“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Hebrews 11:1

It is warm and the water is running. TJ is trying to make the space in our lives to get out on the Union River in our kayaks. I am sticking to a long-held commitment not to venture out in white water again until I have perfected my “roll.”

Years ago, before moving to Bangor, I ventured out on the West River in Vermont in one of TJ’s kayaks to ride the fall dam release. I knew nothing about kayaks or white water. Ignorance being bliss, I had a great time. No fear. I had such a great time I repeated my decision in the spring. This time, a current flipped the kayak. I wet-exited, bounced from rock to rock, and fought the current while my kayak took off on its own.

Enlightened, I decided I best not get on the river again until I had perfected my roll. Rolling a kayak keeps you safely in your boat when it flips over, so the paddler can effectively manage what the river tosses. I had attended roll clinics at Vermont Technical College. Buoyed up by wet suit, personal floatation device and adrenaline, I would get into the kayak, seal myself in with the skirt, and paddle. The six other kayakers in the pool all wore some varying degree of determination, anxiety, joviality and concentration under their goggles. We had deliberately chosen to turn ourselves upside down and, with heads underwater and bodies locked into those floating coffins, try to figure out how to get our heads – not the kayaks – back on top.

“Why would anyone want to do this?” asked my yoga teacher. I tried to explain my desire to feel the rush of confronting the elements, to be out on the rivers, racing through white water. She crinkled her nose, again asking, “Why would anyone want to do this?” She being the spiritually developed type who enjoys reading books, sitting quietly on the beach, standing on her head or watching her herbs grow, she saw no point in taking a death-defying pose in preparation for some egotistical confrontation with the elements.

When upside down, under water and trying to stave off panic, I wondered the same thing. “Why did I think I wanted to do this?” There I was, disoriented, confined, legless, arms flailing about with a paddle searching for some elusive point of reference, absolutely sure that I was about to drown. The fact that I was in a pool, in 4 feet of water, with a helping hand at my side, made no difference. This was a primal, cellular, emotional thing.

Flipping that kayak confronted me with all my fears. The absence of air forced me to either let go of my dependable, rational mind or drown trying to get this. To successfully roll meant calling on an intuitive body response and moving in an illogical, unfamiliar way. My trusted frames of reference were of no help.

As in so many areas of my life, I wanted to know how to do it before I made the self-conscious leap of faith into the unknown. I would rather stick with my secure mindset, no matter how ineffective it was, rather than trust in a new and unfamiliar way of being.

I had been told that once I stopped trying to think my way through the roll, it would be quick, natural and effortless. It is merely a matter of trust.

Isn’t that what faith and growth are always about? Letting go of our stranglehold on habitual behaviors, breathing through our fear and opening to new ways of thinking and being?

What I struggled with under the water in my kayak was faith. I had to let go of what I believed in and have faith in something new. Our beliefs are based on personal experience, acquired knowledge and logical proof of material evidence. Beliefs come from our heads. They mount up through life experience reinforced over and over again whenever we fall back on them.

Faith comes from the heart. It is a verb, not a noun. It is an action we take, not something we choose. Offering no proof, faith brings us to the edge of all we know, pushes us off, then holds us up. Faith is the choice to turn oneself upside down without knowing how we are going to keep from drowning. A source of comfort and strength that grows from within, faith is a lot like singing. It is something we all naturally know how to do. With conditioning we lose our innocent, intuitive ability and forget how to sing. It can happen with faithing too. We can get all tied up in theological knots, rational thought and religious and humanist loyalties when, in truth, our souls have always been home to an ancient spiritual melody, faith composed by our very being.

Like a roll, we just have to stop struggling to get it. We simply have to open our hearts, and let them sing their song.

The Rev. Elaine Beth Peresluha is minister of the Unitarian Universalist Society of Bangor. She may be reached via bdnreligion@bangordailynews.net. Voices is a weekly commentary by five Maine columnists who explore issues affecting spirituality and religious life.