There are moments in life when you don’t go looking for answers.
The answers find you.
On my way back home to the Netherlands, after five intense weeks in Israel, I decided to make a short stop in Cyprus.
I had been living inside a whirlwind.
Family members in hospitals. Long drives across the country. Publishing my book after more than twenty-five years of carrying it in my heart. Organizing its first intimate gathering. Meeting people I love. Saying goodbye. Trying to hold together my past, my present, and a future that still refused to reveal itself.
I felt as though an old version of me was quietly dissolving, while the new one had not yet learned how to breathe.
I wanted to visit Aphrodite’s Rock.
I knew Aphrodite as the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and Venus—the planetary energy I have worked with for many years. But I knew almost nothing about the place itself.
To reach the beach, you walk down a staircase and through a long stone tunnel.
As I walked through it, I instinctively began filming.
People were moving through the darkness toward a square of brilliant sunlight at the end of the passage. It felt less like entering a beach and more like walking through an initiation.
When I emerged, the Mediterranean opened before me.
The famous rocks stood in the sea, and around me people laughed, swam, and took photographs.
I didn’t.
I found a quiet rock, sat down, closed my eyes, and simply asked:
“Why did everything have to happen this way? What am I supposed to understand now?”
What came wasn’t an answer in words.
It was a remembering.
I felt the presence I have known by many different names throughout my life.
Aphrodite.
Hathor.
The Shekhinah.
The Divine Mother.
Not separate beings, but different faces of one immense living presence.
She showed me images that felt both ancient and deeply personal—the feminine hips, the belt of power around the waist, the place where love becomes embodied, where creativity becomes matter, where spirit becomes life.
And suddenly something inside me became very quiet.
I realized that perhaps my life’s work has never really been about a particular goddess, a particular tradition, or even a particular teaching.
It has always been about remembering something humanity once knew.
That life is born through relationship.
That creation is not Father alone.
Nor Mother alone.
But the living dance between Father, Mother, and Child.
Somehow, over the past two thousand years, much of our culture forgot the Mother.
And I wonder if one of the great shifts happening in our time is that we are beginning to remember her again.
Not as a women’s issue.
As a human issue.
As a return to balance.
Perhaps this is why The Road to Malchuta waited twenty-five years before entering the world.
When I wrote it, I believed I was moved through the journey Queen Sheba and King Solomon asked me to go through. Years later I realized I was still learning those written lessons.
Now it feels as though I was simply listening to one that had not yet arrived.
I don’t know exactly what comes next.
For the first time in a long time, I am allowing myself not to know.
I am listening.
Waiting.
Following the next small invitation.
And maybe many of us are standing in that same place—somewhere between the person we have been and the person who is quietly being born.
I’m curious…
Do you also feel that something old in you is coming to an end?
Do you sense that a new part of yourself is asking to emerge, even if you can’t yet see what it will become?
If so, I’d love to hear your story.
Perhaps we are walking through the same tunnel, each in our own way, toward a light we cannot yet fully imagine.
