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I maintain the conviction that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. Provided that the old dog is willing to admit when it was wrong, and strive to be a more enlightened self.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am trying to learn, although I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, something I have grappled with, often, for my entire life. I have been trying … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing three times in the last week. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but my project has been at least attaining a baseline of normalcy about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to handle any personally, 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 still asleep, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “dealt” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (in case it pursued me), and spraying a generous amount of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or living with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I made frightened noises and fled the scene. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to ignore its presence before I had to enter again.

Not long ago, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who lived in the sill, primarily lingering. To be less scared of it, I imagined the spider as a female entity, a girlie, part of the group, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us chat. This may seem rather silly, but it worked (somewhat). Or, actively deciding to become more fearless proved successful.

Regardless, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I know they prey upon things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). I am cognizant they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the deeply alarming and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their many legs carrying them at that alarming velocity triggers my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I maintain that triples when they are in motion.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – perhaps even more so. My experience has shown that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has actually started to help.

The mere fact that they are fuzzy entities that dart around extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by irrational anxiety. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and escorting it to the garden” stage, but you never know. Some life is left for this veteran of life yet.