The physical of spiritual

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“Can anyone who does not sing understand the actual physical joy that comes from making a beautiful noise?”

Someone I (virtually) know recently said this in her blog after mentioning she had joined a Sanskrit Chant choir. It reminded me of something I still carry with me from my late pre-teens, when I was a member of a large and quite talented Methodist youth choir. I was not the best singer of the bunch by any stretch of the imagaination, nor could I read a note of music, but I stood in the tenor section next to three brothers who had gorgeous tenor voices.

There were times when we would be singing at the very treetops of our physical range, forced by the music to stretch our tenors as far as they could go. This was dangerous territory, because I was not nearly as talented as the people singing next to me. But I would key into the luminous sound of those three brothers, knowing I could not sing as well – and yet, swept up in the sheer physical excitement of their sound, I would pull my voice that much higher and louder, beyond any sort of self-consciousness or fear, and in excited amazement I could suddenly hear myself harmonizing with them, matching them note for note, and the buzzing in my chest and stomach from actually transcending my own limitations, joining something higher, was palpable. It went beyond the melody or the lyrics and into a physical space of pure sound, where I felt myself actually becoming the song, my body evaporating into pulsing, vibrating waves of sound. It is by far the most lasting spiritual memory of my youth – and yet it was almost purely physical.

There are moments when I’m running that I can also feel this — probably aided by a release of endorphins, but no less wonderful for that — when it seems I can shift into an infinite number of higher gears, when my lungs pump ever harder without hurting, when my feet dance nimbly through the rocky minefield of a trail in front of me as if runnning on a smoothly paved track. That powerful joy of bumping against and briefly transcending physical limitations is profoundly spiritual to me … and yet it began merely with placing one foot in front of the other, a simple physical act.

One of the things I appreciate most about Zen Buddhism is that it’s a practice rooted in yet another simple physical act: sitting quietly in the lotus position and following my breath. Yet the spiritual impact of this modest act on my life has been profound. In fact, a spiritual practice not rooted in some attempt to connect with the physical nature of my being is now inconceivable to me. And it’s those moments when I find myself confronting my physical limitations, straining at my earth-bound leash – struggling to reach a higher half octave I have no business trying for, facing a steep hill at mile 40 of a 50-mile race, dealing with a persistent unpleasant itch or ugly recurring thought during zazen – that I am capable of feeling most alive.

I don’t believe that pain and fear are the only doors opening to the dharma, because I’ve also witnessed those doors open briefly during much more mundane moments – watching a bird in a tree, carrying a bowl of water. But I do know that, for me, my most profound and lasting spiritual experiences often begin with something simple and physical. Chanting, running, singing, sitting, mowing the yard, washing the dishes … as it says in the Four Vows of the Bodhisattva, “The dharma gates are boundless. I vow to open them.” When we strain to make a sound we’ve never made before, twist and turn our way up a steep and muddy mountain trail, or truly feel the gentle force of our breath entering and leaving our body, we connect with the stuff we are made of — and, simultaneously, open into something bigger than we are.

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