Like Riding a Bike

Meant to share this thought over a week ago at Meeting, but didn't get a chance with all the ministry going on. The thought's been bouncing around my head all week and with a repeat performance during my ride on Saturday, I felt compelled to discuss this at Meeting this past Sunday. Here's my best attempt at re-creating the thought.

When I first started to cycling for fitness, I had a lot of fun, but there were a lot of distractions like saddle-soreness, endless gear to buy, hands going numb during rides, other riders, worrying that I looked ridiculous, etc. Recently, most of those distractions have dropped away, leaving how I happen to feel on a given day, plus something unexpected. When I'm on the bike, I can feel the texture of the road, the wind in my face, my legs falling into a rhythm, my breathing becoming deeper, more rhythmic, and for brief periods of time, my sense of self fading away. It's as if there is no bike, no actual physical presence, just the act of riding, the feel of the wind, road, and pedaling without me actually being there. I'm doing a bad job of describing the feeling, but that's as close as I can get. Cycling has become a little bit about chasing this feeling of connectedness and transcendence.

I can't help but draw a parallel between my experience on the bicycle and my experience in Quaker "Meeting for Worship." Since I was raised in the Quaker tradition, the prospect of sitting quietly in a room for an hour wasn't that foreign an idea. However, consideration and practice are two different things, and I was living with a 20 year gap in practice. The silent worship was difficult during those first few meetings. I didn't have an adult history of meditative practice, or any basis for knowing what I should be doing during that time. I was uncomfortable sitting in a single place for an extended period of time, distracted by the noise from the street, and fell into the habit of clock-watching.

Over time, I've managed to get to a place where I can still my body, quiet my mind, not have a thought agenda, and sit in "expectant waiting" and "worshipful silence." Most times, I can feel the street noise wash over and through me, as if I'm sand on a beach and the noise is the waves of the ocean. I can sense the passing of time, but am usually surprised by the end of silent meeting. And at times, my sense of self and individuality fades a little bit. I have this incredible feeling of connectedness that I want to continue. And in that state, I can let thoughts swim into focus as a meditative subject. Others might call that prayer, and that's fine with me to. The act is more important to me than the terminology.

Had a chance last night to briefly touch on the difficulties of silent worship with new friends outside the Quaker tradition, and found it difficult to condense this thought down to a 20 second blurb. They were discussing visiting the Meeting the next time there's an "Introduction to Quakerism" class. Hope they might stumble across this at some point. Or be pointed. Hint, hint.

Found this account by pilgrimgirl to be very enlightening on how to adjust one's own tradition to the Quaker one. But it might not fill the hour! :-)