Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

There are times when writing my blog that it feels like my words go onto this ViewSonic screen then disappear into the digital ether.

I put the words out there and wonder if they are seen by anyone at all.  Has anyone else been caught up in my written thoughts or are they going from my mind through my fingers onto the keyboard and screen then flying on through the world never entangled with the thoughts of another?  I write my web of words hoping to catch a moment of a reader's time so that our lives might be entangled if only for that moment.

Like spiders, we bloggers use different methods to ensnare readers into our world. Am I like the spider in that I write to ensnare, or is it part of my nature to write?  If, a tiny arachnid brain knew that there was no longer an insect left to catch would it still built its web because it is driven to do so? I believe it might.  It might continue to lay down tiny strands of the stuff that eminates from within it; to form the patterns as it is driven to do. 

Many spider hatchlings are set adrift in the wind, landing where the circumstances take them.  Wherever it lands is the place the spider builds its web and its life. It may make some choices such as which branches will make the best anchor or which grassy spot will provide the most insects but circumstances determine much of its life. That's not really much different from us is it?  We, with our larger brains and opposable thumbs make many choices about where our lives will take us, but much of what happens is left to the wind. Our lives are moved by that breath that blows around us moving us where it will; changing circumstances that have an effect on us.

We weave our threads trying to set things up just right, so that we will have the home, the life that we choose. Often just when we think we are close to weaving things just the way we want them, that wind is back re-arranging our lives.  I think of that sometimes as I am out walking, especially in the morning when I, surprisingly, pass through a sticky wet web woven across my path. As I sputter and wipe the strands from my face I think about all the work put into that web. Some spider thought it had done everything right, picking an open place in the woods, a likely spot for an unsuspecting bug to fly, get caught and become breakfast.    How would the path I chose affect the spider's life or the life of the bug that would now fly freely through the same spot without being eaten?

I know how connected we all are. Many ancient people didn't have a word to represent just "me." That holds true for some primitive culture groups still.  There isn't a concept of just one person working alone without affecting the group.  We modern people have invented that idea thinking that it might even be true but the more we know, the more we know that everything we do affects another life.  Even by sitting in a chair we are not choosing to do nothing, we are actually choosing to not do something.  There is a difference, however subtle.

Look closely at what we see and we will see that there is a web touching it all however unnoticeable it might seem at first look.

The spider's genetics help decide what type of web it will build.  Some build the webs of story books, the type Charlotte built as she befriended Wilbur in E.B. Webb's novel.  Some build funnels that sit atop the grass luring its food toward the center of a cone where it will see its demise.  We usually see these cones in the fall when the dew is thicker, but this year I've already seen many of them in the mornings dotting the field as they glow with morning dew.

Other spiders are driven to lay a fine dense mesh of white across the forest floor. Are these to catch landing insects? Or are they maybe to trap bugs that come from within the ground, hatching then flying to their death?

I know I am not the only intruder to destroy the webs. Again we may see that the wind plays havoc with the spider's plan. Its breath blowing leaves which anchor a web or blowing debris into the structure.

But the spider goes on weaving as it is driven to do in the manner born into it as I believe it must.

As I must.

I'll go on writing whether anyone reads or not.  

I'll  continue to let my photographs inspire my own thoughts. My creations are important to me because they come from deep within my belly as does the spiders web. I'll go on seeing the connections that hold us together whether we be in India, Scandinavia, Greece or just a mile down the hill by the river. What I see will be determined by what is inside me when I look.  My view be driven by that breath that blows me where it wills. I may decide which path to walk each day, but the circumstances will determine what I will encounter just as they determine how my words may connect to you.

Home

Where is your home?  What is your home.  Would you describe it as a house, a place, like your "home town?"  Is home a feeling? Does a particular smell make you think (feel) "home?" 

