"The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it." - Steven Pressfield
Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art will help you finish what you started by inspiring you to overcome the self-sabotaging power of Resistance. - from John Moore, BrandAutopsy [This resistance of our call phenomena is known as the Jonah Complex.]
Silly me. Last week's smooth sailing had me thinking that perhaps for the first time during a Dwelve creative process I'd come up with a plan I absolutely loved to implement and execute so wholeheartedly that there were no lingering doubts or fears holding me back. My god this is a breeze. Simply effortless, I thought. The last stage, Translation, is where you put your breakthrough ideas into a plan of action. It is typically harder than it sounds because Resistance rears its ugly head. It can be subtly sly.
On one hand, I can't spot an ounce of fear. But there is a nagging thought I can't shake. Am I watering down the plan into a more palatable undertaking? I can't help wondering if I'm not sidestepping the full call by (metaphorically speaking) busily scribbling a plan to open a cafe for writers rather than pursuing the call to write for my own self. What am I resisting?
I find I want to cling to an identity that is slipping away that gave my ego nice big strokes and plenty of coddling. A friend changes jobs last week in order to simplify his life and get out of a high-stress high-bureaucracy environment. He has a lot less responsibility now. He admits he is misses not being the "go-to man" anymore. I know exactly what he means. Egolessness is tough when I think I am my ego.
Another friend is interviewing. He's currently in a work situation well-known in Silicon Valley - he's working for stock, period. He is lukewarm about a recent interview. It's a great company but the (paying) job position isn't as good a fit. He mumbles that he has a lot of financial responsibilities right now. I note a look of resignation.
Resistance has many faces. I can't afford to creatively write, I too say to myself.
Can I afford not to? the Voice whispers.
I'm slouched in the black leather chair. All the cafe tables are occupied at Borders today. I have a stack of writing books piled on the floor and I'm absorbed in The Writer's Market 2005. The gentleman next to me says, "Are you a writer?" "I write some, yes." He shares his dreams of documentary film-making. He loves conducting interviews. He's thinking of returning to India this winter to do some filming. I can't tell if it's a fantasy or reality. The conversation soon turns to his software start-up.
Nothing materially tangible has held much value to me since the tsunami, yet I was pleased to have my long-lost journal returned to me via mail from the bungalow operatars on Koh Phi Phi. The card they inserted read:
Good luck. Hope you win the award for your book! - Guy and Marie Pia
What?! I'd said I was writing a short story for a contest...I never mentioned anything as absurd as writing a book.
But there it is. Did I mention this before? Sometimes I forget what I've written in the blog and what entries I compose in my head and later forget to write. I search and see I've started to write about the business card tucked in the journal several times before. I've never hit publish.
A friend rhetorically asks months ago: Don't you think it's meaningful that the single thing you've gotten back thus far is your journal?
I'd forgotten myself what I'd written within. Perhaps the kind bungalow operators weren't reading my mind - perhaps they've read the journal...
December 24, 2004. Last night I woke up to pee and then couldn't go back to sleep. I thought about (AND THIS IS DEFINITELY AN OMEN) the book.
I'd woken up in the middle of the night December 23rd with the image of a memoir outline. I now recall laying awake for a moment, then inching across the rust-colored tile floor at the Seasons Bungalows clutching my journal as I headed toward the bathroom. I practically never wake up in the middle of the night. (Yes, I could sleep through a tsunami.)
A rough outline of the book follows in the journal pages. I had a sense then that the ending of the memoir hadn't happened yet. The arc of the story is a work in progress I wrote. I'd outlined turning points in the last few years. Little did I know that another turning point in the unfolding story would occur days later. Yet, it's still not 'done.' I wrote then:
I feel a slight inkling/nudge to finish book in India (not sure what the 'ending' would be).
Hmmm, I'm returning this winter to the Indian Ocean region. India's on the list. It's all part of the plan I'm writing. Perhaps I'm not veering off, not running away if I can keep the larger vision intact and allow my ego to cool.
December 24th is the last entry in that journal.
There are days I ponder how I can throw away a perfectly good computer engineering education and years of keeping up on the bleeding edge of technology. When I'm honest, I can see myself the passion is waning all on its own. That is all I need to know. Today in my email inbox I read:
Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely. - Auguste Rodin
What matters is that I digest and integrate the experience. The twinges of regret are losing its hold on me.
Those roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am procrastinating this morning. I pull up the 800-CEO-READ blog. This is what I read:
Just as musicians must make music, poets must write, and artists must paint, we all have a unique gift designed for a specific vocation that will bring both meaning and purpose to our lives. True joy and happiness will continue to elude us until we use that gift to become who we were born to be. - Brian Souza, Become Who You Were Born to Be
Later, not knowing why, I open a page in "What We Ache For: Creativity and the Unfolding of Your Soul" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. The words pierce through me:
The more skill you use, the further you'll be
from what your deepest love wants. - Rumi
On the first day of the incubating retreat (a.k.a.
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