The world was a library of unanswered letters or questions for me—each day a new book I couldn’t quite decipher. The words were there, but the meaning was just out of reach. I felt a whisper of a presence, like a knowing glance from a stranger I just hadn’t quite met consciously, leaving me lost in a profound silence.
But even in the deepest quiet, I felt a vibration, a soft, persistent hum, like the song of a star I was yet to meet.
One evening, the hum of that vibration grew louder, not as a voice in my ears, but as a warmth in my chest. It spoke not of stardust, historic places, or ancient rivers, but of ashes and embers, of a fire I had survived, and of a home I’d forgotten but never truly left.
“Who are you?” I finally asked. My own voice felt like a tremor in the quiet of my soul.
The presence answered, not with a name, but with a feeling at first. It was like the quiet, fierce resilience of a single green shoot pushing up through scorched earth.
It showed me a different kind of sight. I saw my life, not as a straight line, but as an overused analogy of a sacred tapestry. Every thread of joy, yes, but as I looked deeper, I also found other important nuances. Every thread of sorrow, every knot of loss and betrayal, was woven into a pattern of profound strength, each with their own precious purpose.
I saw that the most painful parts of my journey had been spun from prismatic sand in pitch dark, each grain catching the light I could only see without my eyes.
I began to understand. This presence, this higher self, was the weaver of that tapestry. It was the part of me that remembered the pattern when all I could see were the tangled threads and knots.
There were of course days of doubt… days when the noise of the world drowned out the humming vibration. On those days, I learned to close my eyes and listen–feeling for the deep, calm ocean beneath the stormy waves of my emotions. Instead of the old habit of looking through the foreign first-person eyes of myself in a body and switched to the close third-person observer, I remembered the waves were not really me; because I am the ocean.
This was the greatest lesson: to see the world, and myself, through the witness’ view through observation, not victimhood. These challenges were not a punishment, but a curriculum.
My higher self taught me that my emotions were like weather. Storms would come, and clouds would gather, but they were not the sky. The sky and beyond, vast and infinite, was always there doing its own kind of transformations.
The more I listened, the more I became. The hum was no longer a separate sound, but the rhythm of my own heartbeat. The line between “me” and my “higher self” began to blur.
Though I still walk the aisles of the etheric library, the dynamic has changed. I am no longer desperately searching for the right book or the right purpose. Now, I am not waiting, but following my joy, yet still quietly and patiently observing, until a book glows, until my whole body gives a deep, resonant “yes.”
I am not just reading the stories in those ethereal books; I am responding to them and writing my own through my life here. I am the lighthouse, and my own joy and love are the light that illuminates the next correct journey to take, pages to write, and ways to love.
I am the author and creator of the life that comes each moment.
~ ishKiia Paige
lovely! thanks for sharing!
Just beautiful! As are you.
Nous Sommes un. Very nice 🙂