Even before I loaded my bicycle on the plane headed towards the Montana/Canadian border, I was anxiously yearning for the challenges on my journey ahead. In the 3,000 miles I was going to bike south through the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains and into Mexico, I anticipated arduous moments which would test the strength of the armor I had built up from previous experiences. Although I was also drawn by the beauty of the natural environment, I envisioned the trip as an extended descent into the fires of a forge, hesitantly longing for the experiences where I would be tempered and strengthened by the heat and pressure. My bicycle was a chariot to convey me deep into the depths of hell.

I had been on the road for over two months, facing Grizzly and black bears, blinding blizzards, and bike failures before I found myself in the drug cartel controlled state of Sinaloa, Mexico. There was one day of riding through the jungly state where the metaphorical flames were especially hot. I was biking through unknown territory along a highway strutted upon by giant semi trucks robbing me of my physical safety. The heat of the sun’s love affair with the humidity of the tropical forests caught me in the crossfire of the intensity, materialized as a constant stream of sweat and damp clothing. Maintaining hydration was a constant concern mitigated by stops for electrolytic water at the rare stores alongside the road. The language barrier added to the isolation I felt from the few people I came across along the day’s miles.

As the day faded to an early autumn evening, I was forced to contend with failing to reach the safety of my intended motel in a town still far ahead. Instead, I would need to stealth camp someplace along my chaotic highway. I dragged my bike through the thick overgrowth alongside the highway, past the garbage that clung to the roadside like cholesterol to an artery. I aimed for a patch of trees planted intentionally in a sort of grid. Dragging my bike through the growth and soft earth covered in a thin film of mostly-dried mud from past flooding was difficult work, especially after the long day of riding and the salted fountain flowing from my forehead. I carried a large branching stick projecting forward from my handlebars like a mermaid on the bow of a ship to clear the many spiderwebs catching not only the encircling flies and mosquitoes, but also feelings of further disgust from my wearied spirit.

A few hundred feet of this awkward dragging had me settle on a suitable site. I rested my bike against a tree and began to pitch my tent. Some time into this process, I was startled by some animal noises. Darting my eyes in the direction of the sound, I saw two small wild pigs patrolling the area just a stone’s throw away. Although they paid me no mind, their presence created a further sense of eeriness and unfamiliarity, challenging my dwindling protection around my sense of safety and security.

The last of the light was withering as I finished the final touches on my camp. The encircling mosquitoes were now veiled in darkness, safe from my former acute vision. I finished my nightly hygienic routine, brushed away as much of the plant matter and sand clinging to my moist body, and clambered into my tent. With the help of my headlight, I expelled all the visible mosquitoes that followed me in. Yet the cost of this luxury was the fear of being seen by some patrolling farmer, landowner, or cartel member sicario.

Since my mind was no longer entertained by the chores of the day and the detail of the landscapes, it turned to the cruel creation of imagined scenarios. Perhaps this land truly was owned by the cartels and I stumbled upon a site which would soon be used for some illicit activity. My mind enthusiastically sketched up a vivid reality where an angry man driving an ATV sped up to my site with a shotgun slung over his shoulders. I heard the sensible part of me asking “what the hell am I doing here?” I imagined the despair of my wife learning about my lonely death. Or worse, her awaiting any shards of news after my sudden disappearance. As I lay there, completely uncovered except for my underwear, the sweat pooled in the divot within my sleeping mat created by my spent body. Each movement was met by the abrasion of the remaining sand still clinging to my body despite the former effort.

I was deep within the fires of the forge and I felt entirely trapped, writhing around in severe discomfort. The flames of the forge had been scalding for hours and the temperature was only continuing to rise as sleep escaped my wearied embrace. I projected the unknowns into the future. What if every night is exactly like this for the next week? I created hypothetical scenarios of intense pain, fear, loneliness, and discomfort. The flames had my blood simmering. My mind reached for any semblance of escape from the suffering present in the moment. It cast me into the future in hope of manufacturing the peace and safety I needed so badly. With my armor so weakened by the flames, I scrambled to construct more layers to protect me.

Like a tea kettle at last whistling the tune of a full boil, the inferno of suffering finally broke me. I was no longer strong enough to bear the weight of my armor resisting the flames and it fell from my charred body. I braced for the encroaching flames I expected to burn my now defenseless self alive. I surrendered to the full pain of the present moment, the discomfort, the pain, the fear of death. Yet what I found as my armor clattered upon the ground was utter peace. Standing naked amongst the fire, although I still knew the heat of the flames, I stood up within the forge unburned. The tongues of fire still danced in full force around my body, yet where there was formerly suffering, I found only a profound and pure peace. Abject stillness as the backdrop of the chaos. Who I found myself to be underneath the armor–who we all are–is untouchable. I was even unthreatened by the shotgun slugs which could so easily rip through my body. The suffering was vanquished, leaving only the trailing wisps of smoke.

In the blissful stillness of the still-roaring forge, it became apparent that the suffering–the burning–was an experience I created. It did not come directly from the forge, but was created entirely by my resistance to the heat. I wasn’t burned by the flames, but by my scalding white-hot armor–the very thing I believed would protect me. I floated heavenly in this moment, feeling love bubbling from deep within me, no longer constrained by the armor and lust for comfort. I reveled in the deep feelings of well-being that visited me, carrying bountiful gifts of revelation. I realized that love and peace are not feelings or temporary states, but are instead the very essence of who we are. We remember this when we allow everything that keeps us from the present moment to be. We remember who we are when we surrender to everything we are not.

Although it is tempting to curse the armor–our resistance to pain–for its lies of false peace and security, it reveals itself to be an exceptionally useful tool in its own right. When we traverse through smaller, less immersive forges in life, it collects the contact with the raw truth of reality as charred blemishes, melted patches, scratches, dings, and dents. It is a buffer which absorbs hardship momentarily, allowing us to traverse daily life without frequent inopportune breakdowns. Yet we must actively set it down after these small scraps lest it becomes the very hell it’s designed to help us traverse. We must expose our naked selves to trace our fingers across the scars, embodying the energy stored within the ore. During the more chronic forges raging throughout our lives, the most effective act can be to shed the armor and turn fully towards the transgression. Who we are underneath remains unburned by the flames. All that remains is…eternally us.