There is a change in the air. You can see it in the dimming of the dawn light, in the light but spreading cloud cover, in the trees now fast losing leaves to the trickster wind.
The forecast is for rain tomorrow — our share of what remains of the storm that slammed into the continent’s western coast over the weekend — and that will take care of much of the rest. Winter is very nearly here.
The wind is not the only trickster prowling now. Among others, our Internet: already out when I arrived downstairs this morning, once again, the fault of the provider, named for yet another genocidal colonizer. This likely will not post for days (they will try to tell us weeks, but that will be a declaration of war, so I’m being optimistic for now). But the words need to be written al the same; the spirits, especially at this time of year, need to be heard.
Today’s image is an homage to one such small spirit, trickster in some cultures, benevolent or at least largely neutral in others. This particular spider is what’s known as an orb weaver, and she is the one responsible for creating the fantastically beautiful mandala-like webs that are the archetype of her kind. They are creatures of fall here, building their fabulous structures under the eaves and between the balusters of the deck, taking advantage of these last weeks of Indian summer to enjoy to the fullest whatever time remains.
Wings captured the shot above in late autumn some five years ago. It would be our last winter before the house was built, the last season of shivering in the cold of the ancient, rickety, uninsulated RV. It was, if memory serves, a year prior to that that Wings had finally fully enclosed the stairs to the entry: Plexiglas siding and a small ProPanel sheet for a makeshift roof. And that final year, in the corner where sides and roof met, an orb weaver set up housekeeping.
She was remarkably friendly, seemingly utterly unbothered by our comings and goings. Occasionally, she would slide down her web to watch, as though genuinely interested in the strange activities of these giant creatures who, unlike so many others of their kind, clearly meant her no harm. And, of course, she kept the flies at bay, always a welcome asset. And one night, in the early dark, she allowed Wings to photograph her, remaining below her corner of the roof, dancing delicately along her web. It provided us with the first opportunity to see her true beauty, the subtle banding of color, the legs studded like porcupine quills, her entire body glowing in the light as though from within.
She remained with us that year until the first week of December, if memory serves. By then, climate change had begun to do its dirty work in earnest, and the weather had been far warmer than it should have been, but by that point, it was too much even for her and the cold in turn did its work. Eventually, all that remained was her glorious web, a near-perfect weaving of points of light.
Since then, we have had these small spirits share our home, albeit in their preferred place outside, under the eaves of the deck or occasional atop it, between balusters and rail. This year, though, they set up shop earlier: July or August, as though they knew that a hard and early winter would be coming. Now, they have all vanished, casualties, I suspect, of the early snow two weeks ago and the attendant cold. All that remains of their presence is their mysteriously complex and perfect webs, still trapping the occasional errant fly, more often trapping and refracting the magic of the autumn light.
In a week leading up to the days, and nights, when spirits walk, that yearly season of haunts and hants and haints, when revenants and wraiths and the webbed decaying creatures less recognizable to our kind find their own migratory paths again, it’s good to remember that not every creature associated with this time of year means us ill. This small soul above is one whose existence benefits our own, and who is thus made welcome here always.
And when she departs for whatever land of the spirit her kind inhabit beyond this plane, she leaves us with a final gift: hoops woven of magic and light.
~ Aji
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