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resistance

I resisted writing this blog entry all day yesterday. I resisted so much that I didn’t do it. I haven’t really figured out why yet.

I could’ve made time. Sure, I had boxes stacked up on top of each other all over the house — the moving truck arrived Tuesday night with all of the things from NYC — and I needed to get sorted out. But this practice of mine nagged at me all day long, the reminder of it wafting into my mind every hour or so with thoughts like “when are you going to get that written and what are you going to say” attached to it. I kept pushing them away. My will wanted to empty more boxes, to decide where everything goes, to get the physical organized so I could think again, to make everything perfect.

There’s absolute validity in all of that, just as there is in most thoughts and feelings. And I don’t really know whether to be disappointed in myself for not writing even one word or not. The frustrating thing for me right now is, I know very well that this house is never going to be perfect, and though I may seek some sort of perfection, I only set myself up for disappointment through that search and also let this (just as, if not more, important) ball drop. Nevertheless, she persisted…

How do I feel about breaking deals with myself? How do I feel about letting my will take over when I know it just wants to control everything rather than allow presence of mind and a cool relationship to chaos?

Turns out, not good. And I know that because I think I dreamt about writing this, and I woke up at 6AM (no alarm) with it on my mind. I heard the birds outside the window, I heard my husband’s breath, but I also heard “get it done” in my own internal (mostly bitchy) voice.

A year ago I wrote about Steven Pressfield’s “The Art of War,” which I’d just read. I think about that book a lot — I internalized its messages, which fit nicely beside my own — those messages of no excuses, of doing what it takes, of not resisting, of making friends with the notion of doing hard and sometimes frustrating work that will possibly end up in the deleted files — I haven’t forgotten it in the slightest. This morning I tell myself that I should read it again (when we get the books unpacked, of course), maybe as some sort of punishment for my slacker behavior here. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter whether or not I could think straight yesterday. I know that isn’t necessarily true, that for equanimity to exist, the circumstances have to be at least somewhat conducive to calm. Moving house certainly doesn’t create that — in fact, it removes stability and takes everything off axis, resetting things so tentatively, at least for a few days, that it all feels like an elephant balancing on a marble. I spent yesterday trying to get the elephant off of the marble. She’s still up there…

Maybe today we’ll roll the marble out the door. This missive is the first step to reclaiming smooth ground. Aha…

Peace, love, and Happy Thursday,

AM