Rain and cabbage and spider
Earlier this evening, we stood in the light drizzle. We were examining the garden. I had harvested some arugula before dinner. We were discussing how to do so more efficiently. When we came to the cabbage plants, I stopped.
The large, frosty green leaves are sturdy. The plants have been doing well. It had been lightly raining all afternoon. I noticed that many of the cabbage leaves were collecting little raindrops, allowing them to congregate into one large drop, balancing it with expertise.
This photo shows a smaller cabbage leaf with three water droplets sitting atop its surface: small, medium large.
With the addition of just a few more drops, the collective mass would move just a little closer to the edge. The leaf would lower slightly from the increased weight. It was always potentially just one droplet away from tipping. There was always the possibility it would be allowed to slide off the edge and into the soil.
I was amazed. As I watched, the rain simply continued to gather. There was no tipping point. At least, not yet, not that I could see.
A photo of a cabbage leaf holding a large water droplet has handwriting laid over it that reads: We are so held…held in such a loving, precarious way. We can never be sure when the world could tip…sending us to the ground.
As we continued to watch, I noticed a leaf that was tucked under some of the larger ones. This one had its own collective water drop forming. An unfortunate spider had its’ legs pulled into it. I thought it could easily remove itself, but it took a moment for me to realize that it was slowly getting sucked into the gathering water. The yellow spider fought, and I wondered if a spider could drown, and if it could drown in this way.
Adjusting myself to kneel down, I gently tipped the leaf so the drop would fall. I hoped the redistribution of water to the ground would give the spider an advantage. Splash! And sweet freedom. This spider friend was free from that turmoil. I could tell that they were having difficulty moving their legs, and hoped that the impact hadn’t been too much for them.
The spider looked like it was struggling to get back up. I, unfortunately, didn’t get to see if they ever did. After a slight distraction, when I scanned the garden again, I couldn’t find the spider — dead or alive. The water was gone as well, seeping into the dirt. A collective, suddenly scattered.
Thank you for your precious time.
May we all love each other, and ourselves, better.
Rikki
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This is so beautiful.