The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.” Steven Pressfield
Resistance will not beat me today.
I am feeling resolve. Finally, I am finally sick and tired of my own bullshit.
I finally see that I’ve yielded to resistance. I’ve let it lead me. I even rolled out the red carpet for it. Placed my hand in it’s creepy, cold hand, as it smiled it’s twisted smile and nodded to me in approval. I have fully given myself to resistance, not even aware of the magnitude of this choice . If I am ever to become unstuck and succeed, I must make some different choices.
For keeping me stuck, however, it does the job perfectly.
Thank you for helping me, resistance. I am ready, now, to set you free.
Thank you, Steven Pressfield for bringing this to my awareness. (see War of Art, by Steven Pressfield)
Okay, so now what? I’m here staring at this blank page right in it’s blank, white face.
“Don’t take it too seriously. Don’t take myself too seriously. Don’t let up. Learn to be miserable. Learn to love being miserable.” Wow. Love being miserable? I never imagined that as a destination. Yet, I know there is a truth hidden in there.
As Steven describes the professional and the amateur, I am keenly aware that I am the amateur. The professional, I’m trying on that outfit right now. It feels strange and looks awkward on me. But, it’s very sexy – I dig it. I can imagine exciting travel, joy, fun, and aliveness in my future, should I choose to inhabit this outfit.
Aha, but here it comes again, I feel the dark, heaviness, and smell the sickening stench of the resistance and it’s cold, creepy, deadness approaching, coming to wrap it’s tentacles around me and hold me tight, as it has every day, for as long as I can remember.
Even saying hello, even walking down the street and not falling in the hole, it’s still too much. It’s like smoking cigarettes, or being pregnant. I either do/am, or I do not/am not. I can’t stand with a leg in each world. I must choose…blah, blah, blah…see, here, now – this is resistance – this mental masturbation crap. If I don’t let it in the front door, it’ll sneak around to the side door, the fucker. I must be water tight, as a frog’s ass. I must put my head down, keep writing and not create so much as a fissure for it to enter.
I’ve invited it in, as it showed up to my days cloaked in mystery, romance and magic. The angst, the struggle of art and creativity, it’s just so romantic. I love that stuff, but I see now that unbridled, it serves only as fodder in the context of my work. There is a time and a place to revel in the miracle those are, however, the workday is not it.
The next contraction is here. Picking me up and shaking me like a present. The resistance is here banging on my awareness again.
This time, it’s showing up as extreme sleepiness. Eyes so heavy…
The first hours of cessation – they’re so wrenching and painful – now giving too much attention to them. Just like quitting smoking. I must remain steadfast, knowing that the crescendo of the assault is yet to hit. The pounding waves in my face that will steal my breath and sweep my legs from under me – I know this dance – and, I will win, for I am finally sick and tired of my own bullshit.
