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I maintain the conviction that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you absolutely are able to train a seasoned creature, as long as the mature being is willing and eager for knowledge. Provided that the person is ready to confess when it was wrong, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am trying to learn, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have struggled with, frequently, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the other spiders that exist; I have to be grounded about my capacity for development as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. Including on three separate occasions in the previous seven days. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

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

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any personally, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the same room 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 living room surface. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (in case it ran after me), and spraying half a bottle of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it did reach and irritate everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whoever I was dating or cohabiting with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of handling the situation, while I emitted low keening sounds and beat a hasty retreat. If I was on my own, my method was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I visited a companion's home where there was a very large huntsman who lived in the window frame, for the most part lingering. As a means to be less fearful, I envisioned the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and overhearing us chat. It sounds rather silly, but it worked (a little bit). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic proved successful.

Be that as it may, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way possible. The appearance of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace triggers my ancient psyche to go into high alert. They are said to only have eight legs, but I believe that triples when they are in motion.

But it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are hairy creatures that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, does not justify they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I can admit when my reactions have been misguided and driven by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” stage, but you never know. There’s a few years within this seasoned learner yet.