Dear Athena, I’m not totally sure there’s any point in me writing to you… Once you’ve cottoned onto who I am, you’ll most likely throw my letter away without reading a sentence more than you have to.
Still, I thought it was worth a try; you don’t ask, you don’t get and all that. I’m running the risk that you’ll find me presumptuous, but you’ve already punished me for over-confidence and I don’t see how things could get any worse.
So, here goes: remember that weaving competition we had? You know – the one where I won, you tore up my work and then turned me into a spider? Yes, it’s me – hello again! Please keep reading!
Basically, I was wondering if there’s anything that we can do about this whole spider situation because, to tell you the truth, I’m not really enjoying life in my new form. My friends scream whenever I come into a room; I keep tripping over my own feet; and I really miss weaving in colour.
I realise that I’m caught in a web of my own making. I shouldn’t have boasted. I shouldn’t have challenged you. Surely a few weeks of eating flies is enough for me to have learnt my lesson? I promise I’ll be much more careful about what I say from now on. Is there any way that I could get a second chance? Even if you won’t change me back, could you at least turn me into something more appealing, more fun even? I wasn’t made to be a corner dweller, endlessly churning out the same boring tapestries. Please please please could you turn me back? –lost_my_thread
Athena says: You hesitated over writing to me, and I have wavered over whether or not to respond. This is a side of myself that I prefer to keep from my readers – and potential correspondents. I worry that it is difficult to connect the stern, punishment-bestowing deity with the kindly, wisdom-dispensing goddess they know and love.
The main reason that I have put these concerns aside is that I am keen to set some things straight. You have spun this tale so that it conveniently leaves out details which reflect poorly on you.
We did indeed find ourselves bound up in a battle of looms, but this was only one of the steps on your journey to taking on your eight-legged form. It all began with a boast – which I know you have actually acknowledged before anyone gets all pedantic…
It’s one thing to be a talented craftsperson, aware of your gifts; it’s one thing to be proud of these gifts; to be pleased with the work that you produce. It is quite another to be so impressed by your own achievements that you brag about being a better weaver than the divine patron of your art… (in case anyone is unclear, that patron is me).
Our contest was only one of the steps on your journey to taking on your eight-legged form
After making your hubristic declaration you may remember a conversation you had with a concerned old woman (also me), who suggested that it might be a good idea to apologise to Athena for your arrogant behaviour, perhaps even offer her some of your weaving to make amends. Did you heed this advice? No. Instead, you repeated the insult.
Only then, after a double injury to my honour did I feel that I had no choice but to hold our contest. What you fail to understand is that the point of this competition was not to establish which of us is the better weaver. You were – and are – incredibly skilled. I never denied that. My hope was that you would gain the capacity to respect, admire, appreciate the work of others.
One significant detail that you seem conveniently to have forgotten about our competition is what you chose to weave. While your work was faultless, witty, and beautiful, the heinous and shameful manner in which the gods were depicted could not go unpunished. In many ways you should count yourself lucky that I tore it up before any of my more vengeful colleagues could see it.
My hope was that you would gain the capacity to respect, admire, appreciate the work of others
Now, do not be mistaken into thinking that my reaction to your weaving was one of anger due to its embarrassing portrayal of me – although I must concede that it did not help. As I have already said, my aim was to teach you to bring a new humility and respect to your artistry in addition to your remarkable abilities. As this contest was clearly an ineffective lesson, I felt compelled to take extreme measures.
I wonder if you have come across my exchange with @can’tdoathing_withmyhair? Perhaps this is what inspired you to write to me, discovering as you must have done that I do on occasion regret my life-altering punishments. Of course, what that post also reveals is that I am utterly powerless to reverse what I have done. You have cleverly anticipated this by suggesting that I turn you into something “more fun”. I’m afraid that I have absolutely no intention of doing so.
You claim to have learnt your lesson but it is obvious that you have not. Do you really think that the point of this exercise was for me to soothe a bruised ego, which – by the way – I do not have, by watching you sit in a corner eating flies and scaring people? That my aim was to make you “more careful about what you say”?
There is beauty everywhere, both in a lavish, colourful tapestry and in the simple gossamer geometry of a spider’s web
In fact, I was hoping that you would find your way back to the idea of weaving for weaving’s sake. That you would realise that the only validation you need is your own. That you would discover that there is beauty everywhere, both in a lavish, colourful tapestry and in the simple gossamer geometry of a spider’s web. I have been disappointed once again, and so I think it’s time for the two of us to cut ties.
It might not feel like it in this moment, but I do wish you well. Your letter to me might not have delivered what you were looking for, but I think will end up being good for both of us; a chance to weave in our loose ends. Now that you know that your new form is permanent, it might be easier to make the best of it. It’s not the life that you were expecting to lead, but I’m sure you’ll soon find that you are capable of producing terrific, even radiant, things, or is that another story…?
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Dear Athena 