Eleven years ago, my first book was published. I was living in a cabin I built with some friends in the woods at the time of its release, and the words that filled its pages drew from years of experience with backwoods living, and the inspiration that had come out of that journey. Its name was Unlearn, Rewild, and it was a heady, at times poetic, at times brash and outrageously unfiltered collection of ideas and skills that felt particularly exciting to me at that moment in time.
Holding a copy of my first book: Unlearn, Rewild - fall 2023
On the afternoon leading up to Unlearn, Rewild’s official book launch event, I prepared to give a public talk at a local cafe by rehearsing alone in my forest home, scribbling notes on a piece of paper, and speaking them out loud in my empty cabin. As the event’s start time approached, I walked my bike through a forest trail and along a decommissioned dirt road that led to the nearby highway. I propped a large box filled with sixty fresh copies of my new book atop the bike’s handlebars as I wheeled it along the path, and when I got to the paved highway, I carefully rode to town with my load of books balancing precariously on those handlebars.
There was an excitement and electricity at the event that night - a much larger crowd showed up than I had anticipated. People drove from hours away to show their support, hear what this creation I’d made was about, and get a copy. I gave a long, winding talk that lasted over an hour - and somehow seemed to keep everyone engaged that whole time. I told the story of why I had gone to live in the woods for so many years, what had been good, bad, beautiful, painful, surprising, and funny. I later realized that the contents of my talk had little in common with the contents of that book.
The books I brought were all sold by the end of the evening. I shook hands with strangers and old friends who were immensely supportive. There was a kind of grace to all of this that I couldn’t fully appreciate at the time.
This same grace seemed to surround that book’s entire creation: The ease with which a publisher jumped at the idea of it (the book had been enthusiastically accepted by the first publisher I contacted when initially shopping it around), the warm reception it received from many people who read it, and the opportunities that began to spring up in the months after its publication.
And yet, while my career as a new author seemed to be quickly gaining momentum, another story was going on behind the scenes of my life. I tell this tale in much greater detail in my book How To Open The Heart, and will share a very simplified version of it here: Almost immediately after publishing Unlearn, Rewild, a series of events shook the foundations of my worldview, philosophy, and sense of self.
Up until this time, I had been building a profound sense of confidence both in myself and my ideas about society, nature, and what constitutes a good life. Years of living my dream on the land helped embolden my youthful, rebellious bravado.
Then - just around the time this first book was published - a charismatic, clairvoyant acquaintance (yes, you read that right) played an instrumental role in pointing out some completely unexamined areas of my personality and inner world - some of the emotional wounds and conditioning that I was carrying, but hadn’t yet slowed down long enough in my short, action packed life to examine. The deep emotional dynamics that compelled me to run away from society and live in the woods suddenly began coming into focus, and with the same single-minded, passionate intensity that I had applied to living on the land for so many years, I determined to unravel the mystery of my inner conflicts.
Where my attention was previously occupied with land-based activities such as harvesting wild food, learning new kinds of basketry, or exploring ancient hide-tanning techniques, I was now interested in something completely different: Meditation, emotional processing, and the study of a variety of disciplines and approaches to these things. I quickly lost interest in practicing earth-based living skills, as my new focus of emotional excavation took centre stage. As a result of this, a couple of years after Unlearn, Rewild was published - and just as it was starting to pick up momentum - I dropped off the map. I disappeared. But this time, the wilderness I disappeared into and became fascinated by, was inside myself.
For the next six or seven years, I basically vanished from the life I’d been living previously. I got rid of my social media accounts, blog, and website. I started another biog (which eventually became this site) where I wrote about personal development, inner work, and all things relevant to the new chapter I was immersed in.
Looking back, there was something beautiful and healthy that came from pulling away from the world and going inward so intensely. But I also deliberately wanted to distance myself from that first book - I wanted to go in a different direction with my life, ideas, and eventually, writing. And after entering a phase of deeply humbling introspection, I was embarrassed by significant aspects of Unlearn, Rewild. There was an arrogance, self-righteousness, and closed-mindedness in my voice throughout it that I became painfully aware of, and felt intense shame around. Many of the ideas I gave a strong voice to in the book’s pages, I no longer believed.
