My life is my message. It might be raw. But it is also real.

The point being this: By that eighth day I had learned to trust.

In the fall of 2014 I flew to Rome for a pilgrimage that I titled “From Rome to Rumi: A Pilgrimage from the Head of the Church to the Heart of Mysticism.”

I dug deep to match the steeper grade. Then a funny thing happened: my breathing deepened and my body relaxed. I felt a sense of relief—I was coming home.

How could I authentically say I’d gone down into the belly of the whale on this mythic journey if I bypassed the desert?

The line between observer and observed dissolves. I was no longer looking at a mountain: I was part of the mountain.

At the time, my thoughts unnerved me a little. Did I have a death wish? Was my longing about wanting to die?

About halfway between the summit and the town of Wisdom, I arrived at the Big Hole National Battlefield. I was inclined to ride on by…

Afterwards, I felt clean again. But more than that, I felt alive. Really alive. More alive than I had in a long time.

I was almost laughing by this point. “Warmshowers, Chris. You just described Warmshowers. I’ve already stayed five nights with their hosts on this trip.”

I have noticed in recent years that more and more people are replacing their one word titles with a long list of descriptors to let their readers know “what they are.”

Americans are increasingly looking for opportunities for personal transformation and going by foot, by bike and by canoe or kayak on adventures of self-discovery.