Somewhere around 8 years ago a good friend of mine was living alone in the kind of place you're glad not to notice. He was 20 at the time and in between decisions with nothing in the queue. His mom sent him a book from as far away as one could be, it was called The Alchemist. And so he read it.

The story seemed to speak to him in the sort of way that's difficult to express. Like trying to explain a film that reached you but you're not quite sure how.

He gave the book to me afterward and I began to read but I didn't get far. I guess it wasn't my time.

Years later I tried again, meaning I bought the book. Which holds about as much commitment as a new years resolution. No avail.

Last week I caught an inconsequential reference to The Alchemist on NBC's Parenthood. I went to a box of books that would be under my bed if they fit but as it is sort of crunch in the corner pretending to be hidden.

I read the book in 3 days, always with a pen.

Sometimes life has to be revisited, the meaningful not always linear but present in the past and future as well as now. Our challenge is to be awake for its presentations.

The book's a treasure. Sure it took me nearly a decade and 65million other readers before I found it, but eventually I did. And eventually is always better than never at all.