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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to evolve. My view is you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the old dog is willing and willing to learn. So long as the individual in question is willing to admit when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am attempting to master, although I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have struggled with, frequently, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of 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 imposing, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. This includes a trio of instances in the last week. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but my project has been at least becoming Normal about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any myself, but I still panicked if one was obviously 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 retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it chased me), and emptying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, by default, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I produced low keening sounds and beat a hasty retreat. 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 return.

In a recent episode, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the sill, for the most part stationary. To be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a gal, part of the group, just relaxing in the sun and overhearing us chat. This may seem quite foolish, but it had an impact (a little bit). Put another way, the deliberate resolution to become less scared did the trick.

Whatever the case, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way possible. The sight of their numerous appendages propelling them at that terrible speed causes my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have unnerving limbs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found that employing the techniques of trying not to immediately exit my own skin and run away when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

Simply due to the reality that they are furry beings that move hastily with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever attain the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” phase, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains left in this old dog yet.