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

Popular posts from this blog

The Tsar of Back in My Day

Lately, he’d been thinking about his ex-father-in-law. Not the ex-wife - calm down. That road had enough potholes already. No, this was about Kolya. They had never been especially close. Between the language barrier, the cultural divide, and the lingering fog of the recently ended Cold War, “warm relationship” was never really on the menu. Still, Kolya had made an impression. Men like that tended to. He was somewhere in his mid-to-late sixties when they met. Picture the farmer from American Gothic if he’d been drafted by the Soviet Union, fed boiled cabbage, and taught to glare professionally. Bald as a cannonball, which somehow made his head seem even larger. Thick square plastic eyeglasses magnified his eyes until they looked like a permanent accusation. He dressed sharply, but in a way that suggested the tailor’s motto had been adequate for the State . Then there were his teeth. No expert on the subject, he could only assume cosmetic dentistry had been dismissed by the Soviets a...

Fags & Faggots

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas.  I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...