Of course, this is the nature of writing and being human. We grow. Ideas change. Putting words to the page and sharing them with the world is almost like shedding a skin and offering it to others - that skin is not a representation of who we will be in one year, or ten years from now. It’s a representation of a particular moment in time. I went through a series of growth spurts in my thinking and feelings immediately after writing that book - but it stayed as it was when it was written. It was a document of a particular moment. Reconciling with this was awkward and difficult.
Now, years later, I am fortunate to have spent plenty of time meditating on this lesson - as a writer I am extremely conscious of how rapidly my thoughts and feelings evolve, so I have chosen to create work that accounts for that shifting ground. My last two books are a testament to this: In both of them, I opted to share the most honest, vulnerable, authentic personal experiences I possibly could, rather than offering any rigid ideas, theories, or arguments around anything in particular. I still believe that these new books are filled with wisdom and are highly educational and intellectually compelling, but they approach this all from a position of humility and openness, rather than conclusions and certainty. I had to learn about this more nuanced, humble approach through experience, though.
For a long time, I carried a heavy burden of shame around that first book of mine, and all the things about it that I would now do differently. At some point over the past few years, however, that feeling began to change.
I always knew that Unlearn Rewild, despite whatever youthful, bombastic flaws it contained in hindsight, felt absolutely sacred when I was writing it. During its creation I was living in the woods, surrounded by like-minded people I loved, after years of unbroken time living out a sacred dream. If there were flaws in my logic, areas of myself, humanity, and thought that I had not yet discovered which came through in the writing, well, that’s because I hadn’t discovered those things yet. I was in my mid-twenties when that writing was done - my brain was still essentially in a constantly altered state from the influence of youth and testosterone.
Looking back now, I can see things I would do incredibly differently. Fortunately, I’ve continued writing, and my books continue to be documents of the very best I have to offer at the time of their writing. Each new book continues to be a significant departure from the last. So as much as my shame might like to beat me up for my past, the actions of the present are where I get to continually bring new lessons or information to the fore.
It has been humbling to realize, after writing a couple new books over the past three years, just how magnetic and engaging Unlearn, Rewild was to readers. It still sells a surprising number of copies. It still resonates with individuals. And I can see why. There was something unapologetically authentic about it. It was written by a young punk who couldn’t care if you liked him or not. In fact, he kind of relished the idea that what he was creating would not be for everyone. He had lived in a hand-built cabin for years, embodying his philosophy, living it and breathing it. He wrote those words in his shabby cabin, high on inspiration from the land. This aspect of that book came from a very pure place.
Today, I find myself in a chapter of life where I seem to be integrating two paths: The path of inner exploration that I dove so deeply into (and chronicled in How To Open The Heart), and the sacred, reverential connection to the land that sustained and nourished me so deeply (and led to Unlearn, Rewild). My newest book, Ten Lessons In Love, may be the first thing I’ve yet created to bridge those two worlds. Even though it’s a book of raw, vulnerable, personal stories, it feels like a spiritual follow up to Unlearn, Rewild. In this new book, I return to my past and my roots, and pick up where I left off, with a lot perspective and humility from the years that have intervened. The earth-based magic which I was tapped into in my youth has returned to my life, and beyond how it influenced this new book, for my mental and spiritual health it is a godsend.
Yesterday, I visited one of Vancouver’s most iconic bookstores, Banyen books. I found a couple copies of Unlearn, Rewild on its shelves, and leafed through one of them. It had been years since I’d looked through its pages, and memories came flooding back. Once my memory was jarred, I could recall all of it. I was impressed by how much life was in that little book, and cringed at the amateurish, overzealous approach I had at the time. But I could appreciate that book again now. And however much I may have changed, there are parts of me contained within it that have not changed at all. That love for nature, and my desire to find the most emotionally compelling and sincere way to share a story or idea - that’s still me.
Just over a year ago, I hosted a book reading for How To Open The Heart, where a reader told me: “I’ve read all of your books and love them all.” It was touching talking to this man and realizing that parts of my path which felt so disparate to me were, in his eyes, simply Miles’ journey. To this person, it all made sense - the different books were all documents of a guy searching for the sacred. And I have to say, that is true - if there is a simple through-line that runs from each of these seemingly unrelated works, it’s that they were part of one young man’s attempt to connect with the sacred.
I do think I’ve gotten wiser in my approach over the years, and the long dark nights of the soul have helped develop my craft. But we can only give what we have to give from our current level of awareness at any moment. Better to give from where we are and learn from our mistakes, than to withhold for fear of getting it wrong.