Everybody has their own inner voice. That continuously running dialogue within their own head. Some have more than one. I have the old tapes of my mother, constantly criticizing me, and then I have my own tapes that I have developed over the years that are more encouraging. The voice that I developed while raising my own daughter. And sometimes I hear another, more distant, much wiser voice. This is not a voice really. Not in the sense that there are words spoken, but more of a feeling.
I’m walking along the beach early one morning. It’s finally cool outside, but nice. The sun is just rising over the ocean. This is the place where I most often hear that other, wiser voice. If there really is a God, this is where I believe he lives. Somewhere in the air between the surf and the sand, in the early, quiet hours of the morning. A sense of calm washes over me like the waves washing on shore.
Some ancient wisdom is streaming into my consciousness faster than I can form it into words. And when I do try to form it into words, it vanishes into thin air. If I could just get quiet enough, I know I could get all the answers to my questions, but my thoughts keep fighting to stay involved in this mystic conversation. It’s like I am trying to stop the very sea from rushing in and going out, rushing in and going out as it has for all time. I finally give up trying to think at all and bend over to pick up another shell. The act of bending over to pick up shells, one at a time, like counting beads on a rosary, my simple prayer to God this morning: “Please help me. Please guide me. Please show me a sign that everything’s ok.”
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