The Two Within

Let Thy Will Be Done

There is a quiet realm where the seen and unseen meet—a place nestled not in the clouds or the cosmos, but deep within the folds of human consciousness. It is here that a gentle tension exists, a sacred paradox between two selves: one born of dust, the other of light. The mind and the heart. The finite and the eternal. The “I,” and the One who knows.

The “I”—what many call the ego—is the voice of the human experience. It is the seeker, the struggler, the wanderer. This self hungers—often quite literally—for safety, for certainty, for identity. It aches for belonging and approval. It fears its own impermanence and clings to names, titles, and the fleeting security of form. The “I” believes but does not know. It walks through life shrouded in fog, groping for meaning like a child reaching for the edge of a dream it cannot quite remember.

The “I” is an infant soul navigating eternity, bewildered by its own reflection. It thinks, but it does not understand. It lives with the ache of disconnection, unaware of its own origin. It lashes out in quiet desperation, building stories, defenses, distractions—anything to fill the hollow ache of forgetting.

But just beneath that fragile surface lies another self. The one who watches. The one who waits.

This other self is not born, nor can it die. It does not chase or clamor. It is still, whole, radiant. This is the higher self, the sacred witness—the divine spark within. It does not beg for love because it is love. It does not crave purpose because it is purpose. It is not swayed by emotion or doubt. It simply is. It rests in knowing.

Where the ego builds walls, this self opens windows. Where the mind fears, it trusts. Where the “I” sees separation, the higher self sees only union. And when we dare to fall still—truly still—we can feel its presence like a hush between two heartbeats.

I believe this is what Christ meant when he said, “I and the Father are one.” Not two beings separated by heaven and earth, but one current flowing through different vessels. Prayer, then, is not a reaching outward. It is a returning inward. A folding in. A surrender. “Let Thy will be done” is not a plea to an outside force, but a yielding of the ego to the higher truth already alive within.

As I drove one quiet morning, after deep contemplation and prayer, a realization struck with such force it was as if lightning had rent the sky within me. I had touched something ancient, yet intimately mine. And though I had read its essence a thousand times in scripture and sacred text, it now lived inside me as knowing, not knowledge. Revelation, not information.

Everything began to clarify. The Bible, once a mystery—God’s word penned by men—no longer felt contradictory. If the divine lives within us, then surely it speaks through us. Those sacred words, though written by human hands, were born of surrendered hearts. They flowed from that quiet place of divine alignment.

I thought of sages and yogis, of Buddha beneath the Bodhi tree. I thought of the saints and mystics who listened not to thunderous voices from the clouds, but to whispers from within. They had found the divine not in a far-off realm, but in their own being. In silence. In surrender.

Verses that once passed over me now pulsed with life. “I said, ‘You are gods’; you are all sons of the Most High” (Psalm 82:6). What once seemed blasphemous now rang true: we are not separate from God—we are vessels for God. Jesus did not come to show us what we could never be, but to show us what we already are.

Even those who claim to channel spirit guides or higher beings under hypnosis—once strange, even suspect—now seemed to me simply tuned to that same divine frequency. What once felt esoteric, now felt obvious.

Layer by layer, the illusions fell away. Childhood parables—the angel and devil on each shoulder, the story of the two wolves—suddenly revealed themselves as profound teachings. Not folklore, but frameworks. Not superstition, but soul-maps.

In a conversation with my uncle, he echoed this ancient truth:

“In India, they call it yoga.
In China, chi.
In Japan, ki.
In Indonesia, ulin napas.”

All pointing to the same current. The same essence. The divine animating force that lives within us, waiting to be honored.

Even my beloved Tao Te Ching, which once read like abstract poetry, now unfolded like a conversation with the eternal child within—the part of me still unspoiled, still whole.

I began to understand something simple but revolutionary: belief is borrowed. Knowing is born. And real awakening is nothing more than remembering what was always there.

Separation, I realized, is the root of all suffering. Not just from others, but from ourselves. We are taught to split the sacred and the human, the spiritual and the physical. God becomes a distant deity, not an indwelling presence. We are born told we are broken, sinful, unworthy. Life becomes a waiting room for heaven instead of heaven itself.

As children, we know better. We cry loudly, laugh wildly, dance without rhythm. We live from the body and heart. We touch wonder easily. But then, the voices come: Be still. Be quiet. Be normal. Be good. Suppress. Obey. Conform.

We bury ourselves beneath layers of belief, doctrine, and shame. We try to fix what was never broken. And so we become strangers to our own souls.

And yet—the voice never leaves.

We drown it in noise: music, conversation, distraction, consumption. We decorate the shell and ignore the soul. We fear silence not because it is empty, but because it is full—full of everything we’ve been running from.

Eventually, we call this ache “anxiety,” this dissonance “depression.” We visit healers who give us pills instead of presence, diagnoses instead of truth. We are told to fear the voice within—the very compass pointing us home.

But healing, I’ve come to believe, begins with listening.

Not listening in the usual sense, but a sacred kind of attunement. A turning inward so complete that the outer world fades. This is the heart of prayer, of meditation, of surrender. It is the place where the divine unfolds—not in noise, but in stillness.

To be silent is simple—but not easy. Silence must be excavated. It must be earned, like a pearl hidden beneath layers of sediment. Our minds are loud with inherited voices—teachers, preachers, parents, peers. Each one layered atop the last. But if we can peel them away, one by one, we begin to hear the original voice. The divine whisper.

When we live from the body alone, we move—but we do not live. We react, but we do not respond. We survive, but we do not thrive. But when we live inspired—when we live from the breath of the divine within—we are no longer driven. We are led.

Let thy will be done.

Not my will, born of fear and confusion. But Thy will—eternal, clear, and whole.

This is not surrender to weakness. This is surrender to truth. To live not as the small self but as the sacred vessel. Not to control, but to allow. Not to strive, but to flow.

Let thy will be done—not outside me. Not for me. But through me. As me.

This, I believe, is the path home.