Touching the Source E-Book

Eugene Dickerson

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 211

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Touching the Source: Book 2 – Spiritual Sovereignty is a spiritually captivating and profound true story. After a cascade of direct encounters with the unseen, Eugene Dickerson learns to live from the inner Source and discovers that spiritual sovereignty is not theory—it’s a daily practice. This remarkable, nonreligious memoir continues an ordinary man’s extraordinary journey and shares what happens when guidance becomes a way of life.

This second volume moves deeper into lived experience—lucid and astral encounters that cross into waking reality, symbols that speak, and quiet instructions that change how we heal, love, and perceive. Told with warmth and humility, it invites readers to remember what they are and to walk their own path beyond doctrine and into direct communion with the Divine.

Topics include:

• Out-of-body experiences and lucid dreaming
• Astral travel and encounters in the spiritual realms
• Listening to the body (“cells are listening”) and gentle self-healing practices
• Synchronicity, symbolic dreams, and guidance from the Higher Self
• Spiritual sovereignty in everyday life—beyond fear, beyond rigid belief
• And so much more!

Chapters include:

• The One Beside Me
• Before the Waters Came
• The Mirror Corridor
• Where Desire Meets Light
• The Ceremony in the Sky
• The Prayer of Light
• The Pearl That Remembers
• The Watcher at the Window
• The Serpent with Two Faces
• The Cloaked and the Known

“Unforgettable. This book will take you where religion stops and truth begins. A spiritual masterpiece.”
— Gloria Stone, Spiritual Teacher, Influencer

Leseprobe

Touching The Source

Book 2 Spiritual Sovereignty

Eugene Dickerson

Published by Eugene Dickerson

Copyright © 2025 Eugene Dickerson

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Eugene Dickerson

Touching the Source Book 2 Spiritual Sovereignty

979-8-9865566-3-5 (softcover)

979-8-9865566-5-9 (e-book)

979-8-9865566-4-2 (hardcover)

Manuscript Edited by Liz Saucedo

Cover & Interior Design by JohnEdgar.Design

I dedicate this book to all those whose hearts remain open to the mystery. For the seekers who aren’t satisfied with borrowed truths but long for direct revelation. To those who question deeper, who feel there is always more to uncover about why we exist and what lies beyond this life...

This book was written for you.

Contents

Introduction

The One Beside Me

The Mirror Corridor

Before the Waters Came

The One They Came to See

Where Desire Meets Light

The Supreme Calling

The Box That Remembers

The Ceremony in the Sky

The Prayer of Light

The Pearl That Remembers

The Watcher at the Window

The Serpent with Two Faces

The Cloaked and the Known

About the Author

“Don’t bring me scriptures on your lips if hate lingers in your heart. Let your heart be the scripture others see. Until you grasp this, your journey on Earth isn’t over.”

—Malo

Introduction

These encounters may challenge beliefs, yet they are true. I offer them from a place of calm urgency—like someone awakened in the middle of the night, shocked by a dream too vivid to ignore. I am not more advanced than anyone reading this. I am just a soul who fell into the hidden depths of truth and could not turn away.

With the publication of my first book, I believed I had expressed my truth. I believed I had spilled all that was supposed to be spoken. Yet the unraveling went on.

Dreams turned into messages. Quiet became teaching. The fabric of what I believed to be reality started to unravel at the edges, exposing a deeper structure underneath—one not built of stone and sky but of consciousness, memory, and light.

As I navigated this new world, I learned that every event contained a lesson and every interaction served a purpose. The more I embraced the unfolding, the more I realized that my journey was just beginning, a tapestry woven with strands of connection and awareness beyond my previous understanding.

The mystical didn’t recede—it intensified. But this time, something shifted. These new encounters were not simply revelations about the cosmos or the soul—they were teachings about responsibility, embodiment, and what it means to walk this earth awake, remembering who you are in a world that constantly begs you to forget. That is where the idea of spiritual sovereignty revealed itself to me—not as a concept, but as a calling. It urged me to embrace my own power and choices and to honor the Divine within and around me.

This book is not a sequel in the traditional sense. It is a deeper descent into the sacred. These chapters trace the path of a soul learning to live with what it has seen. I write as a curious observer and experiencer, not as a guru. I have known awe. I have known terror. I have walked through forests that felt alive with memory and stood before lights that whispered, “This is what you are.”

