I am locked in a fight with Resistance. She’s been kicking my ass for a while. Resistance lobs grenades at me, mortar shells, spit balls, and mean names. She shows up at my door every evening with a bottle of cheap wine and a stink bomb, hidden in bunch of fake roses. Every day she says: not here. Not now. Not you.
Resistance tells me to relax. Watch a movie. Smoke some weed. Take a day off, take a load off, take a vacation. Take a life off. Resistance whispers in my ear that I am not quite ready to do my life’s Work. Who are you, she says sarcastically, to do this? When I get riled she says hey, hey, don’t take it so personal. You can start your life’s workâ€¦tomorrow. Or the next dayâ€”I hear the weather’s supposed to be good on Thursday. Or maybe, the day after that.
There is nothing in the world I want more than to do this Work. I am scared shitless because it seems so big and I want it so bad. Every day I don’t do it is a day consumed by frantic distraction. I don’t want to remember that it is still there, just patiently waiting for me to do.
Resistance is wrecking my sleep by keeping me from doing what I want, what I need, to do. To rise to my calling. To realize my life. The pressure has been mounting and every day I feel a little more anxious, a bit of a fraud. And now here I am, with exactly the perfect place, enough time, and all the support that I needâ€”to begin what will surely be a long and difficult and confounding and transformative task. If and when this Work is ever ‘done,’ I surely won’t be the me I am now.
I am as ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve had it up to here with being bullied by fear.
To Resistance I have only this to say: Fuck off. I have Work to do.
<<With a deep bow to Stephen Pressfield and The War of Art>>