Impassioned with Impermanence

Nothing is permanent:
The sun and the moon rise and then set,
The bright clear day is followed by the deep, dark night.
From hour to hour, everything changes. - Kalu Rinpoche in the Zen Calendar (May 8, 2006).

Day 109. Nothing stays the same. Sometimes that is heartbreaking, and sometimes it is life saving.

I have two business partners who participate in traditional Native American sweats almost every weekend. I have visited the sweat lodge, but haven't yet sweated due to my heat episodes. We talk about the sweats fairly often. They are sacred, spiritual ceremonies involving specific preparation and precise ritual. Each sweat is unique; the atmosphere and outcome is never predictable. Like sitting zazen. Also like zazen, the rite affords an opportunity for cleansing and renewal as well as connecting with the universe. Formal sweating as a method of cleansing the body and the spirit makes solid sense to me. There is something primal and concrete about sweat pouring from bodies, washing away toxins and impurities. I imagine it is very intimate to kneel on an earthen floor, skin to sticky skin with the person next to you as songs are sung and prayers chanted. The essence of it reminds me of long rides with my team.

Take today's ride. I am back on the bike (gassho to my internist) - not at 100% but feeling strong and hopeful. We are logging some serious training miles because next week is a 65-miler at the Wichita Wildlife Refuge and the following week is a huge tandem rally in Tennessee. Happenstance resulted in today's group being comprised of the Best of the EZ Rider Best (and me!) It was the warmest start of the season at 75 degrees, with wind speeds reminiscent of March. Seven of us headed out for a 60-mile round trip venture from south Oklahoma City to Noble. As though the heat and wind weren't daunting enough this morning, some ambitious pedaler suggested we take the hill route south. Like fools we all agreed.

The 33-miles to Noble were grueling. My nemesis, the wind, mocked me from the start, steadily screaming at 20 mph and above with gusts over 30. I put my head down and focused on mudra breathing. I mocked the wind back by sweating so profusely that it couldn't blow me dry. Sweat streamed down my face, my back and my front, leaving glistening drops on the tandem top tube (and my teammates). We swallowed salt capsules like Tic Tacs. The hills rolled relentlessly and we couldn't utilize our usual momentum because the wind was almost blowing us backward. Drip and pedal. Pedal and drip. Increasingly oblivious of my soaking comrades, I just kept turning those rpm's. I felt myself yearning for the intersection which would relieve us of the Southern Headwind from Hell like a submarine crew yearns for the surface after two months on the ocean floor. A mile before our turn to the west I almost caved to an urge to get off and lay down on the asphalt. Fortunately my captain does not cater to whimpering stokers. He blasted through that last mile and carved out a sharp right turn to the West. If I had the breath, I would have burst into celebratory song. I dripped sweat instead.

Call me fickle, but my wind detestation abruptly switched to amorous devotion on the northern return trip. We flew homeward with a ferocious tailwind shoving us from behind. Less sweat normally accompanies less exertion, but rising temperatures, decreasing cloud cover, and no wind in our face kept the sweat stream pouring. My camelback was bone dry when we turned into the parking lot. My clothes could not have been wetter if we'd ridden through a cloud burst.

Physically, I was spent: exhausted, sore, and caked with salt. Spiritually, I soared. Three hours of streaming sweat had effectively cleansed me of the anger, helplessness, and loathing I experienced yesterday. Three hours of slinging sweat with six of the best men I know was powerfully healing as well. My overgeneralized rage at the patriarchy had evaporated, leaving nothing but a salty residue. It was replaced by heart clenching gratitude for evidence to the contrary embodied in my team mates. The men that respect, protect, and include me. The men who teach and encourage and watch out for me. A whole cluster of middle-aged white males who champion my victories and soothe my setbacks.

I am grateful for such a profound reminder of the impermanence of feeling states. Grateful, too, that my practice tends to speedily dislodge me from the biased generalizations I abhor in others. When I dwell in Reality, it is impossible not to return to beauty.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc