Wrens were here. Then a writing spider came and went. Together they left a well-loved nest and silken grafitti to remember them by—treasures that serve as beautiful reminders of the importance of structure and hiding places.

Let the madcap birds dash from bush to vine to tree. That kind of lifestyle holds little appeal to the spider outside my office window, who thrives on patience and consistency. She stays in place while the whole world swirls around her.

Known scientifically as Argiope aurantia, her kind is most often called the black and yellow garden spider, but I’m partial to her other name—writing spider—and like to imagine her spinning silk into elaborate webs each night as I try to thread words into sentences by day. Our lives unfold together and apart, just inches away from each other on either side of the glass. Suspended above the waning flowers of an elevated planter, she is a link between the walls of our warm house and the cold winds beyond.

In August, the planter would have been a risky place for an orb-weaving spider to reside, when it was already the domain of a hungry Carolina wren family. For weeks I carefully soaked the plants’ roots with a watering can to avoid disturbing the nest the birds had crafted on a slightly raised mound of soil. Sitting beneath the roof’s edge, the flowers receive no direct rain, and I feared the lush growth would shrivel up, blow the wrens’ cover, and expose them to predators.

The planter’s dry location has been otherwise perfect for these wild mamas, just as the planter itself was once perfect for my own mama. A gift from my father, it was intended to keep her from having to sink to her knees in the garden as her bones grew more brittle. It didn’t always stop her from bending down anyway, and sometimes falling, when no one was looking.

After my dad died and my mom moved to an apartment last year, the planter and the herbs it contained found a home here, and during the first year I left it all untouched. Eventually the herbs grew tired of their accommodations, losing their leaves as the potting soil’s nutrients dwindled. I moved the thyme and chives into their own containers in the spring, with grand plans for creating a whole garden of large planters on the sidewalk outside my office. Tomatoes, peppers, lettuces, giant annual sunflowers, native wildflowers:  it took shape in my mind’s eye so beautifully.

Surprise Habitats

Then my nephew, Ryan, died unexpectedly in March. My husband, Will, ended up in the hospital. My mom got sick. The planter sat empty all spring until one day in late June, seeking comfort at a local nursery, I made a spontaneous purchase. The zinnias weren’t native, and they weren’t even the best kind of zinnias for wildlife—too many petals and not enough nectar—but I knew my two acres of native habitat would make up for that. A few days later, as I potted up some blooms for my mom’s balcony, I added two sunflowers to my little container of joy.

At first few creatures but me noticed those bright smiling faces, but by midsummer skippers were visiting the more open blooms. Upon returning from a trip in late July, I discovered someone else enjoying the planter too. Hidden in the back, close to the window, was a scrappy ball of dried grasses and leaves. Was it an unused Carolina wren nest, one of several that males make to impress females with their real estate prowess? That seemed the most likely scenario, but the birds’ furtive appearances over the next few days and weeks assured me this was no fly-by-night construction. Usually the loudest animals in the neighborhood, the wrens were pin-drop quiet as they took circuitous routes to their new home, hopping toward the foot of the planter and then darting up its sides to deliver caterpillars, beetles, crickets and other snacks to their babies.

A Secret Signature in the Web

Did the spider witness this painstaking avian parenting too? Had she been with us all along, centering herself amid sticky threads that were hidden from view by the exuberant zinnias?  Stillness is the writing spider’s way of being. She moves just enough to survive, taking what she needs and no more. When a location is suitable and life is sweet, she might stay in the same spot throughout the season. There’s no reason to wander when all your hard work brings everything you need to your doorstep: insects flying into your web, providing daily provisions; males setting up shop nearby, serenading you by plucking your hard-spun strands like strings on a violin.

But it’s more likely that this spider is a recent arrival to the planter, perhaps seeking refuge from the sputtering tailspins of Hurricane Ian. Even when the zinnias and sunflowers were dense and tall, she probably couldn’t have escaped the notice of the birds and me. Though quiet, she lets it all hang out as she hangs on, anchoring her web to the top of the window screen on one side and to a shriveled zinnia on the other. A conspicuous vertical zigzag pattern weaves down the middle, but only the spider knows why.

Despite intense speculation and a fair amount of research, she has not yet revealed her motivations for the zigzag signature. Called a stabilimentum because of a now-discounted theory that it offers stability, the extra silk might alert birds to a web’s presence, deterring them from flying through it and making a mess of things. Some scientists have also studied the possibility that the stabilimentum is a visual attractant for insect prey. Others have wondered if the spider is camouflaging herself, or perhaps using up excess silk to stimulate production so that she will be physically ready when it comes time to wrap up her prey. Whatever the case, she spends a lot of time repairing and remaking the interior of her web, usually in the dark while the rest of us are sleeping.

