I started seriously reading at the age of 16 while going through depression. Back then I thought my depression was for unrequited love for a guy I had met on my first day in college.
I was in an intense state of love and loss that year when the book found me. The book – Bridge Across Forever – felt like was looking to be read to me.
“…Bridge Across Forever” felt like a warm hand reaching out into the darkness. The story, a love story, resonated deeply with the yearning and loss swirling inside me. It wasn’t just the plot, though; there was a certain energy, a hopeful message woven into the words that spoke directly to my soul. It was as if the book itself held a kind of magic, a power to mend and heal.
As I devoured the pages, a shift began to occur. The raw ache of heartbreak softened, replaced by a glimmer of understanding. Maybe my intense feelings weren’t just about this one person, but about a deeper longing for connection, for something more. The book offered a glimpse of that “more,” a possibility of love that transcended the physical realm.
“Bridge Across Forever” wasn’t a cure-all for my depression, but it was a turning point. It ignited a spark of curiosity within me, a desire to explore these deeper questions about love, loss, and the meaning of life. It was the first step on a long journey of self-discovery, a journey fueled by the words on the page.
My soul journey took off after that book.
Buoyed by the hopeful message of “Bridge Across Forever,” I dove headfirst into Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist.” This international phenomenon became my passport to a world of magic, personal journeys, and the pursuit of dreams. Unlike the introspective tone of “Bridge Across Forever,” “The Alchemist” pulsated with a vibrant energy, urging me to embrace adventure and follow my own personal legend. It felt like a call to action, a nudge towards leaving behind the comfort of the familiar and venturing out into the unknown.
Energized by this newfound perspective, my reading choices became more eclectic. Spencer Johnson’s “Who Moved My Cheese?” offered a lighthearted yet profound parable about adapting to change, a skill I was actively trying to cultivate. Neale Donald Walsch’s “Conversations with God” scratched my newfound itch for spiritual exploration, presenting a thought-provoking dialogue about life’s big questions.
But alongside these self-help and spiritual reads, I indulged in the comforting familiarity of Danielle Steel’s romance novels. Her stories provided a temporary escape from the complexities of my own life, offering happily-ever-after endings that soothed the part of me still healing from heartbreak.
For pure, lighthearted fun, there were the classic “Archie” comics. These provided a welcome dose of nostalgia, reminding me of a simpler time and the power of laughter.
This diverse reading list reflected the whirlwind of emotions and experiences I was navigating. I was grappling with heartbreak, searching for meaning, and cautiously stepping towards a new chapter in life. The books I chose mirrored my journey, offering comfort, guidance, and a touch of lighthearted fun along the way.
The Road less traveled worked wonders in my journey toward spiritual growth and transformation at quite an early age. Picking up “The Road Less Traveled” at a young age was a testament to my burgeoning desire for self-discovery.
M. Scott Peck’s no-nonsense approach to personal growth resonated deeply with me. Here wasn’t a book filled with empty promises or sugar-coated solutions. Instead, it offered a challenge, a call to take responsibility for my own happiness and well-being. Concepts like discipline, love, and delayed gratification, while initially daunting, felt like missing puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.
“The Road Less Traveled” wasn’t a comfortable read. It pushed me to confront my own limitations and fears, but within that discomfort lay the promise of transformation. The book became a roadmap for my burgeoning spiritual journey, guiding me towards self-awareness, personal responsibility, and ultimately, a deeper sense of connection with myself and the world around me.
However, this newfound seriousness wasn’t my only literary craving. Life, even on a path of self-discovery, required balance.
Life, as they say, has a way of throwing curveballs. Mine came in the form of a relationship that felt like a dead end. Exhausted and suffocated, I sought solace in the pages of Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead.” This complex novel, with its celebration of individualism and unwavering pursuit of excellence, resonated with my yearning for something more. Rand’s protagonist, Howard Roark, became a symbol of strength and resilience, a stark contrast to the stifling environment I found myself in. “The Fountainhead” became a call to action, urging me to break free from the shackles of conformity and claim my own creative power.
However, the journey with Ayn Rand took a sharp turn with “Atlas Shrugged.” While “The Fountainhead” empowered me, “Atlas Shrugged” plunged me into a state of “soul shock.” The novel’s extreme portrayal of individualism and its bleak depiction of a world without altruism left me feeling lost and questioning the very foundations of my being. The sheer nihilism of the story clashed with the glimmer of hope I had cultivated through my previous reads. It was a realization that Rand’s philosophy, while offering a compelling framework for individual achievement, lacked the empathy and human connection I craved.
So, I stopped reading, left to grapple with the existential questions the book had raised.
This experience highlighted the importance of discernment in my literary choices. While some books offered comfort and inspiration, others challenged my beliefs and forced me to confront uncomfortable truths. The journey of self-discovery, I realized, wasn’t always a linear path. It involved embracing new ideas, questioning established ones, and ultimately, finding my own unique perspective on the world.
I tried reading Many Masters Many Souls in some deep intense moments of grief while dealing with the loss of a loved one, my very first encounter with death in a family. “Many Masters, Many Souls” just landed flat for me. I craved solace, a sense of something beyond the finality of death. The book promised past-life regression therapy and messages from the “space between lives,” but it felt clinical, almost sterile. Maybe the concept was too out there for me at that raw, grieving stage. All I wanted was my loved one back, and this book offered a theory, not a hug.
Disappointed, I pushed it aside. There had to be something out there, some literary life raft to help me navigate this new, painful reality. The world felt so different now, a constant reminder of the absence I carried within me. I yearned for a story that acknowledged the pain, but also offered a flicker of hope, a whisper that life, even after loss, could still hold beauty.
The virtue of selfishness got me a little further ahead in my spiritual journey.
(To be continued…)
Kay’s Odyssey 
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