Unhappy with my current life choices, I knew I needed to make a change. It's hard to do that when you are working long hours which is partly what got me to this point. I made the decision to take a month off of work and stay at an artist's retreat far from the city. There I would leave my work routine and give myself a chance to do the things I like but no longer had time for -- read, observe, write, commune with nature, find some clarity and see what shakes out.
One afternoon, I walked into the library to see if anything there would catch my eye. Reading the titles, nothing seemed to jump out and say "pick me, pick me." I sat down wondering what to do next when another guest wandered in and sat down near me, plopping a pile of books on the table. I didn't pay much attention as I was too busy feeling frustrated that I wasn't making the most of this precious time away from my usual responsibilities. I hate wasting time and am driven to be productive. Doing nothing is not easy for me and I wanted answers, direction for the future. I thought showing up here it would just pour out and I'd have some major spiritual revelation where I was shown what to do next with instructions and diagrams. Life isn't like that of course, but try telling me that. I expect more from myself. But here I was feeling lost with no idea what to do about it.
I glanced over at the stack of books, on top was this gorgeous picture on the cover, all the colors I love and in a design that stirred something inside of me. I asked the woman if I could look at it. Inside were illustrations in bold, beautiful colors and designs. This was the book I was looking for on the shelf, the "pick me" book. I didn't have much time to look at it and reluctantly I let it go. Later I would ask if I could write down the book title and author so I could find it on my own. Oddly, she appeared possesive of the book and irritated that she had to share its name. Even more puzzling was when I discovered that it was not her book but from the retreat library. She never brought out the book for the rest of the time I was there. I had to be patient until I had my own copy.
That cover stayed in my memory so strongly that the day after I returned home, I went to the bookstore and ordered it. My very own copy in hand, I began to read about these beautiful pictures that were called Mandalas. I then understood why she was so possessive of that book. She must of felt the magic it held as I did. I found myself just as protective of my own copy. And the journey began . . .