Blissfully naïve I stumbled from Bristol University into investment banking based in London, first with Baring Asset Management then with UBS Securities. My appointed area of expertise was South African Equities. Initially I brimmed with enthusiasm – Nelson Mandela had just been made president and I was thirsty for knowledge of that intriguing country, including its history and all the industries that operated there, from mining to construction to high-technology. After three years I was transferred to New York to speak with the managers of US pension funds about South African equities.

Before transferring, however, I went on holiday to Tibet where something unexpected sparked to life in me: I had a sudden urge to become a novelist and to explore the great mysteries. Alas, I started work at UBS in New York and the dream was shelved. Yet with each year that passed I sensed something vital was missing from my life, though I couldn’t name it. In attempt at a remedy, I shifted from covering South African Equities to covering the equities of US and European media companies. I took financial analyst exams and studied books to better understand the business models of the media giants. Though I continued to thrive in a conventional sense, neither strategy worked: I felt more and more like a caged tiger.

What I lacked was the mentorship of a true elder, someone who could truly see and hear me. Though I didn’t realise it at the time, what I needed was a rite of passage into authentic adulthood, for the gifts I carried to be confirmed by people I respected. What I did know is that if I lay on my deathbed having not explored writing, the sense of regret would consume me. And so in 2003, following six years in New York, and before golden cords bound me too tightly, I resigned from a job I was good at and stepped into the unknown.

The moment I left it was crystal clear what I had been craving – to be creative, to be original, to set off on a great adventure into the right side of my brain. It was a shift from quantity to quality. Though I travelled about the world by motorcycle, writing became my vessel for exploring the imagination and the Underworld.

My first novel took me to Nigeria to create a narrative where the ultimate secret society, one whose competing members reincarnated through time, sought to make Nigeria the leading empire of the 21st century. Bursting with joie de vivre, I sailed through history for relevant material. I partook in the dance between science and Buddhism, captivated by the idea of a union of opposites, of yin and yang, and the creation of a fantastical unified field theory.

Putting my first novel down to practice, the same theme was explored further in a fantasy trilogy, rewriting the first book nine times before finally publishing it in 2016 as The House of Tusk. During that time I had travelled the Silk Roads and the Andes by motorbike, having settled for a while in Syria, Iran, Pakistan, India, Argentina, Brazil, Peru and Colombia, learning not only the languages of some of those places (fluent Spanish, Portuguese, basic Farsi and Arabic), but also the symbolic language of the psyche, whether it’s communicating through dreams, psychoactive plants or ordinary reality.

Writing in the genre of magical-realism, my intention has been to create stories that can make a real difference in the world, using humour and adventure to take us so deep into our psyches — to a place where light and dark are integrated — that we emerge from the tale changed, better equipped to be responsible and to take care of the planet. A central theme of the trilogy was over-population, viewing the proliferation of souls through a fantastical lens, offering a harmonious way to restore balance; with the help of a dragon or two, of course – symbolic of wisdom.

Research for the trilogy took me deep into psychology, especially Jungian psychology. As such, the books I wrote became both a medium for and a reflection of my inner-journey during that time. While I rode across deserts and over high-mountain passes during daytime, or wandered through bazaars, or sat writing at a desk, at night my dreams exploded to life and continue to grow ever richer. Their symbolic connection to daytime has grown very clear. When lucid, I learnt to actively work with the psyche, integrating parts of me that were exiled in childhood, an ongoing process, and what is sometimes referred to as soul recovery. Often dreams reflect a change of attitude during daytime. Sometimes dreams lead the way. While lucid in dreams there is the potential to access whatever information one is ready to assimilate, and needs in order to evolve. The collective psyche appears to forget nothing.

The process of writing also has its genius. Inspiration is a hugely mysterious and awesome business: that strong sense that behind a process which can seem chaotic is an infinite-feeling, exquisite level of order; that when we write things such as novels and poems we are drawing from a well whose depth is far beyond the personal. Perhaps the most valuable lesson I’ve learned from writing is how the various characters in a story are a reflection of the writer’s psyche, from the so-called villain to the sage. The protagonist (the evolving ego) journeys between these extremes as it struggles to let go of flawed beliefs that sabotage attempts to become whole until the ego is mature enough to do so. Step by step. Such is the hero’s journey and the blueprint of most, if not all, stories in what is a continuous update of the old initiatory tales otherwise known as myths.

One of travel’s great gifts has been the forging of an unshakable trust, both in myself and life in general, in how it’s forever nudging us into the potential of the present moment, into the miraculous. Having travelled to places I was advised not to go, what I most encountered was kindness, especially in places like Afghanistan and Iran, while any challenges held deep and necessary learning.

Following fifteen years travelling overseas, towards the spiritual heights of the East and the soulful depths of the Americas, in 2017 Britain began calling me back. Viewed through the lens of an initiatory story, the calling made sense: having severed from conventional life in 2003 in order to embark on a quest, with ordeals and epiphanies along the way, the return journey beckoned. Without it, without the shift from taking to giving back, to being at service, the primary journey would stall – the journey into the deeper layers of reality and potential. Some say the return is the most perilous part of the journey: how to bridge the gap? How to communicate an experience of depth to the mainstream which fears depth, though doesn’t realise it? How to make it relevant and practical?

A year later, having ridden through Central America, Mexico and weaved my way along the Rockies, I returned to Britain. Since then I have completed three wilderness fasts: 4 days fasting alone in nature — on Dartmoor, in the Lake District and in the Outer Hebrides. I have also studied the old stories at the West Country School of Myth and trained as a rites of passage guide with Wildrites UK. All the while, I continue to work on writing novels.

Robert Luck Mentoring is a unique synthesis of this ongoing journey into the depths of potential; what might be viewed as the beginnings of a sturdy bridge between what we are and what we might become — a bridge to be built together . . .