I've lived in three places; My parent's house, college, and where I am now.  My parent's house held me for twenty-two years though four of those were shared with college. I've lived where I am now, in my husband's house, for over thirty-two years. A visit with my mom is going "home." 

This dove has built its nest on the ledge of a downtown office.  It raised two broods each summer




When coming back from vacation, I come back "home." So which is "home?"
Home is as much landscape as it is structure.  My home includes mountains and trees.

This home on the the Inland Waterway has a history of floods and storms

We speak of a church building as God's home

Do animals share the concept of home? Surely the den of a fox, bear or raccoon is home for a little while.  That is where each animal goes to be comfortable, protected, with whatever family it has at the time. 

Above is the winter home of a caterpiller that become a large moth

Is it only home if we have made it ourself? Not actually built it with our own hands, but formed it through planning, decorating, deciding where the furniture goes.  Perhaps it isn't home until we choose to go there when we are someplace else.  I've been to my mother's house and felt ready to go "home" meaning back to the place I live now with my husband. 

Right now I'm listening to a song that begs, " . . .father tell them to come home, keep the home fires burning." In this song, "home" is a place where we feel welcome, a place where we can rest.  Home is where we know who we are or remember who we were. 

My eighty-seven year old mother goes home to Virginia.  A special joy comes over her when she visits with someone who remembers "home."

Birds search for a home to last long enough to raise a family a protective place.

  Avian homes are defined according to the species of bird.  A robin builds its nest in a tree, phoebes prefer the eaves of human houses.  You can probably guess that barn swallows choose to build their nests in barns.  What did they do before there were people around?  Evidently they used holes in rocks.  I read that there is only one known flock of barn swallows not living in a human structure.  They quickly learned to associate humans with safe structures to make home.

An Audubon's Shearwaterhas built its nest along a path on a small rocky island separating the Carribean from the Atlantic. The giant head of her fluffy white nestling  appears at her back on right

Bluebirds have lost many of their "natural" home sites.  They like trees with holes excavated by woodpeckers.  The hole needs to be near a grassy expanse like a field or yard where they can catch bugs.  People don't leave old trees standing much any more so we have had to build homes for bluebirds if we want them around.  This has led blue birds to adapt to human builts homes.  Bluebirds respond to poles spaced evenly across a field.  They've learned that fence posts often have bluebird houses attached.  Many birds actually search out human activity to look for that perfect homes.

The pair of parrots below has chosen the cavity of a dead tree

I've learned that a coyote may dig two dens about three feet underground.  The second den is in case the first one becomes unsafe, the mother can quickly move her young out of danger.

A turtle is born with its home, carrying it with it forever.  It usually dies in its home.  That sounds nice.  A turtle is not held back by its home; doesn't worry about traveling away from home.  A turtle never asks, "did I turn off the stove? Will the pipes freeze?"  A turtle doesn't worry if its home is clean enough for visitors.  When a turtle meets another turtle, I imagine that they seldom discuss furniture.  A turtle is interested if another's home is concave or flat on the bottom, though.  (A male's shell is concave on the bottom. Can you figure out why? It makes for  for more convenient "dating") 

Human homes vary as much as do animals.  Some people live above the water in houses built on stilts.  Some spend their lives sleeping in hammocks strung between trees. Some live in caves while others live on boats, in campers or tents.

People built stone houses or wooden ones for their homes.  Some live like purple martins in apartments, sharing walls with other humans.

Still others, like the turtle sleep wherever they end up, without walls, carrying all their belongings with them.  Do they think of any place as "home?"

Home is protection.  Home is where we go to eat, to be with those who care for us, those we care for.  Home may be where we were nurtured, or where we nurture others.  The best homes have unconditional love, safety.  Houses are built quickly,  We can move into a house in a day, but a home takes years to make.  We live in a house but are part of a home.

 Home is a feeling, a gift we both get and give made by hand and heart.

All photos taken by the author of Beyond My Garden exept the photo of Algoma which was taken by Ray Dodson