These narratives are not refined lessons. They are encounters—raw, unfiltered instances where the line between me and the Source diminished. Occasionally, they came through the calm of lucid astral dreams. At other times, they come through the soft clinking of plates in a dimly lit kitchen or through sadness, comedy, or other means. I’ve discovered that God—or whatever term you use for that immense Presence—isn’t far away. It is within you at this moment.

The Source does not demand belief. It invites openness, urging us to embrace the mystery of existence with curiosity and humility. In those fleeting moments of connection, we are reminded that the sacred can be found in the simplest of experiences, waiting patiently for us to notice. It does not beg for worship. It simply waits—patiently—until you remember that it is not something you search for... it is something you are.

However, remembering is only the beginning. Spiritual sovereignty requires you to begin living from that place—not as an escape from the world, but as a profound reentry into it. This reentry necessitates a profound engagement with life, in which each moment becomes an opportunity to express that innate connection. Completely awake. Completely responsible. You are fully yourself.

So, if this book has found its way to you, I am confident it is not by chance. Something within you is ready. You are prepared to ask questions, recall, and cross the threshold not as a student but as a sovereign spark of the Divine.

Whether you read the words with skepticism or longing, you remain unbroken. You are a vessel of potential, capable of change and development. Accept the trip ahead, for it is yours to shape, and believe that each step brings you closer to the truth about yourself. You’re not behind. You’re not alone. You are the Source—touching itself in this instant.

And if you’ll allow it, we will go deeper together.

Chapter 1

The One Beside Me

It began in a lucid dream.

I was fully conscious in a dim, open pasture. The light was low, casting long shadows across the field, and the atmosphere felt ancient. I stood on the ground, leaning against the side of an old Chevrolet pickup truck; its rusted sides and dents had many stories to tell. My arms rested on the ledge of the truck bed, and I looked out into the wide-open stillness ahead.

A massive bison strolled past me, unbothered and majestic. Its presence carried more than weight—it carried meaning. As it moved through the twilight pasture, I felt an energy ripple through the air, like the brush of something eternal. The bison wasn’t just an animal; it was a sentinel of realms, an ancient soul passing briefly through this crossroads of existence.

Its hooves stepped gently on the ground, as though it knew the land and the spirit that lay beneath it. I had the oddest impression, almost humorous in its familiarity, that it had just gotten off work. Even in the animal realm, duties are fulfilled and cycles are observed. This creature, so grounded and so ethereal, seemed to remind me that the veil is thinner than we know and that every being—even those with fur and horn—walks paths we can barely begin to understand. This place felt like a realm of passage—a sacred crossroads where conscious beings moved freely between dimensions.

Next to me, someone spoke. The voice was familiar. Comforting. I turned my head to the left—and beside me was a black dog. He was standing upright, leaning against the truck just like I was, both of us gazing out across the quiet landscape. There was something almost comedic about it—two souls in different forms, leaning side by side like cowboys at the end of a long day. But beneath that scene was something else. Something ancient. Something sacred. It was surreal, yes—but it also felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt as though we had engaged in this activity countless times, across numerous lifetimes, in various forms. Both of us were gazing out into the pasture. His presence wasn’t strange. In fact, it felt completely natural, and he spoke directly to me.

His voice was calm and conversational, as though we were old friends catching up after a long absence. I was stunned for a moment—seeing this canine form next to me, hearing its words—but I somehow knew that this dog wasn’t just a dog. He was a being, and he had a soul. This individual was a friend from past lifetimes. He, like me, had traversed the ethereal realm numerous times. I recognized him instantly. We had known each other for eons. I felt a dual awareness—one part of me was in quiet shock at what I was witnessing, and another part was completely at ease, holding a deep inner knowing this was normal in the greater landscape of existence. We spoke easily, naturally, as if this moment had happened many times before. The conversation flowed like water, without effort or questioning.

As he spoke, memories returned—not just memories from this life but also impressions from beyond it. He had been with me before. He had appeared to me in various forms, and he also appeared to me in other vivid dreams. And as I stood beside him, I felt as though the boundaries of species and identity dissolved. There was only presence—soul to soul.

