Is that a lighthouse, or a labyrinth?
Many years ago, while visiting my genetic roots in the UK, I found myself in a small coastal village in Cornwall. It was one of those places where the land feels old, and the Arthurian legend lies just below the topsoil. The stone walls lean into the wind, and the air is thick with the scent of salt and stories.
After a particularly long day of traveling by rail, I took a walk along the cliffs one early evening, thinking I’d clear my head.
The sky was overcast, the sea slate grey, and the only sound was the wind and the faint rhythmic pulse of a lighthouse sweeping its beam out across the water. I could see the smoke from a distant bonfire, as it struggled against the rain, attempting to secure all that it once thought it had.
I stood there for a long time, watching that solitary flash of light scan the dark sea, over and over, like a metronome. It wasn’t showy or dramatic. It didn’t scream for attention. It just did what it was built to do: shine when things got dark.
That’s when it occurred to me that there are two kinds of problems in life.
Some are lighthouses, illuminating the way to go.
And some are labyrinths, imploding in a cloying darkness.
A lighthouse problem is the kind where you can already see what to do. The solution is clear, even if it’s not easy. You just have to keep going. Keep showing up. Stay the course.
Like a marriage that’s gotten a bit dull because both people stopped being curious about each other. Or the exercise routine you dropped when the weather turned cold. Or writing that book you started but never finished.
You don’t need a map for those. You need a light you can steer by—and the discipline to keep going, even when it feels like nothing’s changing. Because it is. Slowly, imperceptibly, the current is shifting, and there’s going to be a sea change soon, once you step forward, board the train, and leave the waiting room behind.
And the distant star beyond the lighthouse creates a kind of trance.
And then there are labyrinth problems, which are trickier…
The kind of problem where every turn feels like it might be the right one, only to lead you deeper into confusion. You can’t see the end. You’re not even sure there is an end. You just keep walking, hitting dead ends, circling back, trying to remember which path you’ve already taken.
Labyrinth problems require something else entirely.
Patience. Presence. And above all, perspective.
When someone’s caught in a labyrinth problem, like deep grief, a loss of identity, or a complete shift in how they see the world, telling them to “stay the course” doesn’t help. There is no course. The map has changed. Sometimes it’s been burned in a ravaging bonfire.
What helps in those moments isn’t direction; it’s permission. Permission to pause. To sit at the edge of a dead end and breathe. To stop demanding answers from a mind that doesn’t have any right now. And to wait for the next insight, the next shift, the next step that reveals itself only when the dust settles.
Then act, whether or not you’ve been given permission or approval. Action creates magic, but only if you wait until it’s time to act.
In hypnosis, I’ve worked with people facing both kinds of problems. Some just needed that steadying influence, the quiet confidence of a lighthouse, maintained by their unconscious mind. Others needed a guide who wouldn’t rush them, who could walk with them through the twists and turns without insisting on a shortcut.
Sometimes I’d tell them a story. Other times, I’d say very little at all, letting their deep mind do the heavy lifting.
But always, always, the first step was the same.
Figure out what kind of situation you’re dealing with.
Is this a lighthouse; a direction or guiding star that will get you safely home?
Or a labyrinth - a place where you reluctantly wait until you know it’s time to find the exit?
Because the worst thing you can do with a labyrinth is try to sprint through it like it’s a straight line.
And the worst thing you can do with a lighthouse is sit down and wait for it to come to you.
They both require movement.
Just not the same kind or at the same time.
So here’s the point of this, and I know at least one person out there will understand and benefit from the questions:
Ask yourself: Where in your life are you pausing, when you should be persisting?
And where are you persisting when you should wait and reassess?
Because knowing the difference doesn’t just change how you solve the problem.
It changes how you feel about the journey. And that’s crucial.
Because the journey is everything.
- Mike Mandel
(Chris here: Did you know that Mike's entire "Mandel Trilogy" hypnosis bundle is included in the Brain Software Syndicate. The price to join is ridiculously low.)