I Came Here to Get off Self-Help Books.
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Firmly believing my soul’s desire lay folded quietly between those lists of personal values and positive affirmations, I checked out each new book with a tangible thrill of anticipation.
With each book I pulled off the shelf and tucked tenderly into my backpack, I believed was edging me closer to liberation. Little did I realize that all those white pages written by white men and white women who had the answers were bringing me no closer to my destiny.
I learned to skim through the dry, instructive language, making notes in the margins, copying quotations into my journal — progress, I thought. I didn’t even realize my spirit wasn’t being nourished, so obsessed was I in finding the answers on a crisp white page.
Reading became an addiction despite the embarrassment I felt, fearing being caught as I sleuthed deep within the pages of a self-help manual. It became the same message, over and over in different language. “Imagine your perfect day,” “Imagine you only had a year to live,” “List your values in descending order.” It became boring, predictable. There was a comfort in that.
I could read a book and simply think, “I know that already, tell me something new,” without actually taking the directions and suggestions to heart. So I would keep reading, looking for that newness.
And then my comfortable ship came under attack. I broke up with my partner, our plans for the future shattered. Sinking, I was without a home, without a relationship, without a job. Where now was the comfort I had found between the pages of a book?
My life took me suddenly to a remote island, living rustically in a trailer with a new, dear friend, spending our days picking figs and blackberries, swimming nude everyday, clandestine hot tub rendezvous at a not-to-be-mentioned world-renowned retreat center. And laughing. So much laughing.
And then I landed at the ashram. Where I learned to quiet my mind and discover my own answers during selfless service; picking fruit high in the arms of apple and pear trees, cutting rutabaga in the kitchen, smoothing pillow cases on newly made beds, cutting kale and mustard greens in the late Fall sun.
More learning happened here during four months of devotion to a community of committed people than in my years spent reading dozens of books quietly to myself. Hours of writing and self-reflection in groups, howling with laughter during work coordinating, eating each meal in blissful silence. Here I began to learn what my life was really about, what mattered to me, how I wanted to live.
By no means was it easy, nor always pleasant, but I learned that the true learning comes through daily experience, it came through taking risks that seemed too big at the time to even consider. It meant committing to a daily practice, even though it was hard and often the last thing I wanted to do.
It meant learning to embrace the fear that crept up in the evening, after the busyness of the day, unsure of whether the decision I had made was the best one for me. It meant recognizing that being uncomfortable was a prerequisite to making radical, life-affirming change.
So please, put down the self-help books. You have more wisdom in your body and the way you engage with the world than you will ever find in a how-to manual. Your life is too vibrant to allow it to atrophy and shrink. Take the risk that seems too scary to consider in whatever way you can. Then watch your life unveil itself to you.
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Meghan Lindholm is a Canadian transplant on American soil. She currently makes her home near Ithaca, NY where she is pursuing her dream of becoming a clinical herbalist with one of her favorite teachers. She is indebted to Yasodhara Ashram, for without the support and encouragement of that community she might still be floating through life. Meghan loves adventure, existential crises, unexpected word combinations, gallivanting in the woods and pretending that she is a travelling herbalist/artist. It is her belief that if she can keep giving life to this fantasy, it will eventually come true.
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