Spirals through Time: Lessons for Now

ancient Egypt, lake Como, winter solstice

I have been immersed in the cyclical nature of change this month. First, the richly textured mysteries of ancient Egypt. Then the deeply layered memories of family heritage. And now, the winter solstice.

I’m reminded how life doesn’t move in straight lines. It circles around unmet challenges. It spirals into new and unexpected perspectives. It moves like the breath, in waves of expanding and releasing, receiving and giving back. Participating in this dance asks me to open to this moment and let it go. Like Rumi’s waterwheel: accepting water only to turn and give it away, weeping.

This is what it is to live with heartfulness: falling in love with this moment and letting it go without closing down, again and again. A spiral of expansion and release. Falling in love and letting go is how we live into love.

This solstice is the last full day I will ever spend at my Italian grandparents house. I’ve come here every year since I was ten years old. My children and their cousins have been coming since they were born. Images overlay each other like tissue paper: their elaborate plays, treasure hunts in the garden, learning to swim, ice cream in the village. My own memories go back still further: high in a tree gorging on apricots warmed by the sun, hours spent twisting and turning underwater, my grandmother’s scent, her soft hands, her smile. I love this place so much.

Some part of me imagined it would be here forever. Yet it’s already gone, with a sale rushed through allowing only a short window of grace to clear things out. Falling in love and letting go is the theme of this solstice for me.

Only a few days ago I was in Egypt. The trip came as a surprise: an extraordinarily generous and unexpected gift from a dear friend (my thanks are greater than words can convey beloved Evan: you touch the world with your generosity and beauty). We arrived like wide-eyed children knowing nothing about what would come next, but around us were experts who have been wrestling with unanswered questions for decades. NASA engineers and material scientists alike were baffled by the strong evidence of machining in these ancient structures. The precision saw-cuts in dense granite and basalt rock; tube-drills with internal striations; impeccably smooth, thin symmetrical vases made from a stone almost as hard as diamond; truly enormous statues and obelisks cut from single pieces of granite and transported hundreds of miles; vast quartz blocks perfectly interlocking and scooped to flat surfaces as if formed from butter…

Time moves in spirals. Even the skeptics in our group were persuaded of an ancient technology equaling or surpassing our own. Conventional explanations of primitive tools didn’t add up for the material scientists and engineers. Some speculated technologies entirely different from our own: acoustic resonance to move or shape stone; vibrational techniques to reduce effective weight. It was heady stuff. But I feel things first, and I can attest that the feeling of these megalithic structures was like nothing I’ve experienced before. Meditating in the King’s chamber nestled deep in the heart of the great pyramid of Giza or seated on a mysterious quartz star outside the step pyramid… it was as if every cell in my body were humming. Whoever these people were, they have a lot to teach us.

Sitting in awe in the heart of the Giza pyramid

Whilst there, I read Elif Shafak’s wonderful book There Are Rivers In The Sky. She writes: “Empires have a way of deceiving themselves into believing that, being superior to others, they will last forever. A shared expectation that tomorrow the sun will rise again, the earth will remain fertile, and the waters will never run dry.”

That soothing story of linear progression, superiority, being on top… as if the world were a column to climb. As if we didn’t breathe in and out in a circular slide. As if the solstice didn’t expand into summer and release into winter, again and again. As if we’re not spinning through space in a spiralling galaxy. As if each moment we’re not falling in love and letting go into infinitely vast mysteries.

If nothing stays the same and nothing is linear, how do we know what to do whilst we’re here? It’s not that our input is irrelevant - the opposite seems to be true. What we do whilst we’re here really matters - but what if our choices were informed by the goodness we bring rather than getting to the top? I wonder how history would have unfolded if Pharaohs had invested that time, money, manpower and creative energy into ensuring an abundant and healthy life for everyone, rather than obsessing over the perfect death for themselves? Gestures don’t have to be grand to change lives. My grandmother poured so much love into this house and these trees, shrubs, flowers and vegetables, and I know the new owners will feel it everywhere they turn. I know their lives will be touched my the imprints of her fingertips in the soil.

Life moves in mysterious spirals, yet linear lines tell us only to look ahead, even as we stand on other people’s heads and pollute our home in order to climb higher. Spirals invite us to look over our shoulder, down below and up above as we return through familiar patterns with new perspectives. They ask us to participate in life with humility and responsibility, perhaps learning something new, this time. Spirals help us grow up.

If other cultures weren’t in fact more primitive than ours, what might this mean for us? Whilst in Egypt, I often wondered if these ancient structures reflected a different level of attunement between the elements and humans. Rather than manipulating them through force, did people work with life instead? Did they listen to water, stone, air and fire, receiving them as beings and moving with them (just as my Peruvian teachers describe from their Inkan lineage, where the same imposing interlocking granite stones are found)? Did they understand humility and responsibility better than us? What can we learn from the past?

What would our legacy be to the next generation if we entered into sacred relationships not only with each other, but with all the beings of this mysterious universe? What might it mean to live in resonance?

And what might this mean for you, right now?

I’ve been wondering about resonance today, reflecting on the gifts and scars left by family lineages, feeling grateful for my family’s courage and capacity to transform. And I’ve been reflecting on the more personal blessings and teachings since the last solstice too. Feeling gratitude for the seeds planted; forgiveness and sobriety for the times I’ve acted reactively; appreciation for my willingness to receive suffering as a sacred messenger showing me where I leave my centre.

Civilisations rise and fall, to rise again. Ancestral homes close their doors, to open them renewed. The light dims only to slowly brighten to fullness all over again. All the while, love remains. It’s here in every second we remember to step into this moment with an open mind and a soft heart, meeting what’s true with curiosity and kindness. Love is here each time we respond with wisdom, compassion and delight. Life invites us to become a little more aligned, over time, with the mysterious forces spinning and spiralling through infinite space.

I’m wishing you all a sweet and tender solstice time, friends. I look forward to seeing some of you in this upcoming year. It might be a big one, but together, with our open hearts ready to fall in love and let go with grace, we’re stronger than ever before.

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