🕸️ A Star in the Salt Marsh: The Orbweaver of Hatches Harbor

Walking back along the Hatches Harbor main trail, I wasn’t looking for a spider. I was mostly looking for a way out of the heat. At this stretch, the path runs between salt marsh and tidal flats, harshly lit, the kind of midday glare that flattens everything into high-contrast shapes. I let my eyes do what they usually do in the field, scanning for what might be out of place, for the small break in pattern that says something living is tucked into the scene.

That was when I noticed the blotch.

Halfway up a great mullein stalk, a darker, spiky knot interrupted the clean, pale stem. I first mistook it for an unopened spotted knapweed flower head, something plant-like enough to pass by. Only then did it resolve into a remarkable little spider, a starbellied orbweaver, clinging to the stalk and nearly merged with the mullein’s woolly surface. From a distance it read as plant. Up close, it became pattern.

The starbellied orbweaver (Acanthepeira stellata) is a spiny-abdomen orbweaving spider found across much of North America. It favors open, sunny habitats, where it spins vertical webs at night to intercept flying insects. Its camouflage is especially effective against stems and dried vegetation, making it well suited to exposed coastal landscapes. Like other orbweavers, it builds the familiar wheel-shaped web, though in the glare and heat of the trail hers was difficult to see and may have been partly damaged. She seemed almost part of the mullein, a small, still shape holding fast in full sun.

At first I saw only her body and the plant. She was alert yet relaxed. No obvious web cut the space around her. The air beside the stem looked empty, full of heat shimmer and insect flight but not silk. Only after I stood quietly for a while did the rest of her story emerge: a faint suggestion of threads lower down the stalk, near the leaves, where the plant’s architecture thickened. There, the web was less a perfect wheel than a blur of lines tucked into the cooler, more textured part of the plant.

The spider had chosen the blotch position, above the main web, exactly where my brain would almost, but not quite, file her away as part of the plant. What broke the illusion was the thing I rely on most in the field: the sense that the symmetry is just a little off, that one small patch of color or shape doesn’t quite belong.

I do not see this species often. In fact, this was only my second sighting, and strangely enough, the first was exactly one year earlier to the day, on the same trail! Some places seem to keep their own calendars.

📷 Starbellied Orbweaver (Acanthepeira stellata) | © Claire O'Neill, please credit accordingly. 

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Aside: why “broken symmetry” works

When you walk through a habitat, most of what you see is repeating structure: stems rising at similar angles, leaves arranged in familiar patterns, stones with consistent colors and textures. Your visual system is excellent at compressing all that into “background” so your brain doesn’t have to process every leaf individually.

Insects and spiders often survive by disguising themselves as part of that background, mimicking thorns, bark, dead leaves, or seeds, but the mimicry is almost never perfect. There’s usually some small mismatch in color, outline, texture, or orientation: a triangle where everything else is linear, a matte patch on something glossy, a curve where the plant world is mostly straight. When you train yourself to look for those tiny disagreements, you start to pull animals out of camouflage that most people walk straight past.

A simple practice: on your next walk, consciously soften your gaze and scan for “the one thing that doesn’t quite fit,” a strangely shaped knot on a twig, an extra bump on a stem, a shadow that seems too crisp. Pause and give that oddity a few extra seconds of attention. Even if nine times out of ten it’s just plant tissue or debris, the tenth time it resolves into a spider, a leafhopper, or a tucked-in moth, and your pattern-spotting gets better with every success.

On Speaking to a Room I Cannot See

Recently, I gave a virtual talk where the participants were not visible at all: no faces, no names, just my host and me, and a counter at the bottom of the screen. The experience crystallized something I have felt for a while: I am not at home in this format.

Webinars are often designed for scale and control. Everyone is muted, some formats now impose that cameras are off, and interaction is funneled into narrow channels, usually a chat box or Q&A window (as was the case here, and it caught me by surprise). From a host’s perspective, this can make sense in some situations. It prevents interruptions, protects privacy, and keeps the program running on time. But for a speaker whose core values are exchange and conversation (which was the stated objective of this talk), it removes the very cues that make communication feel alive. Without that basic human visibility, it is impossible to read the room, adjust to people’s needs, or feel that the exchange is mutual rather than transactional.

