Four Breathers, One Breath

I know what the great cure is: it is to give up, to relinquish, to surrender, so that our little hearts may beat in unison with the great heart of the world. - Henry Miller in the Zen Calendar (date unknown).

Day 61. Easter Sunday. While growing up in the Methodist church, I always loved Easter hymns the best. Christ the Lord Is Risen Today. Up From the Grave He Arose. The Hallelujah Chorus. My mother and grandmother both had beautiful soprano voices. I would add mine to theirs and we would sing with so much joy the tears would glisten in our eyes. Grandma hated the new organ because she thought the organist played it too loudly. I was okay with the organ, but I think our combined voices were the loveliest sound of all. Three singers, one song. Music to my ears.

I first thought of the title for tonight's blog a couple of days ago during zazen. I didn't start until rather late, and as I quietly sat I could hear the breath sounds of the three other beings in my home. Both dogs were asleep, and my partner was snoring in the next room. As so often happens among beings that sleep near one another, it wasn't long before our breaths became synchronized. Soon after, individual breaths could not be distinguished from the sound of our combined breathing. It was a marvelous reminder of no separation.

I had another reminder of no separation during yesterday's ride. It was our first over fifty-miler this season, and we were all spent from two rides in howling winds earlier in the week. The morning was breathtaking. Temperature was in the mid-40's, clear sky, sparkling sunshine, and, best of all -- no wind. Eight of us headed out together into the morning light. As we left the city limits, it became clear that Spring was erupting as our wheels spun. Early Spring colors are so lively -- greens and yellows and pinks glittering like freshly painted John Deere tractors. We were mindful and appreciative of the glorious morning, though also painfully feeling the miles we had logged in the last few days.

I love the tenacity of this season. Spring, bursting forth with new life, doesn't seem to care about the economy, or the health care bill, or which political party is in the majority. I suppose Spring notices climate change to some degree, but it appears to be pressing on. All the reliable markers were apparent as we rode on Saturday. Nature sung and insects hummed. Despite our fatigue and sore muscles, we pedaled with some spring in our cadence. The vigor of the season is irresistible.

Just past mile twenty, we pedaled down a long stretch of Highway 4, outside of Tuttle. I noticed that my heart rate was climbing, and peeked around my captain to glance at the road ahead. Big mistake. Sometimes ignorance is, truly, bliss. For as far as I could see, the pavement climbed upwards. The grade was not exceptionally steep, but the ascent stretched into the horizon as far as I could see. Quickly, I tucked back behind my captain. Sometimes it is fortunate to be the stoker, because I have little control over our cadence, our gears, or steering. Good thing, too, because on this climb I may have just pulled over, got off the bike, and picked dandelions until the truck came to pick me up. As it is, my job is simply to pedal and breathe. Pedal and breathe. Lend as much power to our combined leg strength as possible. Oh yeah -- and never whine.

Our ability levels are disparate early in the season, so during the first half mile of this climb our team was spread out more than usual. As my heart increasingly hammered in my chest, I envisioned my mudra and silently chanted to stay calm. In spite of these reliable Buddhist coping mechanisms, a barely audible voice just behind my pounding lungs began a chant of its own: "I want to get off. I want to get off. I want to get off." It was at that moment that I registered a teammate at our side. It was Dennis - the Big D - appearing as he so often does -- like magic at precisely the second I needed him.

Dennis and my partner have ridden together for over a decade. Their bikes can glide along fractions of an inch apart for endless miles. As I registered his proximity, Dennis didn't speak. None of us could spare the breath to talk. He just pedaled alongside us, so close that my sweat was being absorbed by his cycle shorts. A gentle giant of a man, Dennis is the most powerful cyclist I know. When he rides by my side, buzzing circuits of positive physical and spiritual energy flow from him, energizing and uplifting me when I am most challenged on the bike. From the shadows being cast to the west, I then saw our friend Randy sucking our rear wheel. Together, the four of us were streaming up the hill. Our effort merged into a singular push forward. Our bikes were so close together and our focus was so united that our perimeters seemed to shimmer and blur until, as one entity, we crested the hill. What started with four breathers had ended in one breath. We sighed and coasted. Felt the wind in our collective face.

There are infinite ways to experience the boundaries between us falling away. Choir members singing together, bands in a jam session; surgical teams in the operating room, worshipers in a congregation, dancers on a stage, chanters in a sweat lodge -- innumerable paths can merge into the magic moment of One. Let separateness fall away. Hallelujah!

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc