u/onedesirealone

Today I found this black widow quietly resting in the web she had woven.

I found myself stopping for a while—noticing the strange beauty of something I’m instinctively taught to fear. Her web looks chaotic and impossibly delicate, yet it is remarkably strong and precisely suited to her life.

“The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces.” — Proverbs 30:28 (KJV)

A female black widow may live for a few years, spending much of that life quietly tending her web. Her venom contains α-latrotoxin, a powerful neurotoxin designed to immobilize prey. Yet she is not a creature wandering around looking for humans to harm. She would much rather remain hidden, capturing insects and playing her small but important part in keeping the ecosystem in balance.

There’s something beautiful about that.

The sacred does not reveal itself only in sunsets, flowers, and creatures we find beautiful. Sometimes it appears in the shadowed corners—in something that makes us cautious, uncomfortable, even afraid.

Perhaps contemplation is learning to look long enough that our first reaction is not our final understanding.

This little creature has her place in the great web of life, just as we do.

Even here, life is weaving.
Even here, creation belongs.
Even here, there is mystery.

Last night this incredible creature landed nearby—a Black Witch Moth (Ascalapha odorata). With a wingspan reaching 7–8 inches (18–20 cm), it is one of the largest moths in North America, and seeing one up close is enough to stop almost anyone in their tracks.

In much of Mexico, this moth is known as La Mariposa de la Muerte—the Butterfly of Death. For generations, people have told stories that if one enters your home, it may be bringing news of a death or a profound life change.

Whether or not you believe the folklore, I find it fascinating how different cultures look to nature for meaning. Across traditions, death is often more than the end of life. It can symbolize the end of an identity, a season, a relationship, or a way of being. Every ending makes room for something new.

As someone who walks alongside people at the end of life, I don’t see death as the opposite of life. I see it as one of life’s great teachers. Perhaps that’s why I find this moth so beautiful instead of frightening.

Sometimes nature doesn’t give us answers—it gives us symbols worth contemplating.

What does this magnificent visitor stir in you? Fear? Awe? Curiosity? Transformation?

🦋🌙

For more than twenty years, I’ve had the privilege of sitting with hundreds of people and their families before, during, and after the last breath.

This week, I accompanied an infant and their family for the first time.

Nothing prepares you for the sacred weight of that moment.

A courageous mother. A devoted father. A loving sibling, friends, and a community gathered around them, holding both unimaginable heartbreak and immeasurable love in the same room.

In hospice, we often think the final breath belongs to the one who is dying. But I’ve learned that another breath follows—the long, trembling exhale of those who remain. The one that carries the weight of love, grief, gratitude, and the beginning of letting go.

There were tears. There was silence. There were prayers. There was laughter as stories were shared. There was profound love.

I left that room with my heart forever changed.

To this beautiful family: thank you for allowing me to witness your son’s life, however brief. His life mattered. His love will continue to ripple through every person who held him, and through those of us who had the privilege of walking beside you.

May we never measure a life by its length, but by the love it awakens.

Today I remember a tiny life that changed mine.

❤️

*The poem The Exhale author unknown.

As an Interfaith Hospice Chaplen, I do.
In this video, I explore how ritual helps us move beyond autopilot, reconnect with meaning, and become more present to the moments that shape us.

Why do humans light candles, gather for memorials, visit graves, tell stories, and create remembrance traditions?

Because grief needs expression.

In this video, I explore how rituals help us navigate loss, honor memory, and maintain connection with those we love.

When grief, depression, or despair disconnects us from our sense of purpose, it can also make us feel alone. But healing rarely happens in isolation.

This reflection is about the courage to reach for one thread of connection — one honest text, one safe conversation, one person who can help us stay connected to life.

Building a support system is not weakness. Sometimes we need borrowed hope. Sometimes we need people who can remember our light when we cannot feel it ourselves.

You do not have to rebuild your whole life today. Begin with one person, one message, one honest sentence.

If you are feeling like you may not want to live, please tell someone now. In the U.S., call or text 988 for immediate support. You do not have to carry this alone.

Some changes can do more than break our hearts. It can interrupt our sense of purpose, dim our desire to keep going, and make the future feel unreachable.

This short reflection is for anyone who feels disconnected from the life they once knew, the role they once held, or the purpose that once helped them rise each day.

The loss of felt purpose is not the loss of your worth. Sometimes purpose returns slowly — through one breath, one conversation, one walk outside, one small act of care, one person who stays beside you.

You do not have to rediscover your whole purpose today. Maybe today the purpose is simply this: stay.

If you are feeling like you may not want to live, please tell someone now. In the U.S., call or text 988 for immediate support. You do not have to carry this alone.

Ryan T. Schmidt
Inter-Faith Hospice Chaplain