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I am someone who believes that it is always possible to evolve. My view is you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the experienced individual is receptive and willing to learn. As long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and work to become a better dog.

OK yes, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am trying to learn, although I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, something I have struggled with, often, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to develop a calmer response toward the common huntsman. My regrets to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded 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. This includes a trio of instances in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

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

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to confront any personally, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it chased me), and spraying half a bottle of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I made low keening sounds and ran away. If I was on my own, my tactic was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to ignore its presence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who lived in the window frame, primarily lingering. To be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us gab. This may seem extremely dumb, but it was effective (a little bit). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they prey upon things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the deeply alarming and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their multiple limbs carrying them at that frightening pace triggers my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that triples when they move.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, trying to remain composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are furry beings that move hastily with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and driven by baseless terror. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and taking it outside” phase, but you never know. A bit of time remains for this old dog yet.