Many years ago I wrote a book. It was not a well structured book or a book intended for anyone else, it was just an expression of something real. It started with a question from a child deep within me: why do horrible things happen?, and it proceeded to answer the question as best it could. It moved from imagery and words through to symbols and algebra, then systems logic and abstract reason before landing on an almost spiritual note. It was hard to write but it needed to be written.
I later destroyed it. I shredded the pages and threw away the scraps out of fear for how others would perceive me. I touched on too many notes, crossed too many silos, and ventured into territory I hold blasphemous to the secular, and irreverent to the cleric, but those were irrelevant. Ultimately I got too close to my own pain, so I destroyed the apparent cause. I regret that act so much though. Those pages held my soul, and they are gone forever.
I felt sorrow and regret for many years, and even tried rewriting it a few times, but I have never come close. Today I asked myself the same question, why do horrible things happen?, and found a new perspective: It was never about the journey, despite the modern truism that upholds the journey as the goal. In this case, it was about the destination. At the end of the book, I found myself in the same place as every book, a library, nestled within the branches of a tree, with books lining every wall. Intricate wood carvings recording their own history adorn the room, and a comfortable reading space sits at the centre with room for a few quiet souls. In the treehouse library lives every story ever told and every essay ever written. It is quiet here and it is peaceful.
I cannot replicate the twists and turns of my original journey, frightening and enjoyable as they were, because I no longer go that way. I don’t need to explore metaphysics and mysticism to find this place anymore, I simply have to open the door in my mind and step through. I’m sure somewhere in this library are the seeds to write my book again, but there are so many others to read and so many more paths to take. In the treehouse library there is no need to be frightened or afraid, although some of the books will certainly do that, but that’s the beauty of it. Here all that exists is time to read, space to understand, and an endless sea of books.