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So… Is Your Higher Self the Same as Source?

By The Artful Woman
  Not exactly. Think of it like this: Source is the origin —pure consciousness, God/Goddess/Divine Light, whatever you want to call it. It’s the everything-and-nothing energy from which all things come. Your Higher Self is your personal bridge to Source. It’s your soul in its purest form , untainted by fear, ego, or human distortion. Your Higher Self is you , just on the zoomed-out level —the version of you that remembers the full story, all lifetimes, all lessons, all missions. So: Source is the sun. Your Higher Self is the sunbeam that still holds its essence but is uniquely you . Is Your Higher Self Your Soul? Pretty much— but here's the nuance: Your soul is eternal. It’s the part of you that has lived countless lives. Your Higher Self is like the fully awakened version of your soul —the one not currently squeezed into a human body trying to pay bills and avoid family drama. When you're in human form, you're kind of like the tip of the i...
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The Quiet Spark of Reconnection

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By The Artful Woman

 


She stood at the edge of a quiet room, where the light of day met the shadows of her heart. The room was still, but her thoughts were anything but. She gazed at a single beam of sunlight breaking through the curtains, its warmth a silent invitation to step closer. Yet, she hesitated, rooted in place by an invisible force that felt as though it bound her spirit to the ground.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her hands pressed tightly against her heart, as if trying to awaken something that had long grown quiet. She felt hollow, like a shell washed ashore, its insides emptied by relentless tides. Once, she had felt so alive—connected to something greater, an unshakable faith that carried her through life’s storms. But now, the connection felt frayed, as though a thread in her soul had snapped, leaving her adrift.

The memories were vivid: the mornings she’d risen with joy, her spirit attuned to the whispers of the divine. The prayers she’d offered felt like direct conversations, her heart pouring out gratitude and trust. But now, those prayers felt heavy, as though her words never left the room, falling to the floor like autumn leaves.

The disconnection was not sudden—it had crept in slowly, like dusk overtaking the day. Life’s burdens, unanswered questions, and quiet doubts had built a wall she couldn’t see but always felt. And with each passing day, she grew more distant from the woman she once was, the woman who knew God not just as a distant figure but as a constant presence in her life.

Yet, in the midst of her longing, there was a spark—small but persistent. A part of her refused to let go of the light. It was the same part that drew her to the beam of sunlight now stretching across the room, as though reaching for her. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the golden light, and for a brief moment, she felt it—the warmth, the presence, the possibility of connection.

She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, not polished or rehearsed, but raw and trembling. “God, I feel lost. But I know You’re here. Help me find my way back to You, back to myself.”

The words broke something open inside her. Tears flowed freely, carrying with them the weight of unspoken pain and forgotten dreams. And as she wept, she felt a shift—small, almost imperceptible, like the faint rustle of leaves in a breeze. It wasn’t a complete healing, not yet, but it was enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone.

The beam of sunlight seemed brighter now, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a stirring in her heart, a quiet but profound reminder: the light had never left her—it had been waiting for her to reach out.

                                                                                                       ChatGPT, created by OpenAI

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