I'm currently reading a great book called "The War of Art", written by Steven Pressfield. I doubt that my tiny blog will reach him at this point, but I want to give a big shout out to this guy for framing his thoughts like a magician and facing his doubts, fears, laziness and anything else that may have shown itself to him in something he labels resistance.
I'm too early in the book to call this a review, so let's call it a moment of reflection on the lessons I've withdrawn from the wisdom that he so beautifully scribed for all who would seek it to read.
Funnily enough, as I write this, I've been pulled in a few different directions that have challenged me to leave this short reflection unfinished, which would only feed the feeling like I had left something unaccomplished. I committed to writing daily some time in March and I've been giving into the pull of other things that Pressfield has so wittingly labels resistance.Starting out the book, I wanted to be assured that resistance isn't a real thing, that it's just a concept that people talk about when they're making excuses about why they haven't done things they committed to, or a way to talk around taking ownership over the choices that have been made. It was intriguing to get a few pages in and realize that Pressfield was describing things that happen to him as if they were happening to me. That's when things got interesting for me.
Half way through this book, I found myself looking inward to myself and seeking deep reflection to determine my own thruth, for our truth is written by us and us alone. As the days passed on the original idea of setting aside very intentional time to do as I knew I should and reflect inwardly on my thoughts, dreams, fears, lies and truths, I felt the pit that he describes feeling in his stomach growing.
I wasn't reading daily, like I commit to doing for my own enrichment. I wasn't allowing myself the time to care for my body. I wasn't taking the time to feed my soul with the enrichment that it so greatly deserves for the bountiful and thankless servitude it gives me without restraint.
The moment I felt that pit in my stomach growing and finally called it what it is, I realized that resistance has many names, forms and strengths and it was strangling me from the inside. This moment of truth struck me just before midnight as I was toying with the idea of going to sleep. For a moment, I almost gave into that desire, but I realized that was another trick that resistance was playing to stop me in my tracks from doing the real work that I needed to do.So, I set the intention to reflect inwardly over the night and I know I will be eternally grateful that I did.
Over the period of the night, I forced myself to stand in my kitchen, opening the windows on the cool night and letting the uncomfortable breeze flow across the floor over my bare feet. Acknowledging the discomfort of the shorts and T shirt I was wearing, I accepted this as my truth and began to pull back the layers of truth, armed with a pen and paper to capture the essence of the moment, so that I could show my muse that I am open to receiving the many gifts that it has to offer. Through the night, as time passed, I realized my hunger, which I had intentionally ignored so that I could feel more deeply the connection that my discomfort has to my mind and what the truth of that feeling means. Writing till my pen ran out, I realized that, in my discomfort, a moment of anguish had set in and that's when I was made truly aware as to the truth of my existence and the lies I told myself.
To call what I felt anguish is accurate to that moment, but the feeling was instantaneously refuted by the thought that I still had four walls around me, the assurance of safety from the natural order of the wild, an abundance of food, fresh water and clothing. I, in fact, had no idea what real anguish was and so I let that set in. Moments of great clarity like this can be rare if we let them be, and I am grateful for the fruit they bare. This moment though, was fabricated out of intentional action and deliberate thought, so I decided to take it deeper.
In my mind, I decided to explore the depths of what real anguish is and what it stems from. My cold, shivering, hungry body was not in nearly as much agony as people who endured labor camps or worse in WWII, or prisoners of war or even people born with a different lot in life. My luck determined my parents, my geography and so many other things that have determined the depth of my anguish and my ability and desire to understand what that means in understand the magnitude and diversity of the human condition and experience. This realization allowed me to begin to start peeling back the layers in my attitudes, ideals, values and my truths and as the night progressed, I found a peace that I had not felt in quite some time.
Though this is one small order of thoughts, I feel a small bit of that piece returning, because, I'm doing part of the work that I have committed to doing. Although I would love to pour myself more into "the page", I know that this is also a form of resistance, because I have many other commitments. I have yet to finish the second half of Pressfield's book, but I'll leave you with this thought in the wake of my own application to the knowledge he shared.
Resistance may well be the killer of dreams if we let it overcome us, but it is also the opportunity to grow stronger so that we can beat resistance into the ground, daily and cultivate its' remains in the form of the most potent fertilizer of all which will feed our muses so they can grow beyond our current comprehension.
Much love and, as always, be well to one another.
Thanks for taking the time to observe a small pierce of my existence.