One Small Life, Briefly Safe
One time, before the pandemic, I was dog sitting two sweet pups in Gillette, NJ—clients I cared for regularly. During one of our outdoor play sessions, I accidentally threw a ball into the neighbor’s yard, which happened occasionally. As usual, I went to retrieve it.
As I walked toward the ball, I noticed a large spider, and orb weaver, resting in the middle of her web that was attached to the fence and a bush, stretched gracefully across my path. I slowed down, uncertain if I could get around her without disturbing anything.
To my surprise, the spider seemed to notice me. She gathered up part of her web and carried herself with it to one side, and perched herself on the bush that her web was attached to clearing the space between us. It was like she said, “I see you. I’m not going to hurt you. Just go ahead.” I watched her in awe—delicate, careful, aware. She let me retrieve the ball and return the way I came without a single thread catching on me. Before I left, I gently thanked her out loud, as I turned back to notice she was still watching me. I knew she didn’t understand my words, but maybe she understood that I didn’t mean her harm.
I still think about her — her awareness, her grace, and how she chose to make room for me rather than flee or defend. It felt surreal. Quiet. Profound.
Then, much later, I had another unexpected encounter with a spider at my retail job while sweeping behind the registers.
She was big, fuzzy—not shiny—and moved with a calmness that surprised me. I believe she was a wolf spider. She walked right across one of the mats near me, and as I swept calmly, she stayed near. We seemed to move in sync, as if we were doing a little dance—me with my broom and dustpan, her pacing gently beside. I looked at her, and she looked like she was watching me back.
She didn’t dart away. She didn’t freeze in fear. She stayed close, mirroring me as I walked backwards, sweeping as I went. It felt oddly playful. Sweet. Like a brief shared understanding. I left that moment feeling something soft and special—like I'd been trusted.
A night or two later, I found a spider of the same kind near the front of the store, lying still outside the queue line. She was dead. She hadn’t been crushed, just still—laying on her side. I think someone probably saw her and panicked—killed her on impulse.
I don’t know for sure if it was the same spider. But I’d like to believe that brief, peaceful moment we shared meant something to her, in her own way. That for a few minutes of her short life, she wasn’t feared or crushed—she was seen.
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Food for Thought:
Most spiders want nothing from us but peace. They observe, adapt, and often choose retreat over confrontation. If we paused—just for a moment—to recognize their presence, to move gently instead of fearfully, how many quiet encounters might blossom into unexpected moments of connection?
May we all learn to walk a little softer. There’s more trust in the world than we realize—sometimes even on eight legs.
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Please share if this touched you.
Spiders are often misunderstood, feared, or crushed without a second thought. But sometimes, all they want is to exist quietly beside us. Maybe a moment like this could help someone else pause, look a little closer, and choose kindness instead of fear. 🌿🕷️
Important note about this article: I am the person who has had these spider encounters. Please share this post to helpbl bring awareness to people about our eight-legged friends.
