There comes a time in every boy’s life when the map handed to him no longer works. The lines grow faint. The compass spins. The voices that once shaped him and called him forward—teachers, parents, heroes—begin to fade and something deeper stirs. No longer a desperate lunge for achievement, but a hunger for orientation. For meaning.
Contrary to the belief that a boy is born a tabula rasa—a blank slate waiting to be written upon by institutions, school, society—there is an older understanding that he arrives with something already inscribed upon his soul.
Within each boy lives a singular thread of genius, as unique as a thumbprint. He is one-of-a-kind—nature only makes originals—not some accident upon this earth. So in many ways the task isn’t to just fill him up with more information, but to clear space for his inner text to be revealed.
Rumi wrote of two kinds of learning: one that is plumbed, drawn in from the outside through books and instruction, and another that grows from the inside out, like a seed quickened by water and sun. The former fills the mind; the latter awakens the soul.
We must honour both, but lean toward the second. What matters most is whether a boy is learning to trust the quiet voice within—the one that says: “This is who I am.”
He must be invited into the art of asking beautiful questions—questions that open the soul like a window in a quiet room: “What do I carry that the world needs? What story is trying to be lived through me?”
These are questions with no answers. Questions that, as poet David Whyte puts it, have been waiting patiently and have no right to go away. Questions that simply become companions on the road.
We live in a world oversaturated with information, yet starved for initiation. Boys are taught to perform, produce and perfect—but rarely are they shown how to feel deeply, grieve fully or listen inwardly. Without mentorship rooted in soul, too many drift toward hollow versions of manhood, shaped by algorithms rather than ancestors.
The journey from boy to manhood is never a straight line. It is a winding, uncertain path strewn with valleys of confusion, dense thickets of feeling, and peaks that disappear into cloud. To move through this kind of terrain, a boy must learn to both orient himself to the contours of the external world and more importantly, to the deeper map within.
Here, the image of the Wayfinder emerges—not merely a world navigator, but one of soul. Like the seasoned tracker who doesn’t rely entirely on his map but listens to the wind, the earth, the ancient stories, so too must a boy attend to the symbols and stirrings in his own heart.
This is where our Wayfinders program begins. A gathering where boys are not told who they are, but are invited to remember.
The Fifth Direction—the community from which Wayfinders arises—has long been a hearth for this kind of work. It is a place where grief and gratitude, story and silence, initiation and elderhood all weave together. For many years now, we have sat with men and watched as from the wounds a radiance emerges. We have walked with the fathers. Now, we turn toward the sons.
Robert Bly, through his generational telling of Iron John, reminds us that “where a man’s wound is, that is where his genius will be.”
In the story, a boy is confronted by an ancient, hairy man locked in a cage. When he finds the courage to free the wild man, he steps across a threshold into a deeper life. What follows is trial and transformation. The wild man becomes his initiator, guiding him through the hard, beautiful terrain of growing into a man.
In our modern culture, boys often cover their pain—their wounding—and try to push through. Rather than shielding boys from their confusion or grief, we create spaces where they can name it, feel it, and slowly learn what it has to teach them. We are not here to fix them—we’re here to welcome them into the age-old journey of becoming. Like the boy in Iron John, they must descend into the forest, into feeling, into the unknown—but not alone.
This is the truth we bring to our circles. That every boy carries genius inside his wound. That vulnerability is not a weakness, but a threshold. That manhood is not a destination, but a terrain to feel with your bare hands and feet.
What we are charting here is a path to soul so that boys may learn the ancient art of wayfinding—to remember the deeper story of their own becoming. This is about reminding boys of their wholeness in a culture that profits from their fragmentation.
Wayfinders see with more than the eye. They triangulate meaning from the seen and the unseen—elder teachings, inner promptings and the murmurs of the more-than-human world. They do not fixate solely on distant goals, but learn to stay in right relationship with what is close: the breath, the body, the brother beside them.
This is what we hope to kindle in each boy who walks the Wayfinders path. A sense of being met. A sense of being blessed. A memory, ancient and soul-deep, that he isn’t lost—just beginning to find his own way.
Of course, there’s something in this work for me too. I feel the quiet ache of my own inner boy—the one who carried stones in his pockets and talked to trees. To help guide young men, I must first reweave the thread back to the boy I was.
This is not just about mentoring the next generation. It is about recovering the words etched on my own soul, answering the longing for the original, unguarded self, and saying to that boy within: “I remember you. I miss you. Come home.”
On Saturday August 16, I’ll be joined by poet and storyteller Leon Cossar for The Wild Road Home—a soulful one-day retreat at Vine & Branches Personal Growth and Education Centre just outside Melbourne. At the heart of the day is Leon’s telling of Iron John—the beloved tale that became a cornerstone of mythopoetic understanding through the work of Robert Bly.
While many men have read Iron John, few have likely ever heard the tale spoken aloud in its full mythic power—especially by a gifted oral storyteller like Leon. This story was never meant to live only on the page. It was born to be carried on the breath, to stir something ancient in the bones.
Though often considered a tale for men, Iron John is, at its core, an initiation story for all—a map of descent, encounter and transformation. That’s why we warmly invite everyone, not just men, to join us in this sacred listening.
The story touches universal thresholds: the wild, the wound, the gold beneath. The conversation that follows promises to be rich, inclusive and alive—with all voices heard and all perspectives welcomed around the fire.
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So beautiful Asher. I loved hearing the words in your voice. Thankyou for your work.