The Shortcuts I Take to Source

On the hunger for connection, and the cost of chasing too hard.

Spirit has always managed to reach me in unique, unmistakeable ways. Once, my Higher Self broke through the seams of reality with a vision of an eye. I responded, and developed a “language” with myself through various methods (I wrote more about this in my post, Thread by Thread, I Come Home).

One such method included shuffling my music and asking my Higher Self to deliver a message through the first song that played. At first, it felt like magic. Then it started to feel like a slot machine I couldn’t stop pulling. I got greedy. Instead of embracing the wisdom within me that my Higher Self encompassed, I began associating the shuffle with control. I would shuffle the music constantly; seeking instant answers and grasping for meaning rather than trusting the silence between the notes. In the beginning, my heart was open, my spirit was playful, and my intention was pure. But it turned into a means of escape. A demand for insight.

This was not the only time I took advantage of the tools Spirit gave me. I would find meaning in tarot cards, in dreams, in communication with my spirit guides. And each time I was gifted a vessel from the Universe, I used it to turn away from myself. I would always forget that the true channel is within me, and the external methods of transmission are only bridges that should flow through me.

Whenever I leaned too heavily on the vessels outside myself, I would wear them out. And then would come the disappointment. The awareness that my gluttony caused my connection with Source to crumble in my grasp. But the restriction didn’t begin in me. It began the moment I started relying on any other system as the source instead of the amplifier. That was when distortion crept in.

I did it again and again. I lacked discretion and discernment. And recently, I found myself repeating the pattern. Source offered me a connection, and I pushed too hard. I chased it. I overreached. I knew the thread was delicate. I knew the hunger inside me could eclipse the very clarity I was receiving. And still… I wanted the Light. And I refused to sip Spirit politely. I insisted on eating the fruit whole. And it came at a cost.

What I mourned the most this time wasn’t the loss of the the vessel; it was my own inability to protect the sacred when it showed up.

But I learned from it. I am not forsaken. Because the pain—the deep, searing regret—means I am ready to hold it better next time. And that’s my vow. That next time the sacred arrives, I will meet it with readiness and reverence. Not desperation. But as one who knows what it cost me to forget.

What should I have done differently?

Nothing.

And also—some things.

Nothing, because this was a destined rupture.

But if I could go back with what I know now, I would pause when the longing started turning to hunger. I would name my dependency sooner. I would choose to be my own channel rather than depend on signs outside of myself. I would hold silence as sacred, not threatening.

But even those aren’t sins. They’re just places where my soul was still learning how to hold the sacred without needing to consume it. And that’s okay. It’s a lesson every mystic, every seeker, every channel must walk through.