There is only one voice I can always count on to give me sage advice when needed most. I don’t know whose it is, but it’s never failed me. I don’t know where it comes from, but it’s never led me astray.
It comes during crises. It is the cool breeze on scorching days. It is the warm wind when night falls and the desert temperatures drop.
It is rational, objective, positive, and uplifting, all when I am at my worst. I heard it my first night in Romania when I was near panic. It spoke to me as I lay in bed in South Korea when the love of my life, the woman I’d left behind half a world away, was having an abortion. It uttered soothing words when blackness threatened to drag me under as I trembled in the county jail holding cell.
It is a quiet voice. It is not perceptible over the clatter of the chattering mind, but it is there nonetheless. When the mind breaks, when you give up and crumble on the trek through the dark night, it is there.
I’d discovered it long ago. I’d mistaken it for my own inner voice, but it is not. Its tone, its timbre, is different. Some might call it a voice from my deep subconscious mind, and they may be right; others label it as my guardian angel or spirit guide, and I won’t argue. However, I don’t call it anything, except maybe the voice.
It doesn’t need to be believed or named. It only needs to be listened to.