Waiting for surgery, I distract myself with yoga, Doc Martin shows, Elena Ferrante novels, cooking, errands, walks, laundry, gardening, texts, phone calls, e-mails, family reunions, birthday parties—all the usual stuff of life, only even less discriminate. With more time to kill, I'm up for just about anything these days, especially spontaneous socializing.
Spiders hang alone on webs throughout the garden. I feel guilty when brushing into their sticky webs on accident, such intricate invisible little nets, a shame when torn to shreds, though the spiders immediately start rebuilding because, well, there goes dinner. So when I see one of their tiny rolled-up bug meals hung to dry, I feel relieved—all that weaving work for something instead of nothing. From the macro view, life seems nothing more than eating and being eaten, the goal to reproduce and then die like all the salmon swum upriver. And in between we wait with all the actions and inactions of living.