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The web

When I moved to my new home a tiny little spider decided to build her web in my front yard.  Her silky thread expanded from the cypress tree to the nearby bushes, almost imperceptible except when the sun rays caught the exact angle of the carefully sewn fabric. Otherwise, for most of the time the little spider seemed to hang freely in space, defying the laws of gravity. I liked that optical illusion right there in my newly acquired front lawn. Each day I would get back from work and observe her resting after a day’s labor. Each day her web seemed more beautifully crafted, such stunning geometric precision that I confess I was slightly jealous. I once tried cross stitching a gift for a friend’s newborn, but I failed miserably. It’s not that the little clown I weaved wasn’t cute: it’s that the reverse was a complete mess. My mother always said that you know a good weaver when the reverse is flawless. My mother is a perfectionist and even though I’m a Virgo with perfectionist tendencies and an aura of apparent “I-have-it-all-together,” the backstage of my mind is a web of flaws.

I never tried to get rid of my little yard neighbor. We were both busy building our new homes. She seemed pretty harmless to me, more poise than poison. While I was living under this intense jolt of adrenaline for acquiring a new place that officially crowned me as an adult, little Arachne was simply being. I only saw her when she was resting, like a constant reminder that I also needed to grant myself some quiet times, and yet I kept on moving in the opposite direction. Restless, always restless. There was always something else to do, someone else to visit, another party to attend, another email to write, another man to go out on a date with, another life plan to plan, another thing to prove to myself or to the world that I was capable of doing.

Within a few weeks of moving to my new place, a torrential storm engulfed the city. That night I experienced the most overpowering thunders of my entire life. The lightening strikes were so intense that for uncountable minutes my bedroom was uninterruptedly lit up in hues and shades of pale blue. All horrifying and beautiful, a spectacle of destruction and awe that only nature is capable of performing. When morning came, the sun was shining timidly amidst the news of complete chaos in a city that nearly drowned. There were lost lives and lost life dreams. And when I looked up at my cypress tree I noticed the void. Little Arachne was no longer there. Her web was also gone, washed away with the storm, silky threads of beauty swimming towards the sea. I want to think that she survived the deluge by jumping on a leaf and hanging on to it until she could rest in safer shores. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t, but her existence taught me some good lessons: embrace quietness, buy flood insurance and use your natural gifts to bring beauty to this world.


  1. Oh my God... Virgo, both! I loved what you wrote, but I need translate many words... This is not a problem, I think.
    Houston, Aracne,
    messagens from a beautiful and lovely girl, my daughter, my love!

  2. You have a very wise spider. She insurance agent? Love your first entry :)

  3. "When a spider makes and beautiful web, the beauty comes out of the spider's nature. It's instinctive beauty. How much of the beauty of our own lives is about the beauty of being alive? How much of it is conscious and intentional? That is a big question." Juliana, this is a quote from Joseph Campbell from "The Power of Myth'... It just made me think of your post and its essence... I am not surprised at all that you wrestle with the question too... and I am very happy that you are allowing us to follow the questioning...


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