A resistance to change is a resistance to life itself.

If that statement prompts uncomfortable feelings, you are not alone. It seems that a great deal of what we do, and pursue, in our lives is in fact resistant to the intrinsic nature of life. Thinking about it honestly it’s hard to deny that life is change, hence the many variations of that observation and its expression by poets, philosophers, intellectuals and artists the world over.

There are, of course, changes we accept fairly easily, or at least grumble about less, because we perceive that they benefit us and are generally positive. And then there are the changes and the changing nature of what we prefer that we resist, sometimes to our detriment. I’m trying at any given moment (as I’m fairly certain you are) to exert some influence over how and when change impacts me, and that is not only understandable, but often necessary for my survival both real and perceived.

When I think about the idea that resistance to change is resistance to life itself, and that death is the ultimate change, our resistance all along the way would thereby seem to ensure that when the time comes it will be all the more difficult. I don’t mean to infer that death would somehow not be difficult at all if we weren’t resistant to change, but rather the more frequently we unconsciously brace and maneuver against other inevitable life changes (in relationships, grief, age, and illness for example) the harder we are making it for ourselves and others. And given that culturally we are death phobic, it makes sense to me that a general aversion to change over lifetimes and generations, has been a significant factor in our great fear of death and our struggles with feeling our grief and having it supported when our loved ones die.

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A poet whose work I love died recently. I was lucky enough to hear them live as part of a spoken word evening when slam poetry was just becoming a thing years ago. I told Kissie about it. Now, as I’m trying to place when something happened, the passage of time is marked before and after her death.

“When nothing softens the grief, may grief soften me.” -Andrea Gibson