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This is a lesson I’ve learned hundreds of times in hundreds of ways, but the one way that stands out to me is yoga class.
It was a beginner’s class, and, while I wasn’t new to the practice or philosophy of yoga, I wasn’t very good at it, either. I had mixed feelings. Some of the poses seemed wonderful. They made my body feel relaxed and energized at the same time, and gave my spirit a lovely lightness and clarity. There were others that were more of a struggle—less comfortable or pleasant.
Then there were the ones I hated. The ones I would pray my teacher wouldn’t get to that day. Poses that made me feel stiff, awkward, gawky, and ridiculous. Poses that felt neither relaxing nor energizing, just icky. Instead of feeling my spirit lighten during them, it would seem as if I’d hit a giant mound of spiritual crap that I couldn’t even imagine crossing.
I was facing one of those heaps of spiritual detritus one day, when my yoga teacher told me something I already knew but needed to hear—yet again—in my life: The thing you resist most is often the thing that has the most to teach you. It is a lesson I’ve taken with me in all aspects of my life, including my writing.
Resistance comes up in my writing often. I’ll be typing away feeling as if the universe is pouring words into my ear and they’re flowing right out my fingers, and then—sometimes quite suddenly—it will all come to a grinding halt. There I am, halfway through a story and, instead of flying, I’m wading through sludge. Often, I start doubting myself. I begin to wonder if the story isn’t a bad idea after all. I find myself wondering if I shouldn’t work on something else instead. I want to give up.
That’s when I go back to my yoga teacher’s words: The thing you resist most is the thing that has the most to teach. I ask myself, “What am I resisting here? What buried feelings, memories, fears, or questions are getting in my way? What is this resistance trying to teach me?”
In yoga, you don’t force things. If your body isn’t ready to bend a certain way, the last thing you want to do is push it into place. Instead, you apply steady, gentle pressure. You focus. You keep at it, without anxiety or frustration or ambition, and eventually you realize you’ve mastered the pose. Without knowing how, you’ve learned. And now, instead of feeling awkward and miserable, it feels glorious.
When I feel resistance getting in the way of my writing, I don’t put pressure on myself or engage in self-recrimination. I acknowledge my resistance. I accept it for what it is. I relax into the words on the page and let them lead me. Most of all, I practice patience. When I am ready, the resistance gives way. As it does, I always find myself in a place of new clarity and understanding. And, just like that yoga pose I finally master, it feels amazing.
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