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I am someone who believes that it is always possible to transform. I believe you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the experienced individual is willing and ready for growth. As long as the person is ready to confess when it was wrong, and strive to be a more enlightened self.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am trying to learn, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have battled against, frequently, for my all my days. I have been trying … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Apologies to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. Including a trio of instances in the last week. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who find them delightful). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to guarantee I never had to handle any personally, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the same room as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it pursued me), and spraying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, by default, the bravest of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I made whimpers of distress and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my tactic was simply to vacate the area, douse the illumination and try to ignore its being before I had to enter again.

Not long ago, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the window frame, for the most part hanging out. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and overhearing us yap. It sounds rather silly, but it worked (to some degree). Alternatively, making a conscious choice to become less phobic did the trick.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I am cognizant they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to move like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The appearance of their numerous appendages transporting them at that terrible speed induces my ancient psyche to enter panic mode. They claim to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I believe that multiplies when they get going.

But it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that taking the steps of working to prevent immediately exit my own skin and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that dart around with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my girly screams. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and fueled by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” phase, but miracles happen. There’s a few years for this veteran of life yet.