The Persistence of Memory...

Behold the mysticism of the epiphanic “aha”—the moment one bonds with a spirit animal.  In my experience, this is indeed a very odd sensation.  Later, fingering through the pages of the spirit animal summaries, I revisit my present spirit incarnate in text, and wait as the foundation of my bond with the spider unfolds. 

When I first listened to the guided meditation, I was not so naive as to believe that in my dreamy state (at least, as meditative a state as is possible to achieve in a classroom setting), answers—like my true totem animal—would simply appear with a wonderful note attached: “Bingo, I’m your totem animal”—much like a convenient “DRINK ME” (16).  I waited—restlessly, I might add—trying to conjure an image of an animal I thought meant something to me.  What I didn’t realize—and fortunately, thanks to Ted Andrews, I am no-longer in the dark—is that “the animal chooses the person, not the other way around (66).”  As odd as this theory struck me, it became apparent that as I was sinking “down, down, down” (13) into what I had imagined was a desert landscape, all I could will into my sub-consciousness were spiders (in the dead of the desert?).  

Sinking "down, down, down" into my imaginative depths--into what I had imagined was a desert landscape.

Maybe it was the mystical powwow drumbeats of the guided meditation or just the childlike instinct to “follow the white rabbit” into the depths of one’s imagination; but whatever the case, I was beginning to believe—much like Alice—that, in this imaginative realm, “very few things indeed were really impossible” (16).  A spider had unmistakably found me. 

I was desperate, as only an arachnophobic can be, to conjure an image of another animal—any other animal—but as fate would have it, my efforts were in vain.  Despite (or perhaps more importantly, because of) my aversion to spiders, it was important for me to research them in the archives of my own experiential memory as they have so determinately made an appearance in not only my subconscious, but also my physical waking life. 

The phobia I harbor of spiders in the
shower took root in this first encounter
eleven years ago.  This horror scene for
me is no less frightening than
the iconic shower scene in Hitchcock's
Psycho. 

My first vivid encounter with a spider was when I was eight years old.  An small black spider had made herself a home in the corner of my bathroom.  Initially, I regarded her with cynical respect, literally speaking to her about coexistence--as only a precotious eight-year-old can--and the terms of this agreement.  (Point number one being that she never infringe on my territory—which was nearly everything beyond the reach of her web.)  But despite my initial fears, I developed a relationship with this spider, who lived in such close proximity to me for many weeks.  But happen it did, and one evening a blood-curdling scream from my bathroom sent my mother running to save me from what I believed was a threatening trespass on the part of my amigo—as I was in the shower, I might add.  Much to my chagrin and dismay, the contents of our sewer system became my spider’s new home. 

Eleven years later, when I first moved into my apartment, I noticed a spider the size of my thumb, casting its web on my balcony from one banister to the next—and most vexingly, in between potted plants, whose vicinity I frequent to water.  It is with shame that I disclose the downright disrespect with which I regarded this particular neighbor:  multiple times I sought to terrorize her—resorting to pouring water and throwing ice cubes at her web.  I simply did not appreciate this invasion into a new living space I hoped to make safe and comfortable.  Oddly enough, when she had left and I could (thankfully) no longer locate her anywhere within the physical confines of my balcony, the memory of her web continued to haunt and tickle my subconscious.  Every hair-like thread of her web that graced the wood of the banisters served as a vivid and tangible reminder of her network of what I perceived to be tyranny—and creativity? 

As if to mock my utter refusal to meditate on the spider—much less to accept the spider as my guardian—only a few days later, I found a spider (or she found me?) in the center of my kitchen window, suspended on the invisible pane of glass that only superficially separated us.  It was at this moment that I decided I could no longer elude this mysterious but clearly definitive bond to the spider.

"Who am I? I'm Spider[woman?]"

What might I learn from a spirit animal I am simultaneously repulsed and intrigued by—besides, the obvious imploration to conquer my fears?  Walking my shamanic path has meant pondering this very question, and the labyrinth that is the question: “Who am I?”  Perhaps in order to understand the significance of the spider in my social and spiritual life, I must not only delve into my own experiential memory but also understand the biological and proverbial teachings of the spider.

As advised by academics in the field of spirit animals and shamanic journeys, I sought to research the behavior of the spider by watching videos and reading about the biology of this mysterious species. Watching youtube videos of spiders—even in spite of the physical barrier of the camera, computer screen, and ability to manipulate the video—confirmed for me what I assume is one of the most common aversions to spiders: an irrational fear of their appearance, their eerie movements, and their proverbial reputation.  Goosebumps surged through my skin almost systematically—beginning at the base of my spine and onward through my extremities—as the camera approached its eight-legged subject.  Needless to say, my spirit animal has the superficial ability to place me at a level of utmost psychological and physiological discomfort.  I have much to learn from the spider simply because of the profound emotion—fear itself—I associate with her. (It begs a reckoning with not only my arachnophobia, but also of fear itself.)  What have I to fear when I have a network, a silky web perhaps, of support and connection to the world?  Perhaps these things are lacking in my life—a sense of oneness with the earth, as represented in the connection of the spider’s web to trees and the earth.  Perhaps what I can learn is to strive for a physical connection with the earth (potting plants, hanging bird feeders, and taking walks in the park perhaps does not suffice).

Something that struck me from watching several video clips of spiders—both in the wild and in the domestic arena of one’s front porch or bathroom—was their astoundingly high diversity as a species.  (Prior to gaining this insight, I had the capacity to conjure merely three images of proverbial or popular spiders:  the black widow, the hirsute tarantula, and the blue and red “Spiderman” cartoon spider.)  Meditating on this more comfortable tangent of diversity led me to reflect on the beauty of the biological and cultural diversity of human beings.  I firmly believe that we as a species must accept and respect the diversity of race, culture, and language in our social lives and abroad.  Just as some spiders have deceptively flamboyant physical markings and others threatening patterns (or what we perceive to be threatening), so too do ethnic groups differ in their appearance and perspectives. 

