On my home island, there is a small votive chapel right by the sea. I have always considered it the most beautiful—not because of its architecture or the view of the horizon, but because of the powerful symbolism it carries.
Inside, its walls are covered with paintings of sailing ships, gifts from sailors who survived storms and returned home safely. From this very spot, overlooking the open sea, local women and mothers once stood to bid farewell to their loved ones as they set out on uncertain journeys—often journeys with no return. For this reason, the chapel is known as the “chapel of fears, sighs, and tears.”
On its façade, an inscription reads:
“Do not turn your gaze away from the light of this star, if you do not wish to be lost in the storm.”
For sailors, that star was often embodied in the figure of the Virgin Mary, who appeared as a light of hope in moments of fear and uncertainty.
But each of us carries such a “star.” For some, it is family. For others, faith. For others still, their work, art, or a deep inner conviction. Whatever form it takes, this star is the thread we return to—the compass that restores our sense of safety and peace.
In Jungian psychology, this guiding principle comes closest to what is called the Self: the inner center of wholeness that steadies us when life feels like an open sea, unpredictable and vast.
