One afternoon in my youth, I became mesmerized by a Wolf Spider stalking a Fly on a sunny windowsill. It was as though I had become the Spider; I felt the dynamic tension he had disguised by his outwardly relaxed state, and I adopted his keenness of focus, while at the same time maintaining overall perspective. Every cue, every minute movement and sound and feeling, was picked up by him, and by me, and we synthesized the information and moved accordingly.
The more I became the Spider, the more I realized that the Spider had also become the Fly. The more I became the Fly, the more I realized that the Spider had also become the dapples of sunlight, the dust on the windowsill, the draft sliding through the crack under the window, and the birds flying by outside. We were all in this drama…. no, we all were the drama. We were in the most intimate of relationships — the beautifully choreographed dance of life and death.
I didn’t dare blink. My senses were keened to every movement — the smallest flutter of a leaf on the branch outside the window, the appearance of another Fly that created a ripple of disturbance, the Fly herself changing posture ever so slightly. I was prepared for anything, from a slow stalk that might take another ten minutes, to pouncing as fast as a sprung trap if the Fly spooked and was about to take off.
Not being as cool and centered as the Spider, I broke into a nervous sweat. My eyes became dry and fatigued, and I worried that my movements were getting less and less fluid the closer I approached. I feared that if I pounced, my tenseness would make me miss.
So imperceptibly, so slowly, and so in sync with the greater movement, I advanced. There were times when I thought I moved the tiniest bit, but I wasn’t sure. It was as though I was a magician playing sleight-of-hand tricks to convince anyone who was watching, that nothing really happened.
I was about an inch from the Fly and she took off. Was it me, or was it some internal motivation of hers that sent her on her way? I didn’t know, and it didn’t seem to matter. I just sat there on the windowsill, continuing to cultivate the illusion of benign presence (i.e. invisibility), and waited for the next Fly to come along.
A Wolf might chase ten Moose before bringing one down. Wolf and Wolf Spider possess the same hunting spirit. For them, a miss is not a failure, because they live not just to eat. If all they needed to do was grab the first hunk of meat that came along, they would grow dull and weak. By having to work for their food, they continually develop their strength and keep honing and refining their hunting skills.
It works both ways: in exchange for the food which Fly and Moose provide Wolf and Wolf Spider, they keep Fly and Moose healthy by continually testing them, and they become quicker and sharper. In this way, only the best survive to pass their traits on to their offspring, thus insuring the health and longevity of their kind.