I traded my comparative religion dissertation for a line cook's apron a few years back, but I still dog-ear journal articles. When I look at those spirals and concentric rings, I don't just see ancient landscaping. I see a calendar carved in dirt. A way of tracking celestial movement without a telescope, just naked eyes and patience. It's the same impulse that birthed Stonehenge and what Carl Jung called the collective unconscious—that deep, shared well of symbols we keep stumbling into across millennia. We think we invented the wheel, but sometimes we just remember it.

In the kitchen, I measure everything. Grams of salt, seconds on the boil. But the old world cooked with the sky. They'd align a path with a solstice sunrise or mark where the moon cast its longest shadow during lunar standstills. It reminds me of The Star card—water pouring from two jugs into a pool, surrounded by eight points of light. It's not just pretty imagery. It's a map of the soul's quiet hunger. The water doesn't just fall; it returns. It circles back to the source, just as our eyes return to the stars when the noise of the world grows too loud. Those geoglyphs aren't merely boundaries or markers. They are open palms pressed against the earth, reaching up. They tell us that we are not separate from the cosmos, but woven into its fabric, thread by thread. When I wipe down the pass and the grease settles, I think of that. We are all just trying to align ourselves with the light, finding our place in the great, turning wheel of the sky.