In 1988, U2 released the album Rattle and Hum, and it quickly became part of the soundtrack of my youth. Maybe because it was a wildly successful album, and I listened to it so frequently, the phrase has stuck with me: Rattle and Hum. I’m unsure what motivated the band to choose that particular title—but I’ve highjacked the phrase and assigned my own meaning. Let me explain. I’ve noticed that when I attempt difficult things that require self-control—say, exercise or writing, I experience what author Stephen Pressfield refers to as “resistance.” In his excellent book, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield describes resistance this way:
“Resistance cannot be seen, touched, heard, or smelled. But it can be felt. We experience it as an energy field radiating from a work-in-potential. It’s a repelling force. It’s negative. Its aim is to shove us away, distract us, prevent us from doing our work.”[1]
If you’ve ever attempted anything that required your undivided attention over a long period or started a creative endeavor, you’ve likely experienced resistance. As I’ve confronted resistance in my own life, I’ve noticed a common pattern. Let’s say my intention is to exercise forty-five minutes on my elliptical machine—but I’m procrastinating. Rather than just getting on the machine, I clean up around the house and change my socks three times. I let the dogs out, check my email, and read the news. And then—when I can’t put it off any longer—I climb on the elliptical and start my workout.
The first few minutes are ugly. I call this phase “the Rattle.” My joints are stiff, my legs are aching, and my sinuses feel weird. Still, I fumble on—albeit awkwardly and uncomfortably. I call this phase “the Rattle” because there’s nothing smooth about it. It requires my full effort, and it doesn’t come easily. I’m noticeably uncomfortable and would much rather opt for forty-five minutes of ease or effortless distraction. In this phase, I’m struggling and not enjoying myself at all.
And then usually (not always, but usually),— around the twelve-minute mark, I start to catch my stride. I’m moving more easily now. I’m sweating. I crank up the resistance level on the machine and increase my pace. Things are more difficult now, but my body has adapted. And then—around the twenty-minute mark, something fantastic happens—I hit my groove and feel like I’m flying. I call this phase “the Hum.” Somehow, even though I’m working hard, it feels effortless. I am dialed in. At that moment, there’s no place I’d rather be and nothing I’d rather be doing.
Later, after I’ve showered and dressed, it’s time to get to my desk and start my workday. Generally speaking, my goal is to be working no later than 8 a.m.. At any given time, I’ve got a project in process, and I know what I’ll be writing or editing that particular day. And guess what? The process starts over. I know I should get to it, but I put a load of towels in the washer. I let the dogs out (again). I check my email. I go to the pantry for a snack. I pour my umpteenth cup of coffee. And eventually—hopefully, sooner than later—I open my laptop. The process is so predictable that it’s comical—except it’s not funny. “The Rattle” is back with a roar.
My first few sentences are awkward. I type a line and delete it. I pause and stare at the wall. I wonder why I didn’t choose a different profession—maybe one that requires zero effort. After a few seconds, I begin again. I cringe at my words, but at this point, I attempt not to judge them. The only goal is to keep my fingers moving. I wonder if what I’m writing is any good. I tell myself it doesn’t matter—what matters right now is putting words on the page. I wonder to myself if I’ll hit my daily word count goal. I think of Anne Lamott’s words, “Writers must keep their butt in the chair.” And so I do. Twenty or thirty minutes pass, and my mind feels sharper. Ideas are coming as I type. I go out on a limb and try new things. If it’s terrible, I’ll cut it later. My fingers are moving faster now. Words are flooding in. And then—I can feel it. There it is— “the Hum.” There’s no place I’d rather be. And there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.
Here’s a hard lesson I’ve learned: there is no “Hum” without the “Rattle.” And to be honest, on occasion—the entire day’s work is all Rattle. I hate it—but it’s true. I’ve never experienced a workday full of nothing but “Hum,” but I’ve had my fair share of “Rattle.”
But here’s some good news— I noticed something that pertains to the “Rattle.” Recently, I received advance copies of a devotional book I was contracted to write. I vividly remember struggling to write a specific portion of that book. What should’ve taken hours took days. The words weren’t flowing, and I threw away my first three dozen attempts. Eventually, I worked my way through the hard part and finished writing the rest of the manuscript. And here’s the kicker: when I read the advance copy from the publisher—as a reader, I couldn’t tell that I’d struggled with that portion of the book. It read like the rest. And come to think of it—it’s the same with workouts. You get the same results on the days it’s all “Rattle” as you do when you experience “the Hum.” What I’m saying is that the days that are full of struggle are ultimately just as productive as the ones when I’m in the zone. Keep in mind, the Rattle is still a struggle, but it’s not unproductive. And we’ve got to embrace the Rattle or we are never going accomplish our goals. Embracing the rattle to get to the hum requires self-control. And believe it or not—that’s good news. Why?
“For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control” (2 Tim. 1:7, emphasis mine).
In what areas are you procrastinating? Where do you need to embrace “the Rattle?”
Let’s get after it.
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[1] Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles. (New York: Black Irish Entertainment, 2002, 7).