I suddenly realized: animals, too, have astral bodies. Animals leave their astral bodies at night, just like humans do. They astral travel, communicate, remember, and express affection. They awaken to the immense truth of their being, just as we do. They have forgotten, just as we have. And now they are also beginning to remember. Perhaps they’ve always known more than we’ve given them credit for—walking silently beside us not only as companions but also as fellow travelers, veiled in fur and feather, quietly remembering the path home.

Thoughts raced through my awareness as he kept talking, each word grounding me deeper into the mystery. I didn’t want it to end. But then I felt it—a familiar, gentle pull. I felt a tug from behind, akin to a thread tightening in the direction of my body. I knew it was time to go, and the dream began to fade.

Then came the sound, louder and closer! I could hear the rain. A torrential downpour slammed against the roof, jolting me out of my blissful experience and into waking life in Knoxville, Tennessee. However, the line separating the lucid dream from reality felt extremely thin. I was back in my bed—but the wonder of that sacred encounter lingered in my heart.

I sat up slowly, the sound of rain pounding on the roof pulling me further into wakefulness. But something about the atmosphere felt... off. I pushed back the covers, rose to my feet, and walked to the window. The rain was fierce—sheets of water cascading down—but only on my house.

I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Beyond the fence line, the neighboring yards were completely dry. There wasn’t a single drop. The sunlight was even breaking through the clouds in the distance. I rushed downstairs, threw open the back door, and stepped onto the patio. It was raining—but only on my house. The boundary was perfect and precise. It looked like the rain had been cut out of the sky with surgical precision, falling only within the exact perimeter of my home. I stepped into the grass, walking to the corner of the house. Still—rain. Just one step further, and the downpour stopped abruptly, as if hitting an invisible wall. The sky above the rest of the neighborhood was clear, golden, and calm.

I stood still, my skin soaked and my heart pounding. No one else was outside. No neighbors. No cars. There was just me, standing alone in the impossible rain that was falling solely on my house in the neighborhood. And just like that, it stopped raining.

I walked back inside, trembling with wonder. I knew the weather was no ordinary rainstorm. It was a sign. A message. The veil was thinning, and the spiritual was bleeding into the material world. My inner communion had grown stronger. I could feel it. Something sacred was aligning. And I intuitively knew that a period of change—deep change—was on the horizon. That’s when the phone rang. I glanced at the screen; it was my mother.

My mom hadn’t been doing too well. Divorced and living alone in Kentucky, she had been increasingly struggling with her health. I’d been making the seven-hour round trip often—checking on her, bringing groceries, sorting medications, and cleaning. Each time I left, a deep sadness settled in my heart. I begged and pleaded with her to come stay with me in Knoxville, but she simply wouldn’t. So, after much thought and reflection, I decided to sell my house and move in with her.

I began moving through my Tennessee home slowly and deliberately, preparing for the transition. I started shrink-wrapping nearly everything in protective plastic—sealing away the objects that had filled my life for many years. I kept out only the essentials, the few items I could fit in my car. I sold the rest at a weekend yard sale. Tables lined the driveway with lamps, artwork, and old books. Strangers picked through my memories. But I held onto what mattered most—sentimental things, antiques, pieces that could never be replaced.

A few friends came by to help with moving my belongings out of the house, their kindness grounding me through the surreal sense of detachment. We loaded the remaining boxes into storage; each one felt like a goodbye for now. I took my time saying farewell to the house. I walked through every room with quiet reverence, thanking the walls, the floors, the light, and the laughter that once echoed in its halls. I stood still, my hand on the front door, whispering a soft thank-you to the space that had sheltered me through so much. And then, as if by divine orchestration, everything fell into place. A wonderful schoolteacher with two young children made an offer. She loved the home, and we closed the deal within sixty days.

On the day of my departure, I placed the check from the sale into the glovebox of my Mercedes. Just seeing it there gave me a quiet comfort—a reminder that I’d have time to settle in, to ease into whatever would come next without rushing. I packed my life into every corner of the trunk and back seat of the car, leaving just enough space for me to see out the windshield. I buckled in, took a deep breath, and started the engine.

As I eased onto the parkway, I was leaving behind the hustle of Knoxville for a quieter, more conservative corner of Kentucky. Life would move slower there. The energy would be different. I didn’t know what I would do for work. I didn’t know how long I’d stay. I barely knew anyone besides a few relatives. But I knew, deep in my spirit, that I was doing the right thing.

