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I am someone who believes that it is never too late to evolve. I think you can in fact train a seasoned creature, on the condition that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. As long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was wrong, and strive to be a better dog.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am trying to learn, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my whole existence. My ongoing effort … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. This includes on three separate occasions in the recent past. In my own living space. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least attaining a baseline of normalcy about them.

I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any directly, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the living room surface. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it ran after me), and discharging half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or living with was, as a matter of course, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I emitted low keening sounds and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my method was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

Recently, I visited a pal's residence where there was a very large huntsman who made its home in the window frame, for the most part lingering. To be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. It sounds extremely dumb, but it worked (a little bit). Put another way, the deliberate resolution to become more fearless worked.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I recognize they eat things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, non-threatening to people creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the most terrifying and almost unjust way conceivable. The appearance of their numerous appendages carrying them at that terrible speed causes my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that increases exponentially when they move.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them 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 employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are furry beings that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and taking it outside” stage, but miracles happen. Some life is left within this seasoned learner yet.