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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to transform. I think you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, as long as the mature being is willing and willing to learn. Provided that the individual in question is willing to admit when it was wrong, and endeavor to transform into a more enlightened self.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am trying to learn, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, a feat I have battled against, repeatedly, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. Including a trio of instances in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but I’m shaking my head at the very thought as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). In my formative years, I had plenty of male siblings around to guarantee I never had to engage with any personally, but I still freaked out if one was visibly in the same room as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, almost into the next room (in case it ran after me), and discharging a significant portion of pesticide toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or sharing a home with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I produced whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to re-enter.

Not long ago, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the casement, primarily hanging out. As a means to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, one of us, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us gab. This may seem extremely dumb, but it was effective (somewhat). Or, actively deciding to become less phobic proved successful.

Regardless, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I know they prey upon things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the deeply alarming and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace causes my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I maintain that triples when they get going.

But it is no fault of their own that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are furry beings that dart around with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they deserve my hatred, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by unfounded fear. It is uncertain I’ll ever attain the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” level, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains for this veteran of life yet.