Tolstoy said there are two fundamental stories in all great literature: “a man goes on a journey” or “a stranger comes to town.” When you examine them, both are really about change. They show that our comfortable routine—sitting safely in the village, wrapped in familiar habits, everything staying the same—is about to be disrupted in a major way.
We have a choice in how we meet that change. It is far better to embark on the hero’s journey deliberately, with eyes wide open and a “yes” attitude—a positive, receptive state of mind—than to passively wait for the stranger to arrive. If you wait, you may learn nothing; worse, the story could turn dark. The stranger might be a dragon or a demon. It is preferable to confront such a force in the wilderness than to let it ravage half the village first. If we wait, the stranger eventually will come, and shatter the pattern. Real change—and real damage—will certainly follow. It is a risky chance.
For the journey to be a true hero’s adventure rather than just more routine, certain conditions are essential. As Huxley observed, “experience only teaches the teachable.” If the hero sets out only to criticize and take offense at everything unfamiliar—judging new events against the narrow habits and thinking of his old life—little good will come of it. He will grow miserable, assign blame, and keep his small self firmly at the center. Nothing can truly change. But if he meets experience with an open-eyed, clear attitude, wonder becomes possible—wonder in the sense of questioning, and also in the sense of amazement and mystery. With this inner posture, he may begin to see the mysterious patterns that constitute him, reflected back in the events he encounters. He may come to know something real about himself.
Courage, self-honesty, and being tested in different environments help keep the eyes wide open so he does not simply drag his old baggage along. The journey then proceeds with an open state of mind—what we might call “Yes” instead of “No.”
For most of us, the journey begins by leaving the nest and stepping into life. Change often arrives first in seemingly ordinary things. Being open-minded—not merely in a polite, social sense—means being capable of truly seeing and listening rather than reflexively judging. This is not just a slogan; it is a practice. When we look to observe what is actually happening, non-critically and non-judgmentally, then marriage, raising children, building a home, starting a family, launching a business, pursuing a career, developing a talent or skill—any of these can become the journey, the path. We keep an open mind and refuse to force our life into something that only chases money or to adopt the bitter attitude that everything always goes wrong, that the world is against us, and that only we are right.
If we can reclaim our innocence, we become capable of something different. We can develop real skill, a direct way of engaging the world. We can become a parent, a husband, a wife, a father, a mother, a leader, a reliable colleague—identities profoundly different from who we were as teenagers or toddlers. For those who complete this phase and later feel a nostalgic pull, a remembering of something greater than ordinary life can offer, the journey can turn inward. It becomes an exploration of what we are truly like and whether something real lies beneath the surface.
This inward turn must also be undertaken with a sense of mystery, wonder, and eyes wide open. Otherwise, we risk simply rationalizing and blaming what we find inside. But if we observe inwardly in a universal, neutral way—true, non-judgmental observation—then we can learn from it and gradually free ourselves from the emotional hot spots and knots accumulated over a lifetime. This, too, is the hero’s journey: an adventure of stalking oneself, of coming to know oneself.
Richard Rose pointed out that we must get to know the self precisely because it is the thing we know least about. Most of us assume we already know ourselves, but honest, non-critical self-inquiry often brings real surprises. It can be deeply depressing and profoundly enlightening at the same time. Yet it remains an adventure as long as we maintain the eyes-wide-open, non-judgmental attitude. Beating ourselves up, blaming parents, society, or some other group so we can feel right—these are not productive. Pure observation is what matters.
This non-judgmental approach works equally for the outward journey and the inward one.
Once we understand how “going within” operates, nostalgia—or what Rumi calls “a longing”—becomes our guide. This longing is not sentimental. It has nothing to do with sitting on the porch of the old farm, drinking lemonade, and drifting into fond childhood memories. We are seeking an entirely different set of guideposts, a different environment, a different version of ourselves—one we only vaguely remember. We carry faint memories of heaven, and if we follow this thread of longing, it can lead somewhere Real.
Richard Rose also discovered through his dreams that life is dominated by three main moods. The two primary ones are opposites: seduction and fear (or desire and fear). Desire pulls us outward toward things; fear drives us back toward security. Neither leads the soul inward or upward beyond this dimension—they simply make us chase or flee. But nostalgia—the remembering of who we were before we came here—is different. It is the thread that can guide us Home, toward something eternal.
Bob Fergeson
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