Stop and Smell the Tarantulas

One afternoon Darla and I were hiking, and we came across a tarantula in the Upper Los Virgenes Preserve, located in the Simi Hills of Northern Los Angeles County. Darla is my high energy chi-terrier and the stately march of the tarantula across the trail was worth about one sniff before she was ready to move on. I immediately captured an image of the arachnid on my cell phone…nothing impresses elementary school kids like hairy spiders, and I’m not above using any ethical means possible to create meaningful relationships with young clients.

Tarantulas are especially elusive because they generally hide out in an underground burrow during the day and don’t come out until the evening when there are fewer predators and more insects. The specimen we encountered was most likely Aphonopelma chalcodes and was unexpectedly out for a stroll in the late afternoon. These tarantulas are found throughout the West and eat lizards, crickets, beetles, grasshoppers, crickets, cicadas and caterpillars.

If Darla and I had been striding along that day with the sole intention of accumulating miles, we might have missed this particular resident of the oak savannah through which we were walking. We might even have—God forbid—stepped on the poor tarantula. But since Darla and I were both “sniffing” around, eyes wide and ears pricked forward, we immediately noticed the large arachnid crossing the trail.

Every hike is an opportunity for me to encounter the unexpected or find a hidden treasure. Walking gives me the time to stop, bend down and examine a plant, or stop and observe an animal or bird. Darla and I regularly torment each other with unplanned stops when we are walking together. She must sniff something irresistible that is invisible to my senses, and I must force her to wait while I admire a rocky outcrop or follow the unhurried flight of a red tailed hawk hunting high above the trail.

When I am present with all of my senses—sound, sight, smell, touch and taste—then I am able to experience an almost mind blowing amount of detail. Like the small rabbits that populate the chaparral and freeze in place so as to appear invisible when threatened, I stop, stand still, and am suddenly transported as I blend into the landscape and take it all in. For a moment I’m relieved to not be me, but simply another part of the larger landscape.

Darla and I paused just long enough to admire the tarantula and to make sure it made it from one side of the trail to the other without harm. What a privilege to be able to cross paths with this seldom seen neighbor. What a gift to allow ourselves to take in the larger, natural world.

The Case for Humans

My friend Susan, a claims adjuster by trade, has recently been grappling with a change in management control at her firm, as well as her concerns about proving herself to a brand new leadership team.

The other day, Susan told me about a dream she’d had. In the dream, she found herself standing outdoors in the afternoon sun before a panel of four judges: a sea otter, a red tailed hawk, an eight-point Mule Deer buck, and a massive 400-year-old Valley Oak tree. Susan described their mood as “stern, intimidating, and in no mood for nonsense.”

“Really… I don’t understand what you have to offer,” said the Sea Otter. “It’s not like you can float forever in the ocean, eating all your meals there, drinking salt water and rafting with your friends.”

“You aren’t fire resistant,” grumbled the Valley Oak. “You wouldn’t last five minutes if your body caught on fire.” He scowled. “Even if the top of your head doesn’t burn, there won’t be any rebirth.”

“I know you’re clever with your hands, but really… can you spot a mouse from one hundred feet in the air?” shrieked the Hawk.

“And how about your digestive system?” asked the Mule Deer Buck rhetorically. “Two stomachs are better then one when it comes to eating just about anything and surviving.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Susan stammered. No one spoke. The ability of these living things to survive in the most extreme conditions, combined with her own undeniable fragility, left her with a feeling of awe and, as she described it, utter uselessness. “It didn’t help,” she told me, “that I couldn’t really claim superior cognitive intelligence, given that our main role as human beings, to date, seems to be to eliminate or pollute the very habitats that make the lives of these beings possible.” She shook her head. “Suddenly, opposable thumbs seemed so yesterday.”

She went on. “Here I’ve been so worried about communicating what a great claims adjustor I am, and suddenly my whole value as a human being is called into question. I mean, what is my purpose here? What is anybody’s purpose? The animals and plants seemed so certain of their own roles.”

Susan and I soon found ourselves in a discourse about who we are as human beings, and the fact that we don’t have an obvious ecological niche to fill. We decided that we are “homo tabula rasa:” those beings that come into this world and actually get to discover who they are, define the contribution they will make and create the ecological and social niche they will fill. At the end of our conversation, Susan admitted she felt relieved by this insight.

We’re all concerned about dwindling resources and changing natural environments that have the power to impact the quality of human life, but I wonder if we are spending too much time on the symptoms, and not enough time on the origin of our condition. Following Susan’s dream I have been reflecting not only on my own purpose but on the purpose of humankind overall.

When a panel of fauna and flora stare me down and ask me to justify my existence, how will I answer? What is the case for humans?

Nancy Adamson, LMFT is a coaching professional and therapist who finds the natural world a constant source of inspiration and instruction.