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I am someone who believes that it is forever an option to evolve. My view is you truly can train a seasoned creature, on the condition that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. As long as the old dog is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and endeavor to transform into a more enlightened self.

Alright, I confess, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, something I have battled against, often, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of the common huntsman. My regrets to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be realistic about my potential for change as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. Encompassing a trio of instances in the last week. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining Normal about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the same room 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 made its way onto the living room surface. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (in case it chased me), and emptying half a bottle of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and irritate everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or sharing a home with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I emitted whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, plunge the room into darkness and try to erase the memory of its being before I had to return.

Recently, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the sill, mostly just hanging out. In order to be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a gal, one of us, just lounging in the sun and listening to us yap. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it worked (a little bit). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become less scared did the trick.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I understand they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way imaginable. The sight of their many legs carrying them at that frightening pace causes my caveman brain to go into high alert. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they get going.

But it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are furry beings that scuttle about at an alarming rate in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when fear has clouded my judgment and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” level, but you never know. There’s a few years for this veteran of life yet.