FIREWALK: Facing Fear with Focus and Faith

Have you ever thought about walking across fire? What could it give you? Here’s a moment from my road trip across America…

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I love to meditate. I sit in my chair, breathe deep, close my eyes. And think of the cute clogs the sales clerk was wearing yesterday.

Oh, right. That’s not what they mean by focus.

Empty. Be still with your breath.
My breath smells of the garlic on my pizza last night.

I love to meditate.
It does bring me great ideas. Often.
Thank you.

Like walking on fire. What?

Well, some good ideas.

It’s true, I decide to try a firewalk.

I enlist Jim, much to his chagrin. He reminds me that we have a vacation planned the following week, our first two-week excursion together in almost five years. Hiking, exploring quaint little seaside towns by foot, walks on the beach. Fried feet certainly would not contribute to this romantic outing.

Skeptical, Jim dives deep into the Internet, prints a small tree’s worth of statistics and science about fire: “You can’t get burned at less than 250 degrees. You…”

I call the event organizer who confirms: They’ve been doing this for more than 20 years. It’s really rare for someone to get a burn, less than 1% of the time.

Jim has found some peace of mind.

I am confident in a way that I cannot justify: I don’t need all of the literature and assurances to calm me. I know I won’t get burned. I have broken a board with my bare hand. I have attended a seminar…

When we stare into the eye of the fire, I feel fear, afraid I won’t remember it all.
         Walk normal.
         Think cool moss.
         Clean your feet at the end.
         Celebrate.
         Keep your faith.

My inner doubter screams internally:
“I can’t remember it all!”

“This is not the right attitude to have,” my inner guru tells me.
OK, OK. I can remember it all.
Focus. Right. Focus on the end. Excellent.

“How far are we from the hotel?” my buddy’s buddy asks me as I stand in line to maybe have my feet fried.

“Do you know what times places open for breakfast around here?

“I’m not sure I’m going to do this,” she says.
“I may go home to bed.”

Focus. Focus. Like a gymnast on a high balance beam, I strive to tune out distractions hammering me.
Faith.
Have faith that I’ll be protected.
Yes. That’s it. I’ve got it.
My toenails won’t combust.
I won’t trip and roll in the flames.
I won’t writhe with searing agony.
Faith. Faith.

Anyway. “What time does the seminar start tomorrow?” my buddy’s buddy asks.

Focus…Faith…Will I be able to remember everything? Oh, right. Fight your fear. I’ll be fine, I tell myself – without having stared that fear deep in the eyes, told it in no uncertain terms: “You will not get the best of me. I am stronger than you. And I don’t believe you. I know I can and will remember what I need to, when the time comes.”

I start to walk. Feel exuberant.
“Cool moss, cool moss…cool moss…”
Cool! I am really doing this.
I am WALKING ACROSS FIRE.
Ouch, ouch.
Not so cool.
Not so cool.

Cool moss. Cool moss.
I remember too late, I realize, when I reach the end of the walkway.

The burn has already seared.

I did not fall on my face and burst into flames. My toenails did not combust. But I do have a bad blister on the sole of my foot. I thought I was going to be protected.

I was. I experienced something I needed to learn if I was going to follow my chosen path.

I understand now that you can get by at 90%; it still means an ‘A’ in school; no one would need to look at the soles of your feet.

But 90% isn’t good enough for me. I would always know: in that one crucial moment, I lost focus. I lost faith. That won’t carry me where I yearn to go.

Jim teases later, as he puts his arm around me, “Only those who were pure made it across unburned. I guess you weren’t pure enough.”

I growl at him.

When we return to our hotel room, I know we only have four to five hours to sleep before we need to get up and begin the seminar again. I could take an aspirin to stop the throbbing in my sole. But I decide to lie with the pain instead. Understand.

We turn out the light.
Jim snores.
I cry.
And stare my pain straight in the eye.

 

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Jillian Robinson Weaver is an Emmy-winning TV Producer, Author/Photographer, and Coach, whose passion is to help people live their Highest Self. Come join her Instagram “Coffee Conversations” to begin! https://www.instagram.com/jillianrobinsonweaver/