Though I have thought about this many times, I again realized last night, that I am and always have been drawn toward death and its myriad mysteries. When I was small, I used to make funerals for and bury dead insects…bees, spiders…I knew that they functioned with marvelous little bodies that Universe created, and that their lives, though insignificant compared to the length and “footprint” of our own, were LIVES, nonetheless.
My exquisitely gentle Mother taught me to respect and love ALL life. All of creation. She taught me to take bugs found in the house outside so that they might return to their natural homes. She taught me that the tiniest of creatures fights for its life, and runs in fear when, without thinking about it, we go to simply crush out its lights. I realized, very young, that although I didn’t speak their languages, we shared a very precious thing: LIFE itself, and just as I was trying to get through, they, too, were doing such.
I started to observe the small world. Ants. Spiders. Bees. Worms. Pill-bugs. Yep, they all tried their hardest to escape me, to run, as fast as they could, to save their lives. I fell in love with them. I observed their ways of carrying on throughout their days, their tiny little legs and feet...and saw their unique journey in their tiny worlds on our planet. They — just like me — were simply getting through the days. I became a child that could never join the others when they happily laughed about squishing a spider, or smashing ants just "because.” I started to observe them for long, hot-sun hours, and I felt sad when I beheld any of them in their last, weak days, struggling to move, and finally leaving their minute bodies.
I mourned if I accidentally killed a little one. I took its LIFE. Unimportant, or laughably insignificant to others, I knew that it was ALL to that little creature. I knew that it ran in fear from me. I knew that in one fell step, I had ended the existence of one of “God’s” creatures, if you will. Mom’s teachings helped me understand that there
is NO separation among any of us on the planet. We all move to a singularly particular, and beautiful choreography that is the proceeding of Nature, and life, and death. We were not given the exclusive right to take life away. Yet we do it without a second thought.
Our bringing up women to “hate spiders,” and to scream and summon people to KILL them is lamentable to me. This “hatred” and terror came from *somewhere;* this fear and hate is not a state we’re born to. I know that many girls put on this “Help! Yikes, I’m scared” act in from of boys that they want to flirt with and get attention from. And in the middle, an innocent creature of Universe and God, the bargaining chip for the play.
Some say, “Well they don’t belong in MY house. that’s where I draw the line.” Really? Are they supposed to understand OUR language and boundaries, while we don’t do the same for them? Others claim, “They bite me!” Well, in my experience, if treated carefully and respectfully, they do *not* bite. Arachnid specialists say this, too. And if they do? It is part of what Nature has taught them, not a personal vendetta against “x” human— it is not always all about us. Hell, being a spider, I think that I would bite every human that I could.
Fear bugs, OK. Hate them even. OK. But take their lives? NO.
It breaks my heart.
We live in heavily forested mountains. As such, there are a LOT of spiders that come into the house. Leif was somebody who used to kill them, but now he sees….and he takes them out. I love him so for understanding me and my take on the subject. He was very, *very* uncomfortable with bugs and insects, and he now has developed a “respectful” admiration for them. I show them to him now and he wants to look, not get weird and shy me away. My heart swells to ten times its size when I see him go and catch a spider to take back out.
Recently — this last few days -- as I did the dishes, a tiny little spider would float down to the counter-top and drink water. It seemed as though he were somehow observing me and somehow saying “hi.” For four nights, he came down as I washed the dishes, and I put drops of water, and tried a drop of honey for him (her?). Last night, as I did the dishes, he came, and in a sweep of unconscious wipping and cleaning, I ran him over. He did not die, he was mangled and still trying to get away from me. I picked his little twisted body up, one long leg was sticking out, useless. I put him on a little paper towel, and I prayed that he might survive my clumsy, thoughtless attack.
He did not. He pulled himself back into form, and quietly expired.
My little visiting friend.
I don’t have much to say, and I am tearful on sharing this story. I took life, again.
This is the lovely little guy; I will take him to a beautiful part of my garden today and lay him across the soft, sunlit soil.
We are all connected, and we have no right to take lives, even if WE deem them insignificant. Think about it the next time a little bug runs in terror from you.
Love, joana
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