EACH PERSON IS BORN WITH A THREAD
WHEN IT’S ENDED FRANKLY YOU ARE DEAD
BUT IF YOU LIVED LIFE THE MOST
AND WERE A GOOD CARING HOST
THE THREAD WILL LIVE ON INSTEAD.
Picture a spider web, though not the neat centric web of ghost stories and Halloween decorations. A web that is oblong and disheveled, its threads cross-crossing at obtuse angles. It is the web of a spider who resides under a house’s windblown eave— routinely mangled by the wind and the storm. And just as routinely, it is rebuilt and strengthened.
I am no a bug-ologist, so I have to fall back on observation and a little bit of whimsy to build my web. I notice that the spider is firmly attached to the house, but it can only reside on there for so long. Eventually, the spider casts off. Its thread is still firmly attached, but now the thread is a sail, taking the spider into the unknown. One leap, one cast off into the wind and the storm.
The spider lands. That first firmly-rooted thread is now rooted to something else. Trusting the thread, the spider uses it to build its web.
It casts off again and again, sailing again to it knows not where, until it arrives. After many leaps, the threads are criss-crossed and strengthened by their many intersections. The web is formed, strong in some parts and weak in others. Tossed and torn, and always under construction.
And here, the whimsy— the point where the threads intersect and strengthen the web are the connections we make with other people, the sharing of someone else’s thread. Those intersections help me stand against the wind and the storm. The web is only as strong as its intersections, my life only as secure as the people in it.