To resist… or to not resist…That is the question!

It’s definition word time.

 

To resist … or to not resist.  That is the question!

 

To resist is ‘to withstand, strive against or oppose’.

 

I love exercise – all forms of it. I tried Yoga once, but it hurt, it made me feel stupid, I wasn’t good at it, I don’t bend, I can’t reach my toes, I can literally do a side bend for one inch…

 

So I resisted it…   For a long time.

 

Funny how we resist the things we need the most?

Amazing how the universe provides the things we need the most at the time we need it.   One of the parents at Tom’s school has recently opened her own Hot Yoga practice right next door to the school and it had a fabulous article in the York Press yesterday.

It was a sign. It was a sign for me to sign up.

I did.

I still can’t bend…. And I had to use a block, several sometimes…

But I didn’t feel stupid. I felt good.

Why have I resisted this for so long?! I needed the warmth for my stiff muscles. I needed the breathing to release the tension. I needed the headspace to let my thoughts drift away…

It was brilliant and I will be going back.  (http://hotyogayork.co.uk/)

 

I also discussed resisting people either in a work or social capacity with a friend over lunch. People who you feel uncomfortable with in their presence. I commented that it could be that they do, or say, things that aren’t in line with your own values… so they don’t feel like they fit with your life…   And as values change over time, perhaps that’s why some friends are transient.

 

She made the interesting point that we resist some people because on some subconscious level, they reflect something inside us that we don’t like about ourselves or didn’t like about ourselves in the past. So we resist the person or the situation as it makes us uncomfortable as it magnifies what we don’t like about ourselves…

 

Carl Jung says ‘ What you resist, persists’…

 

And I believe that. The more you resist something, the more you want it! A bit like chocolate when on a diet or wine on a detox!

 

The more you push something away, the more you think about it, the more energy you give to it…   and therefore the more focus you give it.

 

So to release the pressure that comes with resisting, you have to let it go. It’s a bit like my stiff muscles in my yogic poses! The more I resisted the pose, the more I found I couldn’t move… and yet when I breathed, relaxed and let it go… the resistance left and I felt at peace…

 

Looking back, I resisted the grief for the loss of my Mum and the sad situation we find her in, I fought it… tried to push on through. The more I pushed the anguish down, the more I fed the pain…

What you resist persists

When I recognised it and met it face on, I was able let the pain out, I felt release. I felt calm.

 

To Resist.

 

Far better to step in, face the resistance and release…

 

 

A bar of Menier… and the heart

A bar of Menier … and the heart

I love dark chocolate. Cold. Hard. From the fridge. I have a secret stash… I have to train my mind to forget where I hide it… I love the bitter sweet taste of it as it melts ..

It is a strange love… because it is one that was born out of secrecy and stealth. Mum always had hidden chocolate. Loads of it. Piles of posh chocs in the dining room… that were hers… and hers alone.

So my sister and I wouldn’t dare go near that pile… but I wonder if she ever knew that the Menier Chocolat Patissier, in its bright green paper wrapping, in the top compartment of the fridge used to deplete little by little, tiny square by tiny square over time… Her prize cooking chocolate, our consolation prize for not being allowed the treats gathering dust in the dining room, their boxes less shiny from the dust… but would show our finger prints!

So as I sit here and munch on my modern day G&B 85% (Morrisons had run out of Menier), I look at the picture I drew earlier today… part of my homework!

When I worked with my coach about how I wanted to shape my future, she asked me to bring in something that was special to me. I took my favourite piece of jewellery, the delicate Tiffany necklace that James gave me for our first Christmas in 1998. I have never seen anyone else wear one the same… it has 5 miniature Tiffany Hearts along a delicate chain. I love it. Other than my children and the cat, it would be the one thing I would run to save from a fire…

I started thinking about hearts.. and I realize I have them all over our house! Most of the door knobs and cupboard doors have a little heart on them; our Christmas decorations are hearts…   I doodle hearts when I am bored in meetings!

So I decided to draw a heart… a real one… to see if I could see how and why the modern day heart is drawn as it is.. A quick sketch… while Tom drew Owen Farrell (the England Rugby Kicker) ..

And while we were drawing, both curled up on the sofa with our pencils, Olly Murs came on the radio… ‘I drew a broken heart… right on your window pane’…

So I hacked my heart… What would a real broken heart look like?

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And as I drew a jagged, ugly, stapled scar right across it… it got me thinking that we all have had our hearts broken… or at least all of us non-psychopathic people… for broken hearts can be from anything from your first break up to your last, from lost babies, lost parents, lost friends… to when your child looks out of the class room window with tears and snot streaming down their faces as Willy did today, to the haunting memory of your Mum through locked doors and secure glass…

But each of those breaks, those dagger wounds… heal. They start open, bleeding, raw… but the human body, the human pschye is incredible…. Because we are self healing. We patch ourselves up with bandages, staples, stitches… until the muscles weave back together and mesh, bond, mend. They leave a scar, but along with the painful memory, it is a mark of success. A mark that we overcame something that hurt, but that we are stronger for it.

And they soon fade… the ones of my childhood as the goldfish died, the ones of my teenage years as we lost our first lacrosse match, the ones of my young adulthood as my first love said he no longer loved me in the car on the M40 just by the Watlington turn off…. The ones of my parenthood from losing multiple babies…. The scars are there… but softer, pinkish, faint.

Sometimes during the healing process… if you rush it, if your stitches and staples are sloppy, not given enough focus… another hurt, another bash or bruise, can make the scar open up again… just like a zipper! With the staples pinging off all over the place… blood gushing out, squirting like one of those funny scenes in ER or Greys Anatomy which always have me squirming and laughing as they all shout ‘Gauze! Get me gauze!’…

Those moments can leave us shouting ‘get me the wine! Lots of it!’… but it’s a bit like the gauze, it can only soak up a little bit of the pain… before you need to get back to work and heal properly… and only time can do that and hard work, reflection… and patience…. And compassion… for yourself.

For the only person that can heal your heart, is you.

And maybe a bar of Menier….

A-story-that-says-I-survived