The spider and the bird

I always wake up in the middle of the night. Men my age probably know what this is about. A slightly enlarged prostate, a bladder that won’t hold as much as it used to. You have to relieve it to reset the ballast of sleep.

It’s perfectly normal—nothing serious in my case. The moment is brief. I’ve never really timed it, but I’d say it lasts no more than five or ten minutes. Then I go back to bed, and all is settled until morning.

Sitting obediently on the toilet, head in my hands—I don’t urinate standing up at night—often with eyes open staring into a dust-filled void, I watch the dimly lit floor as I keep the light low. I don’t need the full brightness of consciousness.

In front of me, there are often tiny creatures which, according to my research, indicate that my old house is healthy: a silverfish, which always seems to be the same one, feeding on dust, hair, and cellulose; one or two swift and voracious house centipedes, helpful for eliminating more harmful insects; earwigs, fearsome only in name, often found in the bathtub, desperately trying to climb back up its walls; and finally, a few small spiders weaving poorly shaped webs. These last ones can be numerous in the house, though most of the time invisible. The dusty webs along the baseboards tell me I don’t sweep or mop my floors often enough. So, periodically, the vacuum cleaner’s cataclysm occurs. Which, of course, only postpones the inevitable.

Back to my brief nocturnal evacuation. For the past month or two, a tiny spider no larger than a peppercorn has taken up residence in a corner, which I can see from where I sit. The first time, it was spinning its random web, unbothered by the unusual light of the moment.

I watched it for a while, trying to understand what it hoped to catch there. A silverfish? It didn’t seem big enough. There are probably living entities I can’t see—tiny, microbial ones—suitable for its modest appetite. My first impulse was to grab a towel and erase its fragile work.

I rarely kill insects. I usually try to discourage or capture them when they end up at the bottom of the tub, releasing them afterward—if the outside temperature allows—into a universe completely unknown to them.

Still, I decided to leave the little spider alone, thinking it wouldn’t stay there long. I believe I once read that spiders often change locations to maintain the element of surprise. I’m no expert. I’m probably completely wrong, and sure enough, the next day, the spider was still there, in the morning light, in the center of its sparse web.

It’s still there, what now feels like an eternity later. I rarely see it move except when I blow gently toward it. If I blow hard enough, it retreats into a tiny crack in the black tile—probably where it came from. Most of the time, it remains in the center of its web, day and night, motionless, likely stiff in its vigilant trance.

One day, while sweeping the floor, I accidentally disrupted its world. I almost said sorry. The next day, its web was rebuilt, and its return to the center seemed to suggest that it had been through worse.

I tell myself that the spot must be favourable if it keeps returning. But recently, its web suddenly expanded considerably, and I decided to dismantle its kingdom. It didn’t seem to be there anymore, anyway.

But the next day, the web was back.

I’m not inclined to fight it. Still, I’m determined not to give in; eventually, it will tire. I don’t pay attention anymore. It lives its spider life; I live mine as a human—a barely greater existence in the face of the unfathomable reality of the universe.

And speaking of incomprehensibility, I’ve been reading about God lately. I’m not sure why. Maybe I sense my death, or perhaps just my fatigue. I got myself a recent translation of the New Testament. I’ve already read two of the four Gospels, in a version that claims to be closer to the original texts. I’ll talk more about it later. I’m holding off on reading the other two for now because rereading the same story, which I already know by heart, gets a bit tedious.

I also got through a hefty, occasionally tiresome volume by David Bentley Hart called The Experience of God: Being, Consciousness, Bliss.

I often find myself surprised to still be alive. I feel useless, humble, lost, but happy to be alive. I listen closely to my dizziness, and I observe a spider surviving in my bathroom.

A few days ago, I was drinking coffee while looking out the kitchen window when a bird landed in front of me on the railing. It stayed still, truly looking at me, as if it wanted to tell me something. I didn’t move either; my eyes locked on its own. It lasted the length of a tiny eternal minute. Then it flew away.

Is that God?