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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to transform. I think you truly can instruct a veteran learner, as long as the old dog is receptive and eager for knowledge. As long as the person is ready to confess when it was wrong, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am attempting to master, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the last week. Inside my home. You can’t see me, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but my project has been at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any personally, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (in case it pursued me), and discharging a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and irritate everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whoever I was dating or living with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I produced frightened noises and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my method was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to forget about its existence before I had to return.

Recently, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the window frame, mostly just hanging out. In order to be less fearful, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, one of us, just lounging in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. Admittedly, it appears quite foolish, but it was effective (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become more fearless did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they eat things like insect pests (creatures I despise). I am cognizant they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to move like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and somehow offensive way possible. The vision of their multiple limbs propelling them at that frightening pace triggers my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They are said to only have eight legs, but I believe that triples when they move.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that implementing the strategy of working to prevent have a visceral panic reaction and retreat when I see one, trying to remain calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and motivated by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” level, but one can't be sure. There’s a few years for this old dog yet.