Have you ever stood up to a belief so wholeheartedly, except for one small, inconvenient instance? It was me, the do not kill order, and spiders. Since childhood, I have been particularly bothered by household spiders. Ants, bugs, and other creepy crawlies are easy to ignore or cautiously take outside, but there was something about spiders that I just couldn’t digest. I didn’t approve of breaking them, but I did it quickly and then tried to forget before I felt too bad about it. When I discovered Buddhist philosophy as a young adult, and enthusiastically bought into Buddhism’s teachings on compassion and nonviolence, I simply ignored its application to spiders. That was pretty easy until I got them around.
Last year I received an opportunity that seemed too good to be true: lives in a dharma center in central Massachusetts. As their working guest, I spend a glorious month living in the countryside, helping to maintain a sacred place that helps people exercise, rest, reflect and leave a better person as I did. I arrived giddy with excitement and gratitude. It was August and the surrounding farmlands hummed lushly like endless carpets of emerald green. The shelter was like a warm hug: intimate, accepting, safe, and radiating kindness and shelter to all who came, including the spiders.
And there were spiders everywhere. They must have realized that they could live with us undisturbed in this center and thus spread the message among themselves. They were there so much that it would be unusual to find an empty corner that wasn’t occupied by some quiet little eight-legged fellow within the walls. I didn’t mind seeing the spiders; Knowing that I couldn’t kill them and didn’t want to kill them, I was able to see the experience as exposure therapy. Well, except in one place: my bedroom.
When I noticed the first inconspicuous spider in my bedroom, I convinced myself that I could ignore it because it had chosen a corner behind my desk. I couldn’t see it, so I might as well forget it. This was more or less true for the spider under my sink. But then one appeared in the closet and risked falling into my dress; one appeared under my pantry and risked getting into my food; and one appeared in the bathroom door that I had to stare at while showering. I have to admit, all I wanted to do was crush that spider under a box of Kleenex so I could relax in my seat and go about my business.
But I was in a sacred dharma space. I didn’t have the heart to do what I would have done immediately in any other bedroom on the planet. The bodhisattva’s first great vow rang in my ears: Sentient beings are innumerable, I swear to save them. It was my devotion to the teachings that brought me to the center in the first place. So it was fitting that my principles should now be put to the test during the retreat. Spiders are part of “everything” and always will be. Can I live with them or not?
The days that passed revealed to me that with my current view of spiders I couldn’t live with them – I constantly felt like I couldn’t concentrate and was nervous that they would move towards me and climb on me or my belongings. When I looked at them, I felt a deep uneasiness, even disgust, an overwhelming urge to smash them and end my discomfort quickly, followed immediately by guilt for even having these thoughts in such a space. Maybe the spiders showed me that I am not a true Buddhist. At the same time, I knew that ignoring or suppressing aversion did not make me a true Buddhist. If I forced myself to act comfortable when I’m not, I’d be fooling myself and the spiders. Instead, I have to change the story I currently have about them. I would have to take radical steps not to tolerate them and consider them as beings that you not only tolerate, but cherish: friends.
I knew I couldn’t ease myself into making friends with spiders because then it would never happen. I would never feel ready. Instead, I should take the final step first: decide that they are my friends NOW, and trust that my sense of comfort will soon catch up with that decision. After years of fearing them, I opened myself up to befriending spiders.
Every time I entered my bedroom, I took a deep breath and greeted the spiders loudly, “Hello, spiders! How’s your day going?” And every time I passed one, going from the pantry to the closet to the bathroom, I’d look right at them and say, “Hi! What’s up in that corner? Anything I need to know?” Before I turned off the lights each night, I announced, “Okay, good night everyone! I’m going to bed. Feel free to come out and do whatever you do when I’m not looking.”
My new routine felt a bit ridiculous and by no means cured my arachnophobia overnight. But I knew there was something deep going on beneath the silliness. A seemingly silly switch—when I decided to greet the spiders as I would greet anyone else, pleasant and harmless—had stripped them of their former monstrosity. Not because anything has changed about them, but because I have. If you choose one clear, tangible action that aligns with their kinder perception of them—chat with them – of course I changed my perception and changed their role in my story. I told myself that in the same way that I communicated with them, they communicated with me, and perhaps they sensed my new openness to them and could develop a comfort or love for me.
“Hello, giant!” “We appreciate this giant – his long, curly dark hair, his striped pajamas, and especially the popcorn he drops everywhere!” Perhaps, I said to myself, if at the end of my one month’s tenure they notice that I am gone, and another giant lives here instead, and they will miss my acquaintances and become nostalgic for the time we spent together. (Okay, that last part might be a stretch, but – why not?) By thinking this way, I was able to overcome my aversion to spiders and live with them, really live.
I can always choose to look at someone or something differently, I can choose how I relate to it, and that choice determines what role it will play in my story later on.
This shift I undertook at the center perfectly exemplified many of the teachings that led me there; First of all, that unhappy resignation, or forcing the pretense of comfort, will not save any sentient being, because I still have to take care of me! But also that true compassion is limitless – it gives space to spiders and my feelings. Being brave enough to face my fear with compassion allowed me to subtly reframe rather than ignore the tension between them and me. As a result, it allowed me to look at spiders curiously and openly and experiment with friendship—a gift to them because they don’t kill me, and a gift to me because I don’t have to live in torture. I realized the limitless gift I have to shape my own reality. At first I felt helpless against the spiders I couldn’t kill. But I retained the agency to look at them differently. I can always choose to look at someone or something differently, I can choose how I relate to it, and that choice determines what role it will play in my story later on. Now I know that I am a true Buddhist – everyone is if they want to be. It’s all about the choices we make about engaging our minds, because those choices shape our relationships with the outside world. Including our relationships with spiders!
