How My Fear of Spiders Helped to Awaken My Buddha-Nature

Have you ever championed a belief so wholeheartedly except for one tiny, inconvenient case? That was me, the do not kill precept, and spiders. Ever since childhood, I have been particularly perturbed by household spiders. Ants, beetles, and other creepy crawlies were easy to ignore or gingerly take outside, but there was something about spiders that I just couldn’t stomach. I didn’t approve of myself crushing them, but I would still quickly do it and then try to forget about doing so before I could feel too bad about it. When I discovered Buddhist philosophy in young adulthood and dove enthusiastically headfirst into Buddhism’s teachings on compassion and nonviolence, I simply ignored its application to spiders. This was easy enough, until I became surrounded by them.

Last year I received an opportunity that seemed too good to be true: living at a dharma center in central Massachusetts. As their working guest, I would spend one glorious month living in the countryside, contributing to the upkeep of a sacred place that helps people practice, rest, reflect, and leave as better people, while I simultaneously did so myself. I arrived giddy with excitement and gratitude. It was August, and the surrounding farmlands were lush and rolling like endless emerald green carpets. The retreat space felt like a warm hug: cozy, accepting, safe, and exuding kindness and refuge to all who showed up, including spiders.

And there were spiders everywhere. They must have realized that they could coexist with us, unbothered, at this center, and so had spread the message amongst themselves. They were so ubiquitous there that it would be unusual to find an empty corner uninhabited by one of the quiet little eight-legged guys, suspended between the walls. I didn’t mind seeing the spiders; knowing that I couldn’t kill them, and that I also didn’t want to kill them, I was able to view the experience as exposure therapy. Well, except in one place: my bedroom.

When I noticed the first barely conspicuous spider in my bedroom, I convinced myself that I could ignore it, because it had picked a corner behind my desk. I couldn’t see it, so I might as well forget about it. The same was more or less true for the spider beneath my sink. But then there appeared one in the closet, and he risked falling into my clothes; there appeared one beneath my pantry, and she risked getting into my food; and there appeared one in the doorway of the bathroom, which I had to stare at while taking a shower. I must admit that all I wanted to do was crush that spider under a box of Kleenex so I could relax in my space 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 instantly done in any other bedroom on the planet. The first great vow of the bodhisattva rang in my ears: Sentient beings are innumerable, I vow to save them all. My awe at these teachings was what brought me to the center in the first place. Thus, it was only fitting that my principles were now being tested during this retreat. Spiders are, and always will be, part of the “all.” Could I live with them or not?

The passing days revealed to me that with my current perspective toward spiders, I could not live with them—I constantly felt on edge, unable to concentrate, nervous that they would move toward me and crawl on me or my belongings. When looking at them, I felt deep unease, even disgust, an overwhelming urge to crush them and speedily end my discomfort, immediately followed by guilt for even having those thoughts in a space like this. Maybe the spiders were showing me that I wasn’t a real Buddhist. But at the same time, I knew that ignoring or quelling my distaste also wouldn’t make me a real Buddhist. If I just forced myself to act comfortable when I wasn’t, I would be deluding myself and the spiders. Instead, I would have to change the story I currently held about them. I would have to take radical action to stop tolerating them and start viewing them as beings that you don’t merely tolerate but that you cherish: friends.

I knew that I couldn’t ease myself into befriending the spiders, because then it would never happen. I would never feel ready. Instead, I would have to put the last step first: I would have to decide they were my friends NOW, already, and trust that my comfort level would soon catch up to this decision. After years of fearing them, I opened myself up to befriending the spiders.

I began by taking a deep breath each time I walked into my bedroom and then greeting the spiders aloud: “Hello, spiders! How are your days going?” And every time I passed one, on my way from the pantry, to the closet, to the bathroom, I looked right at them and said, “Hi! What’s new in that corner? Anything I should know about?” Before turning out the lights each night, I announced, “OK, goodnight everybody! I’m going to bed. Feel free to come out and do whatever it is you do when I’m not looking.”

My new routine felt a bit ridiculous, and it by no means cured my arachnophobia overnight. But I knew that beneath the silliness, something profound was taking place. A seemingly silly shift—choosing to greet the spiders the way I would greet anyone else pleasant and harmless—stripped them of their previous monstrousness. Not because anything had changed about them but because I made a change. In choosing to take just one clear, tangible action that aligned with a kinder perception of them—chatting with them—I naturally changed my perception, and I changed their role in my story. I told myself that the same way I interacted with them, they interacted with me, and maybe they could sense my new openness toward them, and develop comfort with me or a fondness for me. 

“Hello, giant!” “We appreciate this giant—her long curly dark hair, striped pajamas, and especially the popcorn she drops everywhere!” Maybe, I told myself, at the end of my monthlong tenure, they would notice that I was gone, that a different giant was living here instead, and they would miss my familiarity and feel nostalgic for our time together. (OK, that last part might be a stretch, but—why not?) In choosing to think in this way, I was able to break through my aversion to spiders and to live, really live, alongside them.

I can always choose to view someone or something differently, to choose how I relate to it, and that choice determines the role it will subsequently play in my story.

This shift I undertook at the center exemplified many of the teachings that brought me there, perfectly fittingly; first, that unhappy resignation, or forcing myself to feign comfort, was not going to save all sentient beings, because I still need to take care of me! But also that true compassion is boundless—it permits space for the spiders and for my feelings. Being brave enough to counter fear with compassion enabled me to gently reframe, rather than ignore, the tension between them and me. As a result, it became possible to view the spiders curiously and openly, and experiment with being friends—a gift to them, because they wouldn’t get killed, and a gift to me, because I wouldn’t have to live in torture. I recognized the limitless gift I possess to shape my own reality. At first, I felt powerless to the spiders I couldn’t kill. But I maintained the agency to view them differently. I can always choose to view someone or something differently, to choose how I relate to it, and that choice determines the role it will subsequently play in my story. I know now that I am a real Buddhist—everyone is, if they want to be. It’s all about the choices we make on how to engage our minds, because these choices set the stage for our relationships in the outer world. Including our relationships to spiders!