Just before I got into the shower last night, I set my speaker a bit too close to a potted plant, that unbeknownst to me, housed a spider. The spider, startled by the vibrations, evacuated his hideout and dove into the nearest canyon—my sink. Now he was hiding among the river stones, and it didn’t seem like he would be able to climb out on his own.

So I searched for something to use as a bridge and, lo and behold, the perfect piece of driftwood was within reach. After carefully placing it in the sink, I spoke a small prayer to the air of fate, hoping the spider would find his way out overnight.

This morning, I discovered he had indeed climbed out of the sink—only to fall into the other one. I frowned down at him, shaking my head. He looked worn out from his long, unfortunate journey. But who am I to judge? I’m the queen of running out of one predicament, right into the next one.

Wait a second! Is this little spider mirroring my own patterns?

What if everything in my immediate world reflects my own cycles back to me, like a mirror? That’s... well, kind of depressing in this particular instance. As above, so below. But if I look closer, I can see this concept as fractals—patterns repeating endlessly, beautiful in their intricacy. At least there’s that.

Then I wondered: if on a larger scale, I’m the spider, what or who is the equivalent of me, the observer and in this case, intervenor. Who or what is moving the driftwood for me? God, perhaps? If so, does that make me a goddess to this spider? And if I am, what kind of goddess am I? Compassionate and fair? Or indifferent and smite-y?

Is it possible, that my helping the spider, helps me out in the end. Like the reverse of the saying “Shit rolls downhill.” I guess we just call that karma. But the more I think about it, it feels like it could be a cheat code to life.

So I picked up the driftwood from the first sink and moved it over to the second. And much to my surprise, the spider immediately scurried over and climbed onto it. He recognized it as his previous escape route. Honestly, I was impressed. Once he reached safety in a dark corner, he seemed relieved.

Now, every time I walk into the bathroom, I check the sinks for him. I’m now intentionally creating a playground for this tiny, nearsighted adventurer. I even have another piece of driftwood I could place in the other sink. I’m rearranging my space to accommodate this small being.

I do have to wonder: is there someone watching my mishaps, pulling strings to hlep me out. Could I even do more for myself? Where in life could I toss myself a piece of driftwood?

Spiders have always been potent messengers for me. Each creature, no matter how small, has its own lessons to teach us —if we’re willing to listen.

Can you hear them?

“There’s a Spider in my Sink”