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Jacques Beneviste, French scientist, proved that water has a memory; whatever has been contained in it leaves an imprint This ties up with Rupert Sheldrake's theory of morphic resonance, in which everything that has existed continues to exist in the "field" , the same field that Chopra and Rumi talk about. Benveniste's research validates homeopathy which works on high dilution of substances in water, as it explains how homeopathic remedies can be so dilute but still contain the dynamic energy of the substance. "The Spider Chronicles" - Living with Ed and Frances by Michael Eldridge Introduction Have you ever witnessed a road full of squashed frogs and toads in the full blue light of a Tuscan spring morning? Probably not. But I did this week. There was a certain beauty to the variety of greens they sported. The colour bounded back and forth inside my brain; causing that sort of jump started awareness you get when in mild shock, and echoed itself in the emerging hues of the trees and bushes on Rosie’s hill. Rosie’s steep slippery hill. The night before, I had been obliged to drive the four kilometers up to her house in the dark to pick up a book delivery from a DotCom in San Francisco. I wasn’t sure I’d be at home and had left her address for the delivery. A fateful decision as it turned out – My friend Rosie was leaving next day for a holiday to the same city. I was in a hurry. Just wanted to wish her a good trip, grab the package and be off. A wind was whipping up and as I wound my way up her long drive I saw the signs of an early spring scattered from one end of it to the other. Yes the frogs! And worse, the toads! They were, I swear now in retrospect, in carefully planned protesting lines across the road and I attempted to weave my way around them. In my headlights I saw that their numbers increased as I inched up the hill and I had to stop to avoid mass murder. I had to abandon the van to the night, to the frogs and the toads. And, from that night on, I abandoned all past connections with any world of certainty or reason. By the time I’d walked back in the rain that blustery night both me and my new book were soaked. I’d tried in vain to shield both myself and book from the waves of rain that Tuscany likes to throw at us now (and again) always when we are least prepared for it. By us, I should explain, I mean we international ex pats who live in bunches scattered across the hills between Siena and Florence. When I eventually arrived back home to my little cottage I instinctively headed for the shower. I prised the book from my cold wet hands and slapped it on to the window sill next to the shower curtain. A fateful act to follow the previous fateful decision. It’s still there in the very same spot. Glued down by little bits of soap. Pages stuck together. A little landscape in itself. Despite protestations by family and friends, I can’t bring myself to
touch it, let alone move it. It’s a book about living in Tuscany. I know absolutely nothing about spiders except there are lots of different types, that they eat flies and that there are people who live in morbid fear of them. I see this as an opportunity for me to eradicate this pocket of ignorance and I shall begin doing so by learning and listening to what the world has to say about them. What they have to say about themselves. I’ve named the spiders Ed and Frances Ed and Frances are my teachers. Ed and Frances are my spiders. No, I can’t say that they are MY spiders because that would infer that they are pets. Let’s just say that we live together. Or at least they live together in my house. They are lovers. Of this I have no doubt. They are lovers who live in my bathroom, tucked into a gap above the hinge on the bathroom window just to the left of the shower curtain and to the right of the book about living in Tuscany. They have a view of sorts through this paint and grime splattered one foot square ill-fitting dark brown window and watch the world go by night and day across the wide valley between my little house in the hills and the absolutely beautiful darling town of San Gimignano. They see and hear everything. They will tell me all their secrets. And they don’t like San Gimignano. I think they are from Mars. Or from San Francisco. Or both. but I’m not sure. I intend to find out. There, you see! It’s started! I really have no idea where those last few sentences came from. But I’m beginning to have my suspicions You ask, do spiders sleep? I really don’t know but shall research the issue. Ed and Frances always seem to be awake as if each wants to prove to the other the alertness of their love. And their love? I first saw them mating in a dark corner of the kitchen, high up near the
ceiling, around midnight almost a month before the frog incident. I'd wandered
in from somewhere, and was suddenly an audience of one. It was beautiful. They
touched the ends of their long spindly legs together and did a sort of ballet,
then the smaller one, the male I suppose, the one I've named Ed banged his
whole body at Frances (who's twice the size) several times, then they carried
on dancing. I was awestruck, mainly
because I could not believe how they managed to keep their needlepoint legs
joined to each other and at the same time lyrically move around. So clever. I don’t know why they decided to migrate from the kitchen to the bathroom They were just there on that fateful night. Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X |