386. Teacher at Work

Papa sat still as a rock, his tanned forehead, countenance majestic as if pottered by the very hand of Janus, looked like a monument carved into some distant mountain. Kyra squinted her little sapphire jewels trying to see what he was doing, but from a watch it appeared as if he was doing nothing. Advancing like a cat, she moved a little closer, pretending, hoping, she was as invisible as feline to mouse.

Gossip close and delighted with her Papa-like stealth, Kyra whispered words as doves to the sun of her eye and heart, to ears as beautiful as trellis rosed, “Whatcha doing big ears?”

Without turning his head, Papa smiled into the morning sun, his eyes as alive and joyful as the matutinal surf at Valla. “Shhhhhh, my teacher is at work. We must not disturb the lesson.”

Kyra tip-toed to his white tunic-ed side, and leaning over, placed her small porcelain arms upon his broad shoulder, her chin nestling into the nook of his neck, her midnight black hair, smooth as Grandma silk, fanning over nape latitudinous. In a small corner of the porch, between weathered wooden slates, silvery strings swayed in the gentle ocean breeze as if musical notes in harmony with the wind. In the center, mother spider, hourglass tight and shinning like a wet marble, spun home and hearth. “Oooooooh, she’s back.”

“Yes she is,” said Papa.

“Who’s back,” asked John.

“Oh, didn’t see you there. What did you say?”

“You said, ‘Ooooooh, she’s back.” John smiled with expectant eyes. “Who is she?”

“A spider.”

“A what?”

“You know, a spider. Anyway, when I was a little girl, about the age of Ariel, one morning Papa and I noticed a spider building a web on the deck. For days we watched her weave her web, and then, one morning, as if by magic, an egg sac appeared. We were so excited. She was going to have babies. And we had a front row seat. Well, the next morning we got up, and there was Grand, on the deck, broom in hand. Wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. Suppose I would have done the same. Still, I cried my eyes out. You see, Grand had swept the spider and her web and those babies unborn right off the deck. I remember looking at Papa, and I learned the first of two lessons. He leaned down, wiped the tears from my cheeks and told me he loved me and that we had an opportunity, a chance to rise above the temporary emotions of the moment and see the bigger picture. He said what had been done, was done and that our responsibility was to let go what we could not change and instead we could honor the mother spider by showing the same love she had to her babies to Grand. Then he took my hand and we walked over to Grand, hugged her, and told her we loved her—actually, he told her he loved her. I was still crying.”

“Did she know what she had done or why you were crying?”

“She had no idea, nor did we tell her. As for my tears, Papa told her they were tears of love for all that she had done for us. And so, there we were, the three of us, in the morning sun, hugging and crying and I saw a love in old hands and wise hearts and my tears turned from sadness to something much deeper.”

“And the second lesson?”

“Well, the next morning, I got up a little later than normal and when I walked out to the deck, I saw Papa just sitting. Seems as if Grand didn’t kill the mother after all, although the egg sac was gone, she was back, rebuilding.”

“What did Papa say?”

“Never let what you can’t control, stop you from doing what you can. Even thought all her babies were taken away in the sweep of a broom, she didn’t give up, didn’t feel sorry for herself, but came right back.”

“Sounds to me like the same lesson.”

“Yes it does. Papa was like that.”