A Need for Structure and Connections

In her book Wildlings, the late naturalist Mary Leister described seeing thousands of Argiope webs hanging “from every conceivable spot and at every possible angle” as she wandered the marshes, pond edges and fallow fields of our stomping grounds in western Howard County, Maryland. There were so many that Mary offhandedly referred to these areas as “the wet spider fields” and described them as turning the wild pastures into “a glistening Eden.” Most of these places would be unrecognizable to her now; the once-wild lands sprout housing developments, retail centers and multi-acre mowed lawns in their wake.

Spiders need structure that is sorely lacking from these modern barrenscapes, where flattened turflands meet trees without anything growing in between. In more natural habitats, it’s in those middle layers where so much of the action takes place, where spiders can hang their webs from grasses, brambles, shrubs, twigs, wildflowers and stalks that are also abundant with food. The plants help the spiders, and the spiders in turn help the plants, controlling populations of herbivorous insects who might otherwise take more than their share of leaves. Birds swoop in to forage on all of them, with spiders often making up a substantial portion of the diet of newborn chicks.

Spiders are connectors, linking twig to twig and grass to grass and tree to shrub. In our habitat, where lawn has given way to meadow and young woodland, early morning autumn and spring light illuminates the work of orb weavers and sheet web weavers. Writing spiders festoon black raspberries with their huge webs, and I rarely weed among the wildflowers in late summer without coming across one. This year three congregated at once in the front garden, turning a patch of sea oats and the wild bergamot into a fatal spot for one of the season’s last Eastern tiger swallowtails. It was difficult for us to come upon a butterfly in distress, but spiders need to eat, too.

Saying Goodbye

When the sun left us and it rained for five days and nights, I worried my friend outside my window wouldn’t have any more nourishment. But late last week, the clouds cleared and the insects emerged from their hiding places. Tiny dispersing ants flew into the web, along with what appeared to be a small white moth. By the time I’d finished attending to some tree cages and laying a woodchip path through the redbud grove, I came back in the early evening to find the spider eating what appeared to be a stinkbug.

As I check on her when I get up each morning and before I go to sleep at night, I know that one day she will no longer be there, taken by frosty temperatures or old age. But somewhere around here, she has likely already attached her egg sacs to older webs or nearby plants or even to the siding on our house. In spring her sons and daughters will emerge and weave their own life stories among the planters and brambles, connecting past and present and inspiring us to keep enhancing our habitat for future generations.

Epilogue: 9 a.m., October 12: Yesterday after drafting this post, I spent one of our last warm afternoons transplanting native groundcovers by the pond. I returned in the evening to find my friend gone. One of the three threads anchoring her web to the window had disappeared, but her mysterious stabilimentum was still intact, glowing white in the setting sun.

12:30 p.m., October 12: But not so fast … She’s back! Her web remained empty all morning, but around noon I peeked out the window and found her in her rightful place. Did the mild earthquake that rattled our town in the middle of the night have anything to do with it? Did the spider feel it coming long before we did? Is that why she went into hiding somewhere? I’ll never know, but I do know she was hungry. After repairing her web, she ensnared another stinkbug and worked hard to wrap her prey:

For More Info

Many entomologists and writers have explored the wonders and habits of Argiope aurantia and related species. Information isn’t always consistent, probably because it’s difficult to study animals in their natural environment, and what happens in a lab isn’t necessarily reflective of what would occur in the wild. Still, you can get a general idea about spider behaviors and lifestyles by reading as many different sources as possible. Here are a few that cover aspects I didn’t mention here:

Bug of the Week, “Garden spiders rockin’ in the DMV” by Mike Raupp:  Among other phenomena, Mike explores web-flexing— whereby writing spiders rock their webs back and forth—and possible motivations for the behavior. His videos also show how the spiders wrap their prey.

Buckeye Yard and Garden Online: “In your face spiders and other orb weavers” by Joe Boggs: Joe provides a detailed view of web construction and prey capture; he also explains why insects might be attracted to the stabilimentum (they might think it’s a flower!).

Proceedings of the Royal Society B: “Spontaneous male death during copulation in an orb-weaving spider”: Many articles about A. aurantia mention that females at least occasionally attack and eat the males before, during, or after mating. (Males are said to even keep a “safety drop line” while courting females so they can make a fast escape if needed!) But this interesting study adds a twist: the researchers found that males who’ve successfully mated die spontaneously after inserting their second pedipalp, acting as “whole-body mating plugs” that prevent other males from mating.

Kerry’s Nature, #Arachtober series: Kerry’s Nature is a new website created by biologist and educator Kerry Wixted, who has a great love for spiders. (I’ve interviewed her in the past about ways to help people appreciate misunderstood animals like spiders and snakes: see Q&A: Tips for Addressing Nature-Based Fears.) This month, Kerry is featuring spiders on her blog as part of her #Arachtober series.

Photos and video: Nancy Lawson/Humane Gardener