The many faces of Resistance

What is it pointing you towards?

Photo by svklimkin on Unsplash

The voice is quiet, yet insistent.

It arrives when your resilience is low—most often deep in the night. You hear it when you need to do something that requires effort, that, in some small or a large way, will be life changing. Anything, in short, that requires us to make ourselves visible, be open to criticism or judgement, anything that puts us in a position of vulnerability; anything that behoves us to do any kind of internal work, to step up or dig deep, to mine for our true expression or expose what we think, believe, desire or dream.

It might be the start of a fresh venture; it might be embarking on a new habit (especially one that needs discipline). It might even be something as (apparently) superficial as picking up the phone to call the plumber.

That voice you hear in the night. It’s the whisper—or even the roar—of resistance.

It’s a voice you know intimately. You might hear it as a constant soundtrack to your life. It creates a barrier to the very change you want to see or make in yourself or the world.

If resistance has a voice (or is a voice), it also has a force, an energy. It’s possible to feel it viscerally: there’s a pull, almost physical, towards one thing (the fresh venture; the new habit; the creative project) and one, just as strong, that holds you back. You feel it keenly in your body, something like a knot in the stomach or a contraction in the chest.

This discomfort (physical, emotional, mental) is so big that you can’t continue. Or you can’t even begin. You find a hundred reasons for not continuing (or beginning) and at the same time feel the acute frustration of not having done what you wanted. You cycle, again and again, through desire and longing, discomfort, rebellion and self-criticism, beating yourself up that you couldn’t continue, or you couldn’t even begin.

If this is you, you’re not alone.

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I know it well, this looping pattern of resistance. It accounts for the many abandoned pieces of writing that currently litter my laptop. Continuing and completing this writing requires courage but I also know it will improve my life, bringing with it the deep satisfaction that accompanies liberated self-expression. How is it, then, when I’m faced with things that are most important or potentially transformative, I find myself stuck?

The most basic of reasons, of course: fear.

It’s fear that underscores the work on any creative project, which is perhaps where we hear the voice of resistance most insistently (I know I do).  In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert maintains that such fear ‘will always show up—especially when you’re trying to be inventive or innovative. Your fear will always be triggered by your creativity, because creativity asks you to enter into realms of uncertain outcome and fear hates uncertain outcome.’

Why does this fear, manifesting as resistance, hold such power over us?

Because it is connected to our fundamental desire to belong. We don’t want to look foolish; we’re afraid of upsetting those around us and being rejected (and from an evolutionary perspective, being rejected meant being ejected—from the herd, from the very people who ensure our survival).

Other reasons: we’re afraid of failing. We’re afraid of the very improvement we so desire because it means life will never be the same again. It means we need to tiptoe, as though crossing a minefield, desperately seeking the open spaces that won’t blow up our lives. Most of us don’t want to blow up our lives; we want things to stay the same. We want the certainty of survival.

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Steven Pressfield has deconstructed this phenomenon in The War of Art: Winning the Inner Creative Battle, which outlines the many ways Resistance shows up (note that Pressfield denotes it with an upper-case R). I came across this book about twenty years ago and have been recommending (and re-reading it) ever since. Using the central metaphor of war, Pressfield positions resistance as an adversary, describing himself gearing up for a writing session like a solider going into battle.

Resistance, as Pressfield tells us, possesses sneaky qualities and any number of forms. But if its voice speaks to us of the fear of failing, of being alone and disconnected, it also touches on love. ‘Resistance is directly proportional to love,’ Pressfield writes. ‘If you’re feeling massive Resistance, the good news is, it means there’s tremendous love there too. If you didn’t love the thing that is terrifying you, you wouldn’t feel anything. The opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference.’

Even as I’m grateful for Pressfield’s analysis in The War of Art, I don’t believe resistance exists solely in the realm of war.

For me, these many faces of resistance recall Janus, the bearded god of Roman mythology whose gaze points in different directions (mostly two, but in some representations four). We encounter Janus on thresholds and above doorways, sitting in judgement, as though asking: are you (the newly-arrived traveller) an enemy or a friend? The answer to this question dictates the nature of your onward journey.

Janus is the overseer of doorways, gatekeeper to transformation and a presider over time and dualities. In this sense, Janus (from whose name we derive the month of January) represents new directions; beginnings.

Photo by Andreas Brunn on Unsplash.

What if, during this January, we began to think about Resistance in a new way—as representative of plurality; as a pointer towards new directions, towards the route we are called to take (even if we can’t yet fully see it and don’t understand where it leads)?

What if resistance, like Janus, were to preside over the possibility of our transformation?

How can we see resistance as a gateway to something else: a more expansive way of being, a way of moving into the wholeness not just of our expression but our total self? How do we live with, circle around, accept and invite in resistance?

We don’t try to ‘beat’ it or win the war. We accept it as an inherent part of the process we’re undertaking. We graciously notice it but don’t let it take over. We make space for it, acknowledge it. It’s not going away any time soon, so we might as well make it welcome and integrate it into our experience.

Resistance can function as a sign-post; a wayfinder mark on a walking trail. If we follow, if we trust, we can discover the inner riches—not just of the message itself but the soul-fortifying experience of overcoming our tiny individualism and accepting the ‘something bigger’, the thing beyond us; the thing we are capable of bringing to the world.

So, here’s a question: what is resistance pointing you towards?

And: which direction will you take as you pass beneath the stony, bearded statue of Janus and over the threshold of your own transformation?