A Spider Speaks

If your grief is a character who can come forward and speak, what kind of voice does s/he have? 

"Who are you?" or "Tell me who you are..."

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Last night, my grief visited me. I was lying in bed, trying not to notice the drowsy falling over me so as not to startle it away. I was thinking of the last time we made love. Or something like it. It was the “the fight isn’t over but this will help sex.” My right arm was thrown lazily across his pillow and my mouth beginning to fall open. When upon that arm I felt a tickle and then a trickle of alarm. Aroused from half sleep, my left arm reached across my body to wipe off what was hopefully an errant hair. I was immediately made aware that it was not. A sharp bite, a throb, a panic. Throwing off sheets, I leaped out of bed, running to the light switch to find the intruder—a spider that looked too small to have created such a large pain.

First, I called Sean an asshole. I assumed the spider was Sean. In my fear/pain mixed with resentment, attacking me in disapproval. I angry cried as I prepared an ice bag and tried to open the baking soda with one hand. I said, “I’m doing the best I can,” to our empty apartment.

I calmed myself and sat on the couch. Too wound up to do more than half recline. I sat, eyes unfocused and looked for spider in my heart.

And in a half dream I found her.

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She sat upon a vast web, regarding me with neutral though not unkind eyes. I felt intimidated nonetheless. She filled me with revulsion yet curiosity. She was beautiful yet lethal.

After some time, I asked her, “Why are you here? Why am I here?”

She spoke, a voice that filled my head rather than my ears, “You need me.”

“But you frighten me.”

Annoyance flashed in a half roll of her eyes. “All the more reason for me to be here.”

“You bit me,” I accused.

“You didn’t let me be.”

“Be on me? Crawling at my skin, threatening me, frightening me?”

“Of course. That is where I need to be. I am your grief. I am on you. You wear me. Thousands of me climb all over you. We crawl, and we threaten. But the fright is yours. That is your “me” that you’re trying to protect.” She remained so still. “You cannot protect yourself from me no more than the earth can protect itself from the rain. Like the rain, we come, and you cannot stop us. If you do, we will bite. And ignite the pain into a throbbing suffering.”

“Surrender to you?” I asked, incredulous. “You will swallow me!”

She almost laughed. “Aye, yes. Swallow you we may. But what is the harm in that?”

My eyes widened, “I will be gone. I will lose everything.”

Her first movement in some time, a head tilt, a thoughtful pause, “Perhaps. But, I repeat. What is the harm in that?”

I resisted the urge to rapid fire another defense. I did know. I knew from my yogic practice, from each previous loss, from each previous gift, from each time I was shattered and reborn before, that she was right. But. I was annoyed still.

I put my curled fists on my hips like a pouting teenager. “You are asking too much of me this time.” And as I’d spoken to Sean earlier, I told her, “I’m doing the best I can.”

Spider said almost but not quite gently, “I know you are doing your best, but this “too much” is not what I’ve asked of you. I am your symptom not your cause. This is what you’ve asked of yourself. This is your own spider self asking these things of you. You, like me, are creator and destroyer of destiny. We are both of us weavers. We build homes, we build traps, we build bridges and break bonds. We cling to ephemeral objects by moonlight only to lose them to the stochastic daylight. We are patient and plodding. We work diligently and dutifully. Building beautiful things that can bring ugly things upon this world. Sometimes thoughtfully and artfully, sometimes craftily and resourcefully. We build for many reasons and can build infinitely. Each strand,” and here she began spinning another silver line and continued speaking as she worked, “is your choice to build your web.”

I waited for her to continue. But, she did not. She worked as if I was no longer there. I observed her. Wishing she would say more and realized she could say no more. What I wanted of her was to do something. Something to allay the crawling against my skin that would occasionally erupt into sharp and then throbbing pain, but she could not. She could just be. Spinning her web against my bones—inevitable and fragile, yet hers and ours. All I could do was build mine with her. It was inevitable. It would be fragile. It was never more than these things anyways.