As I merged into the winding curves of the highway, a song began to play on the stereo. I reached down and turned it up instinctively. It was Olivia Newton-John’s “Magic,” a song I had loved since childhood. I used to listen to it over and over, enchanted by something I couldn’t name. But now—on this road, in this moment—the lyrics took on an entirely new meaning, and goosebumps prickled my arms. I turned the volume up even louder. I had heard the song hundreds of times before, but I had never really heard it—not like this. It was as though the lyrics were speaking directly to me. It felt like a divine message. Perfect timing. A reminder from Spirit that I wasn’t alone—that I was being guided. It served as a reminder that I had consistently received guidance. I smiled and whispered, “I love you, too.”

When I arrived at my mother’s apartment, I was eager to get out and stretch. I shifted into the parking lot and stepped outside; the air was quiet and warm. As I opened the car door, a little black dog with a white star on its chest stood nearby, watching me. “Hello,” I said gently.

The dog took a few cautious steps back but didn’t run. “Are you hungry?” I asked. It tilted its head slightly, as if it actually understood. I told the dog to wait and went inside. My mother, delighted to see me, had prepared a small meal—comfort food she knew I liked. As I peeked into the refrigerator, I found a pack of hot dogs. I smiled, grabbed the hot dogs, and walked back outside, where the little black dog was still standing, patiently waiting for me. One by one, I offered him the hot dogs. He took each one gratefully. Then, without hesitation, he turned and trotted down the drive—disappearing around the corner, off to somewhere I couldn’t see.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the place he’d vanished from. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, my heart felt full. I knew, at least for now, that I was precisely where I was supposed to be.

Mom was overjoyed to see me. We laughed, sat down to eat, and then watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie, her favorite show. I sank into the couch, too worn out to unpack the car. I looked around the apartment—it was cluttered and in need of organizing. I sighed, wondering where to begin, but fatigue overcame me. I soon drifted off.

Suddenly, I was dreaming wide awake. I was in my old bedroom in Kentucky, just as it had been in the 1970s. The shag carpet stretched beneath my feet, soft and familiar. Everything, including the furniture, walls, and lighting, remained in their original form, akin to a manifested memory. It was as though time had paused just for this encounter.

I glanced down and noticed my shoes. The one on my right foot was pristine—shiny and new, like a polished dress shoe, elegant and flawless. On the other hand, the shoe on my left foot was tattered, worn, and stained with road dust and mud. It was a reflection of two worlds, one celestial and the other earthly.

I slipped off the muddied shoe, convinced I could find a match for the perfect one. I began searching the room—under the bed, around the corners, in the closet—hoping to find what I was missing. But there was nothing.

Just then, my father appeared in the doorway. He looked radiant—young, healthy, like a photograph from a cherished family album. He smiled, his eyes warm with familiarity. “What’s going on?” he asked. I told him I was trying to find the matching shoe. He nodded gently and pointed to the center of the bed, and there it was—a perfect match. I woke up and lay there thinking—what could it mean?

Perhaps the shoes were symbols. One represents the spiritual journey—refined, aligned, and full of grace. The other represents the human journey, which is tough, tested, and muddied by experience. It serves as a reminder that I and all of us embody both paths. The divine path and the earthly path are inseparable. We should walk both paths together, maintaining balance and wholeness. When the time is right, stillness—not further seeking, reveals the match we’ve been searching for. All we have ever needed has always been within reach, quietly waiting in the center of our being—where we lay our heads.

As I lay there, still wrapped in the echo of the dream, a shift in the room stirred something deep within me. Just above the window, a faint flicker caught my attention, a bluish-white glow gently pulsing in place. It wasn’t bright or demanding, and yet it held a presence far greater than its size or intensity. There were no lamps, no electronic devices, and no reason for any lights to be there at all. Still, it glowed—soft and alive, like a breath inhaling just beneath the fabric of this world.

I didn’t feel fear, only a stillness that ran through the very center of my being. The light didn’t surprise me, not at all. I recognized it instantly—not only with my eyes but with something deeper. This was the same light I had encountered before in a lucid state, in a moment of spiritual intimacy so profound that words could never quite contain it. That time, I had merged with it. I had felt myself dissolve into its radiance, and in doing so, I came to understand it not as something separate from us but as the very core of what I am and who we all are. It was God, yes—but it was also myself. Eternal. Infinite. Loving. Whole.

