I admit that my first instinct is to kill an insect, any insect, when the sight of its tiny black body appears in my line of vision. Though I have taken several vows “not to kill” in the chants I’ve chanted and the empowerments I’ve participated in, and I fully, truly, really understand the “all God’s creatures, all sentient beings, we are all—animal, mineral, vegetable, insect, plant and human—irrevocably interconnected” concept, I still want them to know better than to inhabit the same space I do. Especially when it’s my kitchen, or my bedroom!

I’m afraid of bugs. I always have been. All but the lovely ladybug, having been instructed early on, by my mother, who was also afraid of bugs and many other things, that they are, like the dove, “good luck.” I will even tolerate one crawling on me, down my arm, between my fingers, cringing just a little before I gently guide her to the window I am opening with my free hand, so I can lead her to the freedom and the appropriate environment I am sure such a lovely lady deserves.

As a child I dreamed often of swarms of bugs on my mattress, my pillow, my blanket, engulfing me, covering me in thick layers of inescapable, mass-moving, scurrying darkness . . . with no escape. If I had ever lain on a psychoanalyst’s couch, I’m sure she or he would have had a field day with that disclosure.

How did a fruit fly find its way into my bathroom? That tiny speck, no larger than the dirt I’m washing away from under my pinky nail, commands my visual attention, so out of place on the yellow tiled wall above the white porcelain sink. I look away, wash my hands; it’s still there. Why? I understand it, and its entire extended family, taking off in little cliques from the figs I left on the dining room table that are now sitting in a delicious pool of ruby syrup. I’m used to the fact that they’ve multiplied in the green plastic compost bucket on my counter, and expect the little swarm that ascends when I lift the cover to add vegetable and fruit peelings and the leftovers left too long in the fridge. I wave them away and sometimes try my hand at catching one, just for a second, before releasing it. After all, I took a vow.

Now, the spiders: I can’t kill them, either, but to be honest, not because of the vow. They’re often too big and I couldn’t bear the squish. Also, I tell myself they’re my allies, catching other bugs that would do more harm to my sense of beauty and my well-being, so they can live. But I’m scared of them, too, and I know they don’t respect the contract, because they have bitten me at night. Waking with the telltale red bump or two, confirming that they boldly crawled across my body while I slept in innocent trust, is the ultimate betrayal.

And then there are the ants. Sometimes a loan scout will scuttle across the tiled kitchen counter or scale the perimeter of my sink. Sometimes a few will be exploring at the same time. My online research told me a mixture of dish soap and water in a spray bottle would do the quick kill trick; death by soapsuds didn’t seem too cruel to me. The site also assured that spraying the general area with the mixture would signal to those waiting to receive the scout’s report that this was hostile territory. It worked (and sometimes still works) for a few days, but it has made me vigilant, as well as an even more careful kitchen cleaner. But then I stumble in to flip the switch on the electric teakettle to start my day with my steaming cup of black tea—lately it’s the special Earl Grey from Berlin that I received as a Christmas gift—and there’s a virtual community of them gathered and moving in formation on the counter, or even farther away, on the chopping block right next to it. What are they after? How the hell did they get in? And why won’t they stay away so I don’t have to face my moral dilemma nearly every morning?

Now I just use my thumb for the one or two I see. I am always aware that, with just this one digit, I am killing a living creature; a highly organized and community-oriented one, and that there’s a certain power in my decision and my action. I try to imagine the proportionally sized “finger” that could squash my life in a split-second, and I can’t. What might kill me is taking its not-so-sweet time. So I exhale, make my tea, and once again, make peace with my imperfect self.