Seeing people is not a luxury; it is part of what makes communication respectful. People’s choice to keep their video off is entirely their own, and I respect that. What matters to me is that participants are at least given the option to be visible, rather than being structurally kept invisible by the format. Equally, when it is possible, I need to be able to see some of the audience. An organization’s decision about format (as in this case, my host’s organization rather than the host herself) should not make both speakers and attendees hostage to enforced invisibility.

When an event chooses a setup that hides the audience while asking the speaker to show up fully, it creates an imbalance. The speaker’s presence is exposed and accountable, while the audience’s presence is abstract and anonymous. That design choice says something about whose experience is being prioritized and whose experience is being dismissed.

Going forward, I am going to be more deliberate. Before accepting an online speaking invitation, I will ask how the event is structured. If it is a strict webinar, I may request a meeting format, or at least some way to see and hear participants during part of the session. And if that is not possible, I may choose to decline.

I do not mind technology; it is part of my background. But I mind how respectfully we use it. I mind being asked to show up fully for people who are structurally kept invisible. Respect in communication includes the simple courtesy of letting us see each other. This is not about rejecting technology. It is about insisting that, even online, we treat knowledge-sharing as a relationship rather than a broadcast.

Lives Interlaced on a Black Cherry Leaf 🐜

I had set out with a simple plan: check a bog and maybe catch sight of pitcher plants. These days, it is never a given, as many bogs are quietly drying. When I couldn’t find a place to park, I turned back, stopped the car, looked at a trail map, noticed a cluster of nearby paths, and thought, ‘I haven’t been there’, and decided to see what it holds.

That small shift led me into a mixed pitch pine, black oak, and scrub oak maritime forest. The trail opened toward an overlook of kettle ponds and parabolic dunes, their forms shaped by a steady wind moving in one direction. Simply lovely.

As usual, covering less than a mile took me a long while. Color, texture, and form in the vegetation kept asking for attention.

With pitcher plants out of the picture in this habitat, I returned to my other thread of inquiry this week: following the movements of carpenter ants and their relatives along vegetation. A black cherry caught my eye, though not at first for itself. What revealed it were the black cherry leaf gall mites (Eriophyes cerasicrumena). Lately, it is often the tracks that introduce me to the host. Tracks have become my first keys. I have grown to appreciate this way of seeing. It echoes what I often share on walks: interactions are what make worlds. What an organism is in isolation is less than what it is within its community.

I lingered on the leaves, watching the galls shift in color from cream to a deep dusty rose. Ants moved deliberately among them. When I gently touched the twig holding those inhabited leaves, the ants responded immediately, quick and purposeful in their defense.

Looking more closely, I realized that the deeper pink or mauve forms I had been noticing were not galls at all, but caterpillars.

Using a twig to keep a respectful distance, I parted the leaves slightly. The caterpillars appeared to be feeding on the gall tissue, perhaps on the tiny inhabitants of those galls. In return, I assume the caterpillars offer the ants a sugary secretion, which would keep the ants nearby and give the caterpillars a kind of protection. The black cherry provides the site and food altered by the gall mites, the mites create the nutrient-rich structures, the caterpillars exploit those structures and their occupants, and the ants patrol and defend the spot in exchange for the sweet reward. Four species, tree, mites, caterpillars, and ants, together form a small living economy of shelter, food, and defense.

Yet as I watched, another question emerged: what is the black cherry getting from all of this?

I have since logged the observations and am waiting for confirmation. Whether or not the identification holds, the moment stands on its own. It was a reminder that attention shapes what we find. Plans may guide us to a place, but it is the openness of mind and senses that reveals what is already there.

📷 Cherry Gall Azure · Azur des Phytoptes du Cerisier (Celastrina serotina) | © Claire O'Neill, please credit accordingly. 

