I’ve been reading an amazing novel recently, Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. If you’ve not yet read it, indulge yourself; it’s like sugar to a sweet tooth.
As I was contemplating one of the chapters I finished today, the thought resistance is futile came up for me rather strongly. I had this sort of thing come up in one of my ayahuasca ceremonies, as well.
The mother vine taunted me after I felt comfortable enough to whisper with my inside voice, I got this.
Oh, you got this, she retorted? It was said in unison by a 1000 different voices. Different, but the same.
It was terrifying. No, I changed my tune, I don’t got this!
It’s tough to see it in this world of doing. We are so born into this idea of making something of ourselves, that it’s hard to see anything else.
My friends even encourage me with questions:
how’s your writing going?
when are you going to publish a book?
Of course, they mean well; they’re just as conditioned as everyone else (present company included). However, there is a seed of misery in their good-will: if you don’t do something, you are nothing.
Misery, that is, if I allow myself to buy into what the world is constantly selling.
In the book, one of the characters, Tereza, just flows. For her, love is enough. She’s not building her empire. She just wants to build her life with and around a man (who happens to be having multiple affairs which he doesn’t particularly hide very well).
I don’t know how this character fits into this particular theme at this moment. And I am surrendering to having this piece of writing not hold any real coherence.
Coherence is mutilation. Give me disorder.
It’s a line (or close to it) from one of my favorite little articles. Read here.
What I get from it is that we move around this world thinking “we got this” (or, at least many of us do); as if, this whole existing thing makes any real fucking sense. We spend our time building sand castles along the coast, pretending like we’re 50 miles inland.
I’m not saying we should stop building sand castles, either. I’m saying that we should stop pretending that they’re not sand castles.
That they won’t be disappearing.
(And this is definitely meant as a bit of a double entendre with the whole climate change thing happening, as we may be disappearing, as well.)
So, I’m trying to subtract. I’m trying to return to seed; to mush.
There is a huge drive within me to become something, and I’m trying to fight that urge. The problem: RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.
Why am I fighting this urge? To see what’s on the other side! The book is about heaviness and lightness. I feel like our culture for too long has been valuing one over the other. (Which one, though, huh?)
I don’t want to fight my urge to become something. I want to just be more aware of the forces that seek to control me; that own me.
Hence, the illusion of free-will.
The more I try to remove the shackles of my imprisonment, the more imprisoned I become (not unlike the paper objects we played with as children, where you put your fingers inside, and the more you twist to get out, the tighter it becomes).
Resistance is futile.
Even resisting resisting is a form of resistance.
Ugh. How very trappy.
So, what’s left to do?