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I am someone who believes that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the experienced individual is willing and willing to learn. Provided that the person is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and work to become a more enlightened self.

OK yes, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am attempting to master, although I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, a feat I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward the common huntsman. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my capacity for development as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. This includes a trio of instances in the previous seven days. In my own living space. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least attaining Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to handle any personally, but I still panicked if one was clearly in the general area as me. One incident stands out 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 “dealt” with it by retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it pursued me), and discharging a significant portion of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whomever I was in a relationship with or cohabiting with was, as a matter of course, the bravest of spiders in our pairing, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I produced frightened noises and ran away. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I stayed at a pal's residence where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the casement, mostly just stationary. In order to be more comfortable with its presence, I imagined the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and overhearing us gab. It sounds extremely dumb, but it had an impact (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become less scared did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I understand they prey upon things like flies and mosquitoes (creatures I despise). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the deeply alarming and almost unjust way possible. The sight of their numerous appendages propelling them at that frightening pace triggers my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They are said to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that multiplies when they move.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid immediately exit my own skin and run away when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, does not justify they warrant my loathing, or my shrieks of terror. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and fueled by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever reach the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” stage, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains left in this old dog yet.