The black widow consumes her mate while mating.
Is this nature's idea of gender equity?

There seems to be only talk about the creativity of the Spider, but by “demonstrating the power of balance,” she embodies its opposite. The Spider is a force of creation (and destruction) (Littichau, 68).  The spider’s destructive behaviors are exemplified in a chilling example of spider gender relations:  the female black widow consuming her male after mating.  Perhaps this reflects the more subtle reality of human social relations between men and women and their systemic differences of power. (Perhaps as a feminist, my spirit is manifested in a species in which the female is not unequal to her male counterpart.) (Littichau, 58)

On a more biological level, the Spider helps maintain balance in the ecosystem, consuming large quantities of populated insects.  Moreover, we can learn that in every aspect of life—including the personal and interpersonal—we must strive for balance and polarity in order to stimulate our creative selves. (Littichau, 58) 

The Spider is the "Great Weaver" of life.

In this same vein, the spider “weaves the web of life, [and is] the force that holds everything together, seen and unseen.”  I may not be a “Great Weaver,” but what is essential to my being is my identity as a mestiza, which historically has weaved together—for better or for worse—many cultures, ethnicities, and perspectives.  The mother of mestizaje, the indigenous Aztec translator, Malinzin, gave birth to a mixed race of people, embodying both the domineering European blood and the earthy indigenous blood.  This resonates with me largely because of my mixed cultural and ethnic constitution—both of which are deceptively “seen and unseen”:  my white skin and blue eyes conceal my partially ethnic identity. (Littichau, 68)

Community organizing depends on one's capacity to
create webs of connections between people.

 Furthermore, the metaphorical social network the spider’s web represents for me echoes what I know to be true: “all of life is connected, and that every action we take has an effect on the rest of life.” (Littichau) In this same vein, Fannie Lou Hamer, civil rights activist, presents this notion of social dependency and connectedness as the foundation on which social and economic justice is built:  ‘Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.’ In this sense, the spider’s way of life is not unlike the work of a social or political activist (like myself)—always connecting, networking, and indeed, creating.

The Greeks believed that the Spider weaved together people’s fates and connected the past to the future.  (Andrews) (Again, the Spider is a creator, representing the creation of one’s own destiny and life.)  This is particularly relevant in the work of activists, who battle current injustices rooted in historical contexts.  How do you do solidarity work, for example, with the Indigenous peoples of Chiapas, Mexico, if you don’t have the ability to connect contemporary concerns in their community to the history of conquest?   I stand in solidarity with global indigenous peoples who are fighting to preserve their ancient cultures, languages, and alphabets—of which the Spider is the proverbial guardian.  Connecting the past—the history and languages of pre-conquest peoples—is critical to understanding the present day situation they face.  (I am taking a course on Power and Culture in Contemporary Latin America; perhaps this explains this stretch of a connection.) (Andrews)

Meditating on the power of the spider at this moment in my life, one particular aspect comes to mind.  I have stopped painting, drawing, and sculpting since I started at UT.  This has had perhaps benefits in the sense that I spend more time on things relevant to my studies.  However, it has taken a very noticeable toll on me as I have made little time to "free my mind" and express through art whatever my psyche has stored.  This is what I choose to focus on and for which I call upon my spirit animal:  to guide me back through the labyrinth of my right brain and deep into my creative fibers.   

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless, patient spider,

I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;

Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to

connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor

hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

-Walt Whitman

Word Count: 1,711 (not including poem)

Sources:

1.  Andrews, Ted. Animal-speak: the Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great & Small. St. Paul, Minn., U.S.A.: Llewellyn Publications, 1993. Print.

2.  Lüttichau, Chris. Animal Spirit Guides: Discover Your Power Animal and the Shamanic Path. London: Cico, 2009. Print.

3. see 603A Course Anthology (for citations with only page numbers)

References to Photographs found on websites in the order they appear:

5.  Along the Desert. 1990. Photograph. Morteza Katouzian Art Exhibit. Morteza Katouzian Art Exhibit. Web. 19 Sept. 2010. <http://www.persia.org/Images/Katouzian_art/artshort_new.html>.

6.  Arachnophobia. 2008. Photograph. Flickr. Flickr Hive Mind. Flickr. Web. 19 Sept. 2010. <http://fiveprime.org/hivemind/Tags/fear,phobia>.

7.  The Amazing Intricacies of a Spider's Web. 2009. Photograph. The Revealer of Hidden Things Blog. The Revealer of Hidden Things. Wordpress, 13 Sept. 2009. Web. 19 Sept. 2010. <http://jeremiah33three.wordpress.com/2008/09/13/the-amazing-intricacies-of-a-spiders-web/>.

8.  Spider Woman. 1979. Photograph. Spider-Woman TV Show. Sharetv. Web. 19 Sept. 2010. <http://sharetv.org/shows/spider-woman>.

9.  Andrade, Maydianne. Sexual Cannibalism. 2009. Photograph. NOVA. PBS, 13 May 2009. Web. 19 Sept. 2010. <http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/nature/profile-maydianne-andrade.html>.

10.  Social Network Media Connection. 2009. Photograph. Social Networking Overtakes Email. Clean Cut Media, 13 Mar. 2009. Web. 20 Sept. 2010. <http://www.cleancutmedia.com/news/social-networking-overtakes-email>.