I Got Attacked by Spiders

And It Was a Beautiful Thing

I walk the wooded trails in my neighborhood at least three times a week. On a recent Monday, I was repeatedly attacked by spider webs. I couldn’t take five steps without walking through the wispy, sticky threads that stuck to my face, arms and clothes.

It was slightly frightening, quite uncomfortable and had never happened before. The trails that day were more horror movie than happy place. I cut my walk short then stuck to neighborhood sidewalks the rest of the week.

The next Monday, I cautiously ventured out to the trails again hopeful that the spider spinning frenzy of the week before had died down. I had made it about halfway through my route residue free when a sunlit sparkle in a canopy of trees caught my eye.

I was literally stopped in my tracks by the sight of the most magnificent spider web I’ve ever seen. Easily three feet square, it had a ladder of x’s in the center, perfect symmetry and glittered like a cut crystal vase in the sun. I stood and took it in like I was studying a Van Gogh at The Met. Didn’t even try to take a photo because I knew I could never capture the brilliance before me.

The spider was perched within the web perhaps taking a moment for herself before starting her day of web weaving and whatever else it is spiders do. I silently thanked her for her masterpiece and continued on my walk marveling at the fact that she had managed to slightly shift my perspective with her handiwork.

While I still had no desire to become enmeshed in another obstacle course of spider sorcery, I did walk away with a new appreciation for the homemaking skills possessed by spiders.

I’m not sure what prompted the proliferation of webs curtaining the trails that Monday morning. It had been raining the day before, and I was out earlier than usual, but I don’t know why the phenomenon happened that day. Thankfully it hasn’t happened since. But there was one other day about a year ago when spider webs took center stage.

That day my husband and I were walking on neighborhood sidewalks instead of in the woods. I thought I was seeing things as swoops of spiderwebbing kept drifting by. But it was no illusion. My husband saw it too. Silky strands were drifting around us in the air. It was like a convoy of spider mobile homes on a road trip. We maneuvered like boxers to avoid a sticky swipe.

Once we returned home, I consulted Google about the weird occurrence. Turns out there’s a name for the floating spider parade. It’s called ballooning, a process some spider species go through shortly after hatching.

A spiderling will spin a strand of silk for the express purpose of relocating to a new home. The strand is lifted by the wind and carried to a distant location so the spiderlings in a cluster will not be overcrowded and will each find its own territory. (Yes, I also had to google what you call a baby spider and a group of hatchlings.)

Although I was happy to avoid contact with the ballooning spiderlings that day, I did appreciate the artistry of their adaptation. Much like the sticky Monday on the trails, I left that arachnid encounter with a small gift.

My spider run-ins were potent reminders of Mother Nature’s magnificence. And they reinforced my belief that there’s beauty to be found in everything.

While I wouldn’t categorize my gauntlet of spiderwebs on the trails that Monday as traumatic, it was at a minimum a bit disturbing. But I’m not sorry it happened since it gave me a deeper appreciation for the next week’s spiderweb splendor. What a reminder that things can be bothersome and beautiful, annoying and awe inspiring.

There’s beauty woven through everything if you stop to take a closer look. Sometimes I forget. But I’ll never abandon the search.

Beauty can be elusive, but it’s always there like something ephemeral and mysterious carried on the wind