kitchen, preparing the feast and scrubbing up afterward, when Jesus of Nazareth came to call, and doesn’t the story tell of Mary simply receiving the teachings, and basking in splendor at his side or at his radiant feet?

This lifetime, I’ve done a lot of tidying up; my fingertips split with too much water and soap. Next lifetime, I choose not to be hung up about fruit-fly poop or mosquito skeletons on the floor. Next time, I’ll savor more sunsets, enjoy more late into the night conversations, and damn the high-nosed examiners of the White-Glove-Dust-Testing-Brigade.