I just picked up a book I’d set down last night and I found a tiny daddy longlegs half-stuck to the open page, I’d accidentally set my book on it in the dark the night before. It was still wiggling around, and not knowing exactly what else to do, I gently blew on it. To my surprise it just fell off the page and scrambled away, apparently unharmed.

I can’t imagine how long 8 hours seems to a spider, but I know if I’d been pinned down by a giant book that long that would have been pretty messed up. Just out for an evening stroll or something then BAM I’m face down in the sand and immobile and nobody could hear my muffled yells. Just then when I’d given up hope, the next morning the book lifts and a gust of wind peels me off the page loonytunes style and I limp away to ponder the experience.

I know I’d have all sorts of self-important questions like, “But what did that MEAN?! Why would this happen to ME?! How can I change the things I do to make sure that NEVER happens again!?”

Maybe that spider had just stepped on a dust mite or something and I unknowingly became the instant, nonjudging arm of karma because every action by a sentient being causes infinite ripples of cause and effect forever and ever. Or maybe when the giant paperbacks of life rest on me for the night, some weary someone somewhere has just put their book down to get a little rest.