🌸 A Hole in the Flower

While surveying late spring wildflowers recently, I paused to admire a flowering rock harlequin. At first glance, the bloom appeared unremarkable. But a closer look revealed something unexpected: a perfectly round opening near the base of one of its nectar spurs.

The flower itself was intact. The petals were fresh, the spur undamaged except for this small circular hole, as though someone had carefully punched a tiny doorway through the side.

Who made it?

The question is not easy to answer. A flower can tell a story, but it does not always reveal all of its characters.

Some insects obtain nectar by entering a flower through its natural opening and, in the process, may transfer pollen between plants. Others bypass the usual route and access nectar through openings in the side of a flower. Sometimes these openings are created by insects themselves. Sometimes they may already exist. Distinguishing among these possibilities often requires repeated observation and a bit of detective work.

What fascinated me most was not solving the mystery immediately, but noticing it in the first place.

Moments like these remind us that ecology is not only about collecting data. It is also about cultivating attention. A tiny hole in a flower can open a window onto questions of plant anatomy, insect behavior, species interactions, and the countless ecological relationships unfolding around us every day.

Many of the observations collected through EwA's field studies begin this way: with curiosity. A detail catches our attention. We ask questions. We return. We observe again. Over time, individual observations accumulate into a richer understanding of the living systems we share.

Nature rarely reveals all of its stories at once. Sometimes it offers only a clue and invites us to look closer.

📷 A rock harlequin flower displaying a small circular opening near the base of its nectar spur. Observations like this often spark new questions about species interactions and ecological relationships. Observed on June 1st, 2026 and recorded here | © Claire O'Neill, please credit accordingly.

≽༏≼ A Lady Eastern Pondhawk at Close Range

She seemed determined to land on my hand. Every time I moved it, she followed, so eventually I gave in and waited patiently until she decided she was done with me. It took a while!

The Importance of Place

Female Eastern Pondhawks seem to pick up on the territory first. A floating mat of plants matters because that’s where a male is set up, and where mating and egg-laying can actually happen. So in a way, the female is choosing a defended patch with a male already holding it, not just picking a mate out in the open.

What seems to matter most is the quality of the site, how well the male holds it, and whether the patch is worth guarding. A good little raft of vegetation probably means both a solid male and a good place for eggs.

In short, the floating plant mat is doing more than just floating there. It’s part of the whole mating setup.

📷 Eastern Pondhawk · Érythème des Étangs (Erythemis simplicicollis) | © Claire O'Neill, please credit accordingly. 

Threaded Things

On my way to Ptown, binoculars in one hand, checking the surf just in case, my head wrapped in the harmonies of Abel Korzeniowski, I am catching up on some reading about termite societies. Then I remembered: termites have not only a queen but also a living king. They pair for life and spend their entire reign together in the royal chamber.    

In my mind appeared a busy colony, underground or hidden deep within a mound, its different castes working together to sustain the whole. Then, as the violin crescendoed, the little king suddenly stepped into the foreground of my imagination. That image made me smile. And then, unexpectedly, it made me tear up.

Go figure.

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📷 Not a king or queen, but just as captivating, likely a worker caste individual, possibly the Eastern subterranean termite · Termite à pattes jaunes (Reticulitermes flavipes) | © Claire O'Neill, observed Apr 25, 2020 · Medford, MA, USA

To the Women the Land Knows

As I approach my sixties, I find myself reflecting on a life lived as a woman in fields long dominated by men. For decades, I led in technology while, in parallel, cultivating another life rooted in learning from the natural world. Eventually, I left a corporate environment that clashed with my values and too often failed to recognize the contributions of women, and stepped more fully into the work that had been calling me all along.

Today, I am a woman naturalist with French and Breizh roots, spending nearly every day in the field, learning from the land, and sharing what years of attention have taught me.

I came to natural history through decades of attention. I was always a nature explorer in the truest sense of the word, not to conquer, not to collect trophies, but to be in relation. The formal naturalist work came later. The knowing had been accumulating all along.
  
The naturalist world is no different from many others. Women continue to navigate patterns of erasure and exclusion that are often subtle, yet deeply entrenched.

