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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to evolve. My view is you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the mature being is receptive and eager for knowledge. As long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a more enlightened self.

Well, admittedly, I am the old dog. And the trick I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have battled against, repeatedly, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic about my capacity for development as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the previous seven days. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but my project has been at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had plenty of male siblings around to make sure I never had to handle any personally, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, almost into the next room (in case it chased me), and spraying a significant portion of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, as a matter of course, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I produced low keening sounds and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to forget about its being before I had to return.

Recently, I visited a pal's residence where there was a notably big huntsman who resided within the sill, primarily hanging out. In order to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us chat. It sounds quite foolish, but it was effective (to some degree). Or, making a conscious choice to become less scared worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the sensible justifications not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the world's exquisite, benign creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the deeply alarming and borderline immoral way imaginable. The vision of their numerous appendages carrying them at that alarming velocity causes my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they are in motion.

But it cannot be blamed on them that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I have discovered that taking the steps of making an effort to avoid instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” stage, but miracles happen. There’s a few years within this seasoned learner yet.