Last night a deep throated owl called out, followed by long minutes of silence. He called again and again. Just when I was drifting off to sleep, I heard a higher pitched owl. She responds twice, calling back to him. My mixedblood Creek author friend wrote a book titled OWLS DON’T HAVE TO MEAN DEATH. The owl symbolizes many things to different peoples. The stories auntie told us about owl were rooted in our Cherokee ways. Owl medicine is thought to be so strong it should not be mixed with other energies or worked with lightly or irresponsibly.
It’s Fall now. We had some deep heat, in a drought, and the mornings have turned cold. The season changed overnight. Will my life change as well, again? My garden spider is still around. She grows bigger each day. I’ve come to know that she is an Orb-weaver and I am tuned to her rhythm. Midday her web is in disarray with gaping holes and trapped insects. She returns after the sun has set. Last night the moon was bright and I watched her have dinner. Before I go to bed, I go outside to wish her well. I stay a respectful distance away. She knows I am there.
Each morning before sunrise I find her web in perfect order, all damage repaired. If I arrive when it is still dark enough, I find her still there. She leaves before daylight arrives.
Today, while she was away, I discovered the silver stands in the juniper bush, below her web, that look a lot like my silver-gray hair—really is my hair. Often, I bush my hair outside, by the back door. I watch the loose hairs fall to the earth or float away in the wind. On the first day I met the spider I remember seeing what I thought was a tangle of her web woven in the juniper, by the back door, near the spot she chose to weave her web, beside my hair.
Watching this garden spider while searching to find my happiness, I find my happiness in watching.
