The Butterfly and the Spider.

Has Nature ever given you a gift? She gave me a gift last weekend. As I was trekking out from camping on Goat’s Bluff, I had to stop half-way to lace my boots tighter to prevent chafing or blisters on my feet. As I finished re-lacing my boots, I stayed on the rock that I sat on and took a deep breath to capture the moment. I embraced the beauty of the woods that encompassed me. The sun beaming past the leaves, casting shadows that danced on the ground. The smell of timber, leaves drying from the rain the day before, and damp soil. The sound of birds chirping, vultures circling, and leaves rustling with the gentle breeze.

I heard a sound that was unfamiliar to me, and it startled me. As a nature lover, I am very used to odd sounds in the woods, but this was different. It was a very faint sound at first, but a sound nonetheless that made me sense that something was in danger. I started turning my head to scan the woods so that what I was hearing could connect to my sight. As I turned my head to the right, I noticed a butterfly about 20 feet away that was flying very uncharacteristically. It took me a while to connect what I had heard to what I was seeing. The butterfly was vigorously flying to get loose from a web. It was trapped. Even from 20 feet away, I could feel her frantically trying to set herself free.

At first, I had thought that I was witnessing nature’s cycle of the food chain. Unfortunate, but part of nature. However, I slowly realized that what I was witnessing was not right. I needed to rescue her. I stood up from the rock and gently walked over to her. As I got nearer to her, I could clearly hear her wings fluttering. In fact, as she moved up and down rather aggressively trying to free herself from the entrapment, the only sound that I could hear were her wings. I slowly stepped closer to her to assess her situation, so that I could figure out how I could help her get free. As I stood above the web, she to my right violently trying to break free, I saw the spider. A black widow. Watching her as she struggled.

He spun the web so meticulously, so methodically, knowing that he would be able to catch her. He was smart. Brilliant. He knew exactly where to spin the web so that he would capture and delight in her. As the butterfly struggled to break free, the spider marveled at his abilities to trap her. He relished in his accomplishments at capturing something so beautiful. As he watched her struggle, I imagined that the spider was planning his next moves to finish her off whenever she would become too tired to fight. In that moment time stood still. I stood over the web, watching the scene unfold. The spider to the left of me, regal in his stance. The butterfly to the right of me, frantically flapping her wings. And me, the bystander, standing in the middle trying to understand how I could help.

Before I reached down to begin to help, I thought about the food chain again. I thought about the spider. I thought that if I were to break the web, I would be taking away his meal. For a split second, I empathized with him. Then I looked at the butterfly one last time as she continued to struggle. I realized that the one who would be hurt the most, and as a result would die in the struggle, would be the butterfly. Regardless, the spider would continue to live. He would be devastated that his prey was released, his masterpiece was destroyed, and his hard work was taken away from him. No matter what happened, he would work hard, rebuild, and continue to hunt.

In one swift movement, I reached down to stop the madness. I knew that I needed to avoid the butterfly while I was breaking the web. I didn't want to cause her more harm. With the first reach into the web, the spider vanished from the scene. I thought to myself, “Not today, spider. Not today.” The spider, although a mastermind in capturing his prey, quickly became a coward when he sensed he was in danger.

The web was a sticky mess. Reaching in caused my heart to beat faster and breath to pick up speed. With the first reach, it left so much residue on my hand that my head started tingle. For a moment, I thought what I have got myself into; however, I also knew that I couldn’t back out now. She needed me more now than ever. As the spider left the scene, my attention and care became solely on the butterfly. She and I began to work together to break her free. She was still vigorously flapping her wings to try to break free. I could feel her panic. I was slow and patient as I helped her. I slowly placed my hand in the web, pulled out more, rubbed the residue on my pants, before going in again. I followed this pattern three or four times, before she finally broke free. As she broke, she vanished too from the scene.

I stood there at the scene, assessing my body and my emotions. Asking myself, how I was feeling, how I was doing, and how I was processing the moment. I was proud of myself for freeing her.

A few minutes later, she reappeared. I was surprised to see her again. I noticed it was her because the residue from the web was trailing behind her. I watched her as she bobbed up and down between bushes, about 30 feet from the scene, trying to get the residue off. I noticed she was no longer fighting. She was gliding. Like a butterfly should. Was she hurt? Yes, but she was gliding, nonetheless. At some point, the residue finally fell from her body. She glided closer to me, as if to say, “thank you”. I vocally told her, “You’re welcome.” And she carried on.

What a gift. I am in awe, in ways that little wonders, can make such an impact. My hope is that some parts of this story, as I recount my experience, can resonate with parts of your story.