A spider set up behind my toiletries. They were a large one of the daddy long-legs variety, often also called a cellar spider.

Sighing, I advised the spider, “That’s not a good place for webbing. I’m always picking this stuff up and moving it around. I think you need to go.” I gently prodded the webbing a few times.

Dropping to the countertop, the spider strode with dignity across the counter, then slipped in between the drawer and the cabinet, disappearing. I admired them. They knew where they were going with amazing surety, and they went unhurried, unruffled.

I wish I had as much poise as they displayed.