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Egypt chronicles - Part one: Arrival
This is the first in a series of posts chronicling my two-week pilgrimage to Egypt with Mary Morrissey and the Brave Thinking Institute – a journey that changed me in ways I’m still discovering. What follows includes private visits to sacred sites and intimate moments in ancient temples that few are permitted to enter. I’m sharing it here, with you, in the hope that something of the magic travels through the words. To travel the full journey with me, you'll need to be a paid subscriber – because some experiences deserve a more intimate container.
05 February – Stepping into another land
That’s it. I’m going.
After eight months of thinking and dreaming about it, I’m finally going to Egypt. Eight months since I first paid the deposit – boldly, easily, despite the sum of money I was committing to – I’d had no doubt in my heart that I was meant to be on this trip. Not the next one, not next year, not later. This one. Now.
Have you ever had that feeling?
I haven’t been able to plan beyond this trip. It’s as though my whole life has been preparing me for this moment – a turning point with a clear before and after. I find it ominous now that the dates coincide with Chinese New Year: leaving the year of the wooden snake behind – a year of shedding, transformation, and steady growth – and stepping into the year of the fire horse, with all its momentum, bold action, and passion. As if my soul knew, eight months ago, that I would need to prepare for this shift.
This feels like the end of a chapter. Seven years of deep inner work and transformation – from nearly resigning from my corporate career back in 2018, to discovering coaching and studying for an MA in psychosynthesis, to leaving corporate life in 2022, navigating COVID and my house burning down in the middle of all of that, to becoming self-employed, a business owner, a writer, and now an author. What a ride it’s been.
I’ve shed so much over these seven years – old identities, stories about myself and my place in the world, beliefs about who I really am and who we all are. Shame, guilt, old baggage, a deep-seated sense of smallness and helplessness. Like a snake shedding its skin, it hasn’t always been easy – sometimes there was a lot of scratching, wriggling, tearing, with periods of stillness in between. It’s like lifting dusty velvet curtains: each time you release something dark and heavy, a little more light comes through.
And isn’t that the point? To let our light shine? Wouldn’t the world be a more beautiful place if we could all share our light, our love, our joy – freely and fearlessly?
So this trip to Egypt – a two-week pilgrimage with Mary Morrissey and the Brave Thinking Institute – feels like both a celebration of an ending and a brand-new beginning. A threshold I’m about to cross.
Sphinx Airport, Cairo
We’ve landed.
After an uneventful five-hour flight, we touch down at Sphinx Airport on the west side of Cairo, technically in Giza. As we approach the runway, I catch a glimpse of the landscape through my neighbour’s window: fifty shades of beige. Everything, including the buildings, looks as though it were made of sand. Not a single spot of green or blue. It’s like landing on another planet – and suddenly I’m picturing Luke Skywalker at the start of Star Wars, still at home with his aunt and uncle, still unaware of all the adventures ahead and the hero’s journey about to unfold. Am I an alien? Or am I home? Am I arriving, or returning? Perhaps a little of both.
The first thing I notice as we step outside is the sound – or rather, the absence of it. Everything feels peaceful, still. The sky holds early traces of pink; dusk is just beginning. A soft haze hangs over everything, dampening not just the colours but the sounds too. The air is cool, like a spring morning. I’m glad of my coat, even though it’s probably around eighteen degrees.
The second thing I notice is the smell. Hard to describe – something like the air inside a pottery workshop, thick with clay dust, dry and tingly, yet warm and faintly sweet. Different, but familiar. And somehow, it’s calling me home.
As I settle into the taxi and gratefully accept a bottle of water from my guide, I become aware of my heart beating steadily in my chest. I feel calm, peaceful, intensely present. I am here. I am so grateful. I feel blessed.
As we drive towards the city, the landscape shifts. The quiet motorway across the desert gives way to a sea of traffic that seems to have a life of its own. Battered cars, packed minibuses, little mopeds piled with human sandwiches weave in and out of lanes that barely exist – like blood pumping through veins and arteries, inexorably making its way to the heart of the city. Despite the apparent chaos, everyone seems to follow an invisible rhythm, moving in and out of each other’s way like a murmuration of starlings, all of it accompanied by the constant, concert of car horns. What I expected to be a cacophony has become a kind of music, gently rocking to the rhythm of the city.
We weave ourselves into the city traffic. Suddenly it’s an assault of light, colour, sound. Shops selling mobile phones, clothing, furniture. Banks sitting beside mini-markets heaped with fruit and vegetables. The sun has firmly set. And then a new sound joins the choir of car horns – the call to prayer rising somewhere in the distance, floating above everything else like the wings of an angel, reminding us to pause, look up, and smile.
We turn a corner. And there it is: the Four Seasons hotel, where we’ll spend the next four nights.
We’ve arrived.
