Skip to main content

The Inner Voice

We all have an inner voice. Some of my former clients have many of them...but for the sake of this piece, we'll just deal with that one inner voice that we all seem to have.

Our inner voice rarely yells. It doesn't need to. It tells us what we should already know. My inner voice tends to be a smart ass (surprise surprise!) and cracks jokes all the time.

I had a client years ago named Albert. Albert had a significant impact on my life in many ways. He was about 60, had Down Syndrome, and for all intents and purposes, couldn't speak. He called most people "Hey Babyyyy!". He called me "Cuckoo". He knew me well, apparently.

Albert had spent a large part of his life living in institutions and state hospitals. He had family contact, just not lots of it. He learned what he learned as best he could. That said, in many ways, he was wiser than most.

One of the things that amazed me about Albert was his level of perception. I never knew Albert to go to church. His family may have taken him; I don't know. What I do know is that he recognized religious symbols. Not just Christian either. Whenever he would see a religious symbol, he would stop, get down on his knees, and pray a mumbly little unintelligible prayer.

This happened wherever we went. We could be out for a walk and he would see a nativity scene, and down to his knees he went. Same thing would happen if he saw a menorah.

One year, he and another client were at my house during the holidays. My auntie was still alive then and had invited them over for cookies and punch and a little holiday cheer...at someplace that wasn't a group home.

While here, I asked the guys if they wanted to help me trim the Christmas tree...and let me tell you, they were excited to do so! I've never been a fan of decorating the tree but if I'm with someone who does enjoy it, it makes it more fun for me.

Well, Albert and this other guy were just having a blast! They oh-so-carefully chose ornaments from one of my auntie's many boxes of them, and gingerly placed them on the tree.

Albert then noticed something. My auntie had a beautifully ornate porcelain Buddha sitting on the bottom shelf of a decorative table in the living room. Albert couldn't take his eyes off of it. Next thing we know, Albert walks over to the Buddha, gets down on his knees and does his mumbly little prayer. He knew the significance. The best I can guess, his inner voice told him what this thing was. The glowing smile he gave us afterwards told us all we ever needed to know about Albert and true faith. I believe that he understood that faith isn't about dogma or rituals or God, Allah, Buddha, or the Great Cosmic It. It is about peace and love and understanding.

Listen to your inner voice. Chances are, it's the voice of reason.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...
Post a Comment
Read more

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...
Post a Comment
Read more