Now it was here again—not in an out-of-body experience, but in the silence of this modest apartment, gently pulsing like a silent greeting. There was no sense of spectacle.

And the light wasn’t trying to prove anything; it simply was. That was its greatest power. The light didn’t illuminate the room so much as it illuminated me. Its presence was like a memory long buried rising to the surface, not from the past but from the depths of my soul. I understood that it was not a foreign entity visiting me but rather a reminder of something I had always known.

This light was the origin point—the breath from which all souls emerge and to which all souls return. It was the beginning and the end—the alpha and the omega—and yet it was also right here, in this moment, in this room, just being present with me. I realized in that moment that I was not just witnessing the light—I was part of it. We are all an eternal flicker within the vast constellation of light. We are a strand in the boundless fabric of the Source. And I sensed that this same light lives within all of us, even if most forget it and are unaware of its existence.

The glow lingered for a while, not speaking, not moving—just being. And then, like a breeze that passes through the leaves without disturbing a single branch, it faded.

There was no announcement or ending, just a quiet return to the unseen.

I didn’t speak of it. My silence was not because I had doubts but rather because I held it in high regard. Some truths are too sacred to parade in front of disbelief. I knew that most would never understand what I had seen, and perhaps they weren’t meant to. But deep in my being, I knew exactly what had occurred. It reminded me of my place of origin, and the acknowledgment and memory I received were more than enough.

In the days that followed, I began settling into my new surroundings. My bedroom had shrunk to a fraction of its former size, and the apartment was smaller than I had grown accustomed to. But I adjusted, slowly and thoughtfully. I cleaned every corner and reorganized what little I had brought with me. I arranged the furniture with care, lit candles in the evening, and made it feel like home—not in appearance alone, but in energy. I let the space breathe with new beginnings.

As the rhythm of my days took shape, I began to notice something—an undercurrent in my mother’s presence. Every morning, she would consistently express, “I feel like crap,” or “I wish I could just wake up one day and not feel horrible.” She sometimes added, “The doctor says it’s not going to get any better.”

Her repeated words became a mantra, shaping the atmosphere around her. It wasn’t just sadness; it was an expectation. She made a declaration to the universe, outlining her vision for her life.

I listened. I consoled. I offered encouragement where I could. But over time, something inside me began to strain. She saw the world through a lens of chronic disappointment, and I could feel how her vibration lingered long after our conversations ended. Her presence was like a fog. And the more I sat with it, the more I understood—this was more than illness. This belief hardened into reality.

She chose, again and again, to recite the painful stories rather than remember joyful ones. She criticized a stranger’s appearance online instead of finding something kind to say or simply moving on. Her default behavior was to anticipate the worst, and this expectation led her to manifest it. And what she didn’t realize—or perhaps refused to realize—was that the energy she was sending out had only one place to return; the energy would return to her.

I began to ask myself, “Why am I here? Why am I experiencing this moment now?” It wasn’t just about service. It wasn’t only about helping her. I knew there was something for me to learn—something my inner self was guiding me through. I observed closely. I reflected; I waited, knowing the answer would come. And in the silence of that small apartment, between the sounds of old TV shows and the clinking of dishes, I knew something greater was unfolding beneath the surface. And I was listening.

As I sat quietly one evening, the soft murmur of the television blending into the dim glow of the room, I felt an unusual stillness begin to settle around me. It wasn’t silence—not exactly. It felt like a pause in the passage of time, like a gentle suspension. The world seemed to halt in mid-sentence, its breath held in silent anticipation.

Then it came. I felt a sharp, sudden, and clear ring in my right ear. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was piercing enough to draw my attention inward. The sensation had become a recurring experience. These tones and frequencies were never random. They came like whispers from behind the veil—soft but insistent. They served as a signal, a message, and a reminder that something, or someone, was reaching across dimensions to make contact.

Whenever I heard it, especially in that ear, I instinctively knew to pause. To listen. To open. I sat there, motionless, as the tone hummed gently in my awareness, like a bell struck in the temple of the soul. It wasn’t coming from outside of me. It was coming through me. And in that moment, I understood. The ringing wasn’t just sound—it was alignment. It was a tuning of my inner ear to something higher, something wiser. Something that knew the deeper reason I had been led to this exact point in my life.

The recent memories washed over me—the dream with the bison and the black dog, the impossible rain falling o