That experience is not mine alone. There has been some progress, and I can see it in the work of women who have reshaped parts of this field from within. Look at the legacy of primatologist Jane Goodall, the work of forest ecologist Suzanne Simard, and many others who have been steadily shifting what counts as knowledge and who gets to produce it.

But in everyday community life, the imbalance remains. Subtly yet persistently, women naturalists are still overlooked. We lead the walk, and someone else gets the microphone. We build the knowledge base, and someone else publishes the interpretation. We have been doing this work, patient, relational, reciprocal, for as long as there has been ground to tend and seasons to read. And still we are asked to justify our presence in the land we never left.

In our field, perhaps more than ever, the collectors of names are celebrated over the keepers of relationships, those who connect species to place, season, memory, and community. That too is a form of erasure.

We are keepers of time. We read the season before the calendar catches up. We know the first spring ephemerals, the first wood frog call, the first insect emergence, not as data points, but as obligations, as relationships, as the texture of a world we have committed ourselves to paying attention to, a language learned through years of observation and data that deepen attention rather than define it.

We are holders of knowledge, not the extracted, transactional kind, but the kind that accumulates through return, through presence, through caring about what happens to a place across years and decades.

We are guardians of reciprocal traditions, ways of being in relation to land and life that predate the institutions that have so often failed to see us.

This is not new. It carries the long shape of erasure.

Jeanne Baret from France, the first woman to circumnavigate the globe, disguised herself as a man just to board the ship and do the work. She collected thousands of botanical specimens along the way. The flowering vine she helped bring to scientific attention was named Bougainvillea, after the expedition leader, not after her.

Beatrix Potter from the United Kingdom brought rigorous scientific attention to mycology at a time when the Linnean Society would not admit her. Her research on fungal spore germination had to be read aloud by a man because she could not present it herself. She is remembered for her illustrations of rabbits, not her scientific work.

Rachel Carson from the United States spent her life studying marine ecosystems with patience and precision, then wrote a book that shifted the course of environmental policy. The response from industry was not to engage her science, but to dismantle her credibility as a woman, as an alarmist, as someone presumed to have no authority in the natural world.

Ynes Mexía from Mexico and the United States, a Mexican American botanist and field explorer, collected more than 150,000 plant specimens across the Americas, with major work throughout Mexico and South America. Her contributions to botanical knowledge remain far less visible than the scale of her work would suggest.

And in our own time, forest ecologist Suzanne Simard from Canada, whose research reshaped how we understand forests as interconnected living systems, continues to defend and reinforce the legitimacy of that work while still navigating resistance to its full acceptance.

These are not exceptions. They are the structure, repeating across places and ecosystems. From European forests to North American coasts, from Latin American mountains to global voyages shaped by colonial expeditions, the pattern holds. Different landscapes, same pattern of recognition and erasure.

And still the women go out. Still, they crouch at the edge of the vernal pool. Still, they photograph, record, annotate, remember. Still, they teach their children, their neighbors, their communities, outside the institutions that do not invite them in.

The land does not overlook them. The moths come to those who wait. The wood frogs call on the same March nights they have always called, and there are women who have been counting those nights for twenty, thirty, forty years, without grants, without titles, without anyone handing them the microphone.

I came to this field late by some measures. Not late by mine.

I have been exploring since I can remember, crouching beside things, staying still long enough for the world to forget I was there, learning names and, more importantly, their stories, not to own what I encountered but to be in better relation with it. The phenological work, the protocols, the careful recording of first emergence and last call, all of that came with time. The attention was always there.

And so I know something about what it means to carry knowledge that institutions often dismiss, to do work that does not always come with a title, to love a field that has not always made room for you, and to use the rigor of data and long-term observation to help widen what counts as ecological understanding.

I write this for the women who are still out there at first light, in the rain, on their knees beside something small and extraordinary. Named and unnamed. Credentialed and not. The ones the poster does not feature and the ones the land has always known.

You are not the assistant on this walk.

You are the ones who know.

© 2026 Claire O'Neill. Text and photographs by the author. All photographs feature friends from the Earthwise Aware (EwA) community.