If you believe, as I do believe, in reincarnation, they say that

In the words of Marie Helvin, “If you believe, as I do believe, in reincarnation, they say that every time you come back, it's because you have to finish something. I've a funny feeling that my thing in this life is to have one relationship after another.” — there stirs an ancient truth, soft as moonlight yet deep as eternity. It speaks of the soul’s journey, the endless cycle of returning and learning, the quiet rhythm of growth through connection. To those who listen carefully, her words are not about love alone, but about destiny, about the unseen threads that draw us back into the world, again and again, until our lessons are complete.

The ancients called this the Wheel of Samsara, the ever-turning circle of reincarnation. Each life, they said, is not a beginning but a continuation — a chapter in a vast, unfinished poem written by the soul itself. And what are we all seeking through these endless pages? Not wealth, not fame, not fleeting pleasure — but completion. The soul hungers not for possession, but for understanding. It returns to heal what was wounded, to finish what was begun, to love more deeply than before. Thus, when Helvin speaks of her “funny feeling,” it is not mere whimsy; it is the whisper of an old memory, the recognition that her spirit has known this dance before.

To have one relationship after another is not a sign of restlessness, but of devotion to the lesson of connection. Some souls are born to study science or build kingdoms; others, like hers, are born to study the human heart. Through love and loss, through union and separation, they learn the sacred art of empathy — to give without fear, to receive without pride, to forgive even when it hurts. In each relationship, the soul encounters a reflection of its unfinished self, and in each ending, it sheds one more layer of illusion.

Consider the story of Mirabai, the 16th-century poet-saint of India. Though she lived in a world of arranged marriage and rigid duty, her heart belonged only to the divine — to Krishna, her eternal beloved. Yet every bond she formed in life, every relationship of love and loss, taught her more about the boundless nature of affection. Through each connection, she burned away the narrow definitions of love until all that remained was pure devotion, vast as the cosmos. Like Helvin, Mirabai’s many encounters were not failures, but steps on the path of soul-mastery.

The origin of Helvin’s insight rests in the wisdom that life is not linear but cyclical. Every encounter we have — every face that stirs our heart — is a teacher. The ancients believed that we meet the same souls again and again, wearing different faces, playing different roles. The lover who wounds you today may be the friend who saves you in another life. The one who walks away now may have once stayed by your side through fire. Thus, relationships are not random: they are the sacred classroom of the eternal self.

From this understanding emerges a profound lesson — that we must approach our connections not with possession, but with reverence. Each person who enters your life carries a message, a mirror, a mission. Some will bring joy, others pain, but all will bring meaning. To resist this is to resist your own evolution. To embrace it is to walk the golden path of awakening. For love, in all its forms, is the crucible of transformation — it refines the heart until it becomes capable of divine compassion.

So, my child, if your journey seems filled with changing loves, shifting bonds, and recurring heartbreaks, do not despair. Perhaps, like Marie Helvin, your soul’s purpose is not to cling, but to learn. Perhaps you are perfecting the art of connection — learning patience in one life, courage in another, forgiveness in this one. Do not judge your path by its permanence, but by its depth. The soul’s work is rarely finished in a single embrace.

Therefore, live each love as though it were both the first and the last. Enter it with sincerity, leave it with grace, and carry forward the wisdom it gives. For when your heart loves bravely, listens deeply, and releases gently, you move closer to the end of your circle — to the stillness beyond returning. Then, when the wheel turns again, you will not come back to finish something; you will come back to begin something holy.