On Being Complicit in Our Own Unraveling

This is Meredith the spider. In early June she built her web perfectly at face-height for me to walk right through it as I went out on my deck. That same night I watched for a while as she slowly rebuilt it, spinning silk strands in perfect geometry. Something made me pause and really notice what she was doing, the way that she moved slowly, tacking one strand to the next. I realized she’d probably be there all night working to rebuild what I’d broken. We all have strengths and weaknesses in life, and I have to tell you, kinesthetic memory isn’t one of my strengths. I’ve bumped my head on my awkwardly placed range hood at least one a day, every day, for… approximately all 5 years that I’ve lived here. What this means for poor Meredith, is that the very next morning I greeted the day by walking directly through her web, again. That evening, there she was, working and weaving to repair what I had broken. I believe that it is worth our time and thought and effort to show kindness to little creatures. My kids and I dutifully rescue bugs from the bird bath and toads from the pool each and every morning. We leave apple cores for the deer and my youngest moves snails from the driveway so they don’t get crushed, always waving goodbye and wishing them a nice day. The message I’ve tried to instill by setting this example is that anytime we are in a position to show compassion, we strengthen ourselves through its softness.

What I’m saying is that the very next morning when I walked through that damn web again, I really felt for Meredith and I thought about the way that one person’s carelessness can erode something so beautiful even if they don’t mean to. Impact over intention. Meredith rebuilt her web yet again that night, and this time I found myself even more invested.

It continued on like that for rest of the month, and I will say that slowly over time I finally got it into my head to remember her and protect her web at least most of the time. Unfortunately, this just meant it was the turn of other family members or visitors or a strong windstorm to knock it down instead. In mid July, I stood there watching her again. I swear I really have things to do.. my geriatric dog likes to take his sweet time outside at night, and so Meredith and I have had a nightly opportunity to spend some time together. That night I realized that I respected her persistence.

The next morning we talked about it at the breakfast table. I praised Meredith for her determination. She had made her choice, she had anchored her web, and it didn’t matter how many times someone breezed through her work, she would rebuild. Meredith the spider doesn’t quit. Meredith the spider is consistent and dependable. Meredith the spider is hardworking and ever hopeful that surely tomorrow will be a better day. Meredith the spider is strong and resolute.

By the time late August rolled around, I was remembering to duck below her web most mornings. My family members.. well.. we tried but we were inconsistent at best. It wasn’t for lack of compassion or respect for our spider, Meredith. We were just busy going about our own lives and it was easy to miss something so important to her but inconsequential to us. I watched her rebuild again the night I took this photo, and I noticed that my feelings about her persistence had changed. I also realize that admitting I got annoyed at a spider isn’t very acceptance-and-commitment-therapist of me, but it’s just the truth. I had grown a bit tired of the mental effort and I imagined her giving me the equivalent of the spider middle finger.

I had a different conversation around the breakfast table with my kids the next morning. We talked about how maybe when all of your efforts to build and rebuild have been met mostly with inconsistency, after things that are important to you have been torn down repeatedly, there is a line where persistence has given way to futility. (I also swear that I do not make my children contemplate the usefulness of determination at the breakfast table, most days.) I can't imagine by that point it meant very much to Meredith that we were at least trying each time she did have to rebuild. There is a point at which continuing to stay somewhere no matter how many times you’ve seen your efforts diminished makes you complicit in your own unraveling.

We live in a culture that has a lot to say about not quitting. We want our kid to finish the soccer season because he committed, even though he hates it and it’s exhausting to drive him there and it isn't doing much for his self esteem. We tell ourselves to keep going at that job that makes us miserable, because the benefits are good and it's familiar and maybe that next staff meeting will help. We stay in relationships that tear us down because we convince ourselves that surely if we find the right words, the right communication, if we adjust ourselves to need different things or to need less, that it will begin to make sense to stay. We tell ourselves that maybe tomorrow the conditions will change and our hard work at spinning the webs of our lives (yes I hear myself) will finally be respected and we will be protected.

Maybe it will be, but maybe not, and if it turns out that you find your own web torn down morning after morning then maybe the most respectable thing to do isn’t to “not quit” but to just go ahead and move the freaking web. The world is a big place, with a lot of doorways.

It’s mid September as I write this and Meredith is still out there. I still feel protective of her, but I admit it has given way to some sadness when I think about the fact that the weather is changing and she doesn’t have much time left. I mean at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she made her way inside and overwintered here, and I don’t even think I’d mind, she’s practically family. But the odds are that her little spider life is coming to an end not long after the change in seasons. I've noticed the angles of her perfect geometry are less perfect now, and I imagine she must be tired. I can’t help but think how much more time she would have had to rest if she had done the exhausting, but liberating, work of just moving herself after the first few demolitions.

Yes I am about to extrapolate this spider story into a life lesson but I’ll at least keep it short and simple. It takes work to start over, but if the end result is a life not spent rebuilding yourself only to be broken down again, it’ll be worth it. There are some places in the world where rest is more possible than others, and to spend your short time on this earth convincing yourself tomorrow will be different when all of the conditions remain the same, is to be complicit in your own exhaustion. Try another doorway. Go ahead and move your web.