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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to evolve. I think you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the old dog is receptive and eager for knowledge. So long as the person is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have grappled with, frequently, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my capacity for development as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. This includes a trio of instances in the last week. In my own living space. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

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

A deep-seated fear of spiders since I was a child (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to handle any directly, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (lest it pursued me), and discharging a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or sharing a home with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore responsible for managing the intruder, while I emitted low keening sounds and ran away. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to leave the room, douse the illumination and try to ignore its presence before I had to re-enter.

Recently, I visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the window frame, primarily lingering. In order to be less scared of it, I imagined the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us chat. This may seem quite foolish, but it was effective (somewhat). Put another way, making a conscious choice to become less scared proved successful.

Be that as it may, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like buzzing nuisances (the bane of my existence). It is well-established 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 almost unjust way imaginable. The appearance of their multiple limbs carrying them at that frightening pace induces my ancient psyche to go into high alert. They claim to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they are in motion.

However it isn’t their fault 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 trying not to instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and intentionally reflecting about their good points, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are hairy creatures that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and motivated by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever attain the “scooping one into plasticware and relocating it outdoors” phase, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.