If you've ever tried to put a cat in a tub of water you understand the complexity of redefining yourself. You begin by holding it close to your chest and stroking its fur to initiate a feeling of calm, and trust. As the basin starts to fill you feel the first hint of resistance, either in the tensing of muscles, or an abrupt halt to the purring.
You hold the cat a little tighter, and turn your back to the tub in an effort to coax your kitty back to calm, but it fails because the threat of change has already been perceived. The cat is still allowing your cradling, and for now, it's body maintains its replication of a horseshoe hung upside down. But this cat's no fool, and wasn't tricked by your 180-degree realignment. Its little head is stretched as high as it can be lifted on the neck to keep an eye on the basin from over your shoulder. Something doesn't feel right.
Luckily, you're no fool either, so before you turn back around to turn the water off the arm you've been using to cradle the kitty, clamps down. You've done this enough to anticipate the struggle that's coming, and of course, it does. The instant you reach for the shut-off valve that cat's in the shape of an "S". His head is upright and turned back toward the water, and his front claws are threatening to break skin on your shoulder. His lower extremities are still shaped loosely like a horseshoe as the bottom claws search for their point of take off, and the instant he feels your second hand return, and take hold, they make their stab, and they're in. Game on.
The next several minutes will be spent in a rudimentary game of chess that matches your strategy to extract said kitty against his to remain dug in, and it's usually approached one claw at a time, like a game of Twister. Front Left paw, elbow-Back Right claw, nipple, and so on. This game is usually won by the cat. Tactical measures are often ineffective where complete redirection is needed. A complete redirection of anything usually requires something swift, and unseen. That's when you tighten your opposable thumbs around the cat's chest like a vice, and remove it, and all four claws, with one decisive yank. The cat gives in and accepts its fate, and goes to his happy place until you're done. Game over.
It doesn't matter if you've done this a thousand times before, or once. The cat never sees the tub of water, gives you a loving lick on the hand for being a thoughtful owner, crawls from your arms, and slides into the water. Not even if, once in the water, he kind of enjoys it.
Transitioning away from anything familiar to something unknown will always be met by some level of resistance. Even if the choice between the two appears obvious: Spouse who abuses you for the one who will love you. A history of self-sabotaging failures for an opportunity to successfully employ your talents. A reservation in Hell for a place in Heaven.
Every step we take toward the exposure of what's been buried in us, and what's remained pure, will be matched by two going back toward our inability to believe it. Even if we didn't order the steps in that direction.
Sometimes you just need to dig your thumbs into what's holding on, and yank.
