A portal to your higher self:
Bethany sat cross-legged in the dimly lit room, her eyes fixed on the hypnotist’s swinging pocket watch. The pendulum’s rhythmic sway lulled her into a trance—a place where time blurred, and the boundaries between reality and imagination dissolved.
“Imagine,” the hypnotist’s voice echoed, “a hidden door within your mind. A portal to your higher self.”
Bethany’s breath slowed. She envisioned the door—an ornate oak portal adorned with ancient symbols. Its handle beckoned, promising answers she had sought for years.
“Open it,” the hypnotist whispered. “Step through.”
As Bethany turned the handle, the door creaked open. She stepped into a corridor of swirling mist. The air smelled of forgotten memories and unspoken dreams. Each step echoed with whispers—her own thoughts mingling with something deeper.
The corridor led to a moonlit garden. Flowers bloomed in hues she’d never seen—petals of courage, purpose, and longing. At the center stood a mirror—a reflection of her soul.
“Speak,” the mirror whispered. “Ask your questions.”
Bethany stood before the mirror—an antique heirloom passed down through generations. Its silvered surface held secrets—reflections of countless souls who had sought answers within its depths.
As she gazed, her reflection wavered. The room seemed to stretch, elongating shadows. The air thickened, carrying whispers from forgotten ages. And then, like a ripple across a still pond, her higher self emerged—an ethereal figure bathed in moonlight.
The embodiment of wisdom and longing stood before her. Eyes like galaxies met hers—ancient constellations mapping the universe within.
“Why am I lost?” Bethany’s voice trembled, the words escaping her lips like fragile birds. “What is my purpose?”
Her higher self smiled—a knowing curve of lips that held lifetimes. “You’ve wandered through the labyrinth of existence, my dear. Fear, doubt, and the weight of societal expectations have veiled your inner compass. But within, you carry the map—the cartography of your soul.”
Bethany’s heart fluttered. “How do I find my way?”
“Three keys,” her higher self replied, voice like wind through ancient pines. “Unlock them, and purpose will unfurl like petals at dawn.”
The first is The Key of Fear: Bethany’s pulse quickened. “What fear binds me?” Your fear of inadequacy, her higher self whispered. “The belief that you’re not enough—the shadows that keep you tethered. Face them. Acknowledge their existence, and they’ll loosen their grip.”
Second is The Key of Passion: Embrace your forgotten flames, her higher self continued. Remember the guitar you abandoned, the poems you hid in dusty drawers. Passion is the compass—follow its sparks.
The Key of Listening: Lastly, her higher self said, listen. Not with your ears, but with your heart. It knows your purpose—the rhythm of your existence. When doubt clouds your vision, let your heart guide you.”
Bethany nodded, her resolve crystallizing. The mirror shimmered, revealing glimpses of other paths—the ones she hadn’t taken, the dreams she’d deferred.
“Remember,” her higher self murmured, “you’re both seeker and sought. Purpose isn’t a distant shore; it’s the current that carries you.”
As the mirror’s surface rippled, Bethany glimpsed her purpose—a mosaic of courage, passion, and intuition. The veil between worlds thinned, and she stepped closer, fingertips grazing the glass.
“Go,” her higher self urged. “Find your purpose. Paint it across the canvas of existence.”
And so, Bethany stepped through—the mirror swallowing her like a hungry moon. She emerged on the other side, heart alight, ready to unravel the mysteries of her own soul.
Bethany’s journey within had been profound—a dance with her higher self, a revelation of purpose. But now, as the hypnotic trance began to wane, she felt the pull—the soft voice that drew her back to the room with the swinging pocket watch.
The hypnotist’s voice, gentle yet firm, echoed through the mist of her mind. “Bethany, listen closely. You carry your purpose like a lantern in the dark. It’s time to anchor it—to weave it into the fabric of your waking existence.”
“To anchor your purpose,” the hypnotist continued, “we’ll create a safe place—a sanctuary where your purpose thrives.”
Bethany envisioned her safe place—a sun-drenched meadow, wildflowers swaying. The hypnotist guided her, using her preferred language—verbal predicates that resonated with her soul.
“Imagine the grass beneath your feet,” the hypnotist said. “Feel the sun on your skin. Breathe in the scent of possibility.”
Bethany’s senses awakened—the grass tickling her toes, the sun kissing her cheeks. She was there, anchored in her safe place.
The hypnotist understood the delicate art of anchoring—a bridge between realms. Anchors were like lighthouses, guiding ships safely to shore. Bethany’s purpose needed grounding—a way to illuminate her everyday life.
“Focus,” the hypnotist instructed. “Feel the weight of purpose within you. It’s not an abstract concept; it’s a living force.” Breath it in and let it envelope you.
Bethany nodded, taking a deep breath. She sensed her purpose—a warm ember nestled in her chest.
“Now,” the hypnotist said, “we’ll apply the trigger—an anchor that connects this moment to your purpose.”
Bethany chose touch—a feather-light tap on her wrist. The hypnotist waited, sensing the peak of intensity—the moment when purpose surged within her.
“Take a deep breath,” the hypnotist said. “Feel the anchor—the touch on your wrist.”
As Bethany exhaled, the hypnotist released the trigger. Purpose merged with her skin, etching itself into her consciousness.
“Open your eyes,” the hypnotist said. “You carry your purpose now—a compass, a North Star.”
Bethany blinked, the room materializing—the mirror, the hypnotist, the swinging pocket watch. But something had changed—the mirror held her purpose, and the watch ticked in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Whenever doubt clouds your path, the hypnotist said, touch your wrist. Feel the anchor. Remember your safe place—the meadow, the sun, the wildflowers and you will be reminded of your purpose.
Bethany nodded, tears in her eyes. yet more joyful than ever.
She touched her wrist—the anchor—a reminder that she needn’t search anymore. Her purpose was here, within reach, waiting to be woven into every brushstroke, every note, every whispered word.
Bethany’s journey is a metaphor for our own quests—to seek purpose, to face fears, and to listen to the whispers of our hearts.
*Anchoring is a powerful technique used in hypnotherapy to connect inner experiences with external triggers. Bethany’s purpose now had a foothold in her conscious reality.
