When We See Ourselves in Others, We Stop Hating

“When you see yourself in others, it is impossible to hurt anyone else.” Buddha

I watch the octave of legs run fearlessly toward me, and my gut reaction is to flinch. Something deep within, some primitive part of me, imagines the spider is dangerous. Reason, however, insists that since I’m in England, where most of these creatures are safe to be around, I’ve nothing to worry about.

I’ve met many people who insist they hate spiders, and maybe it’s because they can’t relate to them. They look so dissimilar to humans, darting about haphazardly and spinning webs to catch their prey, that spider-haters fear them.

Fear so often becomes hate, and we tend to fear what (or whoever) we don’t understand.

We never truly know anybody as well as we know ourselves, and even then, perhaps we lack knowledge. As such, we easily slip into a state of tension when we come across anyone alien to us. Their appearance, habits, and beliefs are unfamiliar, and being near them rips us from our comfort zones.

If lucky, because we’ve traveled or been around new people often for other reasons, interlopers might arouse our curiosity. We want to know them better, and our attempts to understand them help us connect. They lose their strangeness, and we lose traces of fear.

But what if we’ve led sheltered lives and met few people who are different from us? What then? We may fear strangers (people very dissimilar to us) and consider them dangerous.

“Quick! Stamp on it,” a visiting pal shouts, pointing at the creature.

But I’d never do that because I relate to the spider as a sentient being with thoughts and feelings.

“Get the vacuum cleaner and suck it up,” my friend continues, shuddering in the corner.

Horrified at the idea, I, too, shudder. But I recognize she’s afraid and wants to eliminate her fear, a common view among those meeting unusual strangers with unfamiliar behaviors and looks.

Although wars are often fought over land and morality clashes, fear can prompt aggression. People want to get rid of whatever scares them the most, and they are most scared of the unfamiliar. They might worry that strangers will take what they imagine is theirs and keep it for themselves or steal their way of life. Or they might fear for their life, imagining the strangers will take that, too.

“Get it away from me.” Now my pal’s screeching. I suggest she go to another room while I handle the issue. As I watch the spider, who, by now, is motionless, I’m at ease. I have time to observe it hunched near its web, minding its own business.

We’re sometimes happiest with unfamiliar people when they are at arm’s length or, most notably, much further afield in what we might call “their places.” They are particularly perceived as less of a threat when out of sight.

My pal, now in the kitchen, shouts, “Want a coffee?” I peep through the half-closed door and note her hand shaking as she pours boiling water into the pot.

“It’s just a spider,” I say.

“I don’t care. I hate it. I can’t go back into the room until it’s gone.”

I once dreamt I saw myself in everyone I met. For a split second, their faces shared some of my features before changing back to their own. That morning, I tried to recapture the sensation of knowing everyone was a reflection of me.

The funny thing is, for several days, I caught glimpses of myself in real people’s faces, like when dreaming. On each occasion, I was taken aback at how alike we all are when we perceive one another this way. We realize everyone wants the same as us: to be happy, healthy, and loved.

We’re all going about the complicated job of being human, encountering challenges, and struggling to meet our needs. We love the feeling of acceptance, warmth, and companionship. We want shelter, food, and kindness. And the list could go on. We’ve surely got more in common than not.

“Have you done it yet? The coffee’s nearly ready.” The voice whimpers from the kitchen as I consider what to do.

I hear myself say, “Won’t be long,” and play with the words. “Be long. Belong. Won’t belong.”

Anyone can find themselves in an unfamiliar place where they are a stranger. They become the ones receiving glares from locals who don’t know them and imagine they could be a threat.

How frightening it must be to be the stranger in town when others, locals, think you don’t belong. I’m most comfortable amid nature because I feel at home strolling along dirt paths and clambering over country gates. I dislike finding myself among cliques of people, little groups of folks who know each other so well that anyone outside the group doesn’t belong.

“I’m taking mine out the front.”

My pal scuttles out of the front door and parks herself on a wooden bench to create distance between herself and the spider.

I recall the time a giant spider ran across the carpet late at night while I watched a movie. Horrified, I picked up my feet as my heartbeat quickened. When it came closer, however, I saw lots of tiny spider babies on its back as it hurried under the television cabinet to safety. It was caring for its young, just like people do, and wanted to ensure they were secure.

The first time I met somebody from a notorious biker gang, my heart raced. He was big and burly, covered in tattoos, and wore leather from head to foot. He strolled over to me and said, “Have you got the time, please? I mustn’t be late. I’m throwing a party for my grandma. She’s 89 today!” My expectations were shattered in an instant. In front of me was a kind pussycat who wanted to please his grannie, not a dangerous rebel.

I sigh. It’s now or never, and my coffee is getting cold. But before I take action, the spider runs toward me again, and my heart lurches.

My dog once joined a biker gang, albeit for an hour or so. We were in a large alehouse celebrating Christmas. It was crammed with revelers, mingling and laughing, hugging and giving each other best wishes. The gang, however, sat apart from everyone else, perhaps not out of choice. It’s more likely that people had moved away from them because they were unfamiliar.

My dog, however, saw them as people, not as a gang, and happily trotted over to them. He made a fuss of them, and they returned the favor. Pretty soon, they began to call him their mascot. Upon witnessing my furry pal being petted and spoken to softly, some of the folks who previously stayed away approached and wished them good tidings.

The spider stops running, suddenly aware of my presence. So, it wasn’t darting toward me as an act of hostility, after all. I recognize how silly I’ve been to think it meant me harm and recall how much bigger I am than it. Surely, I pose the most significant threat, and it’s probably afraid of me. How can the creature possibly know who I am, my intentions, and whether I’m a hazard?

I take a deep breath, swallowing my fear, and place an upturned glass over my eight-legged acquaintance. Then I empty him into the back garden.