Where Does The Inner Voice Come From?

November 19, 2016


whisperMy neighbor was a woman of steady habits. She picked up her morning newspaper not long after it was delivered, except on that dreadful day. Something in me recoiled, like a sea creatures into its shell, when I saw that newsprint still sitting untouched where it had been left by the delivery man. Irrational? I know, but an eerie panic rattled through me nonetheless. Perhaps she was having a well-deserved lie in? Maybe she was out running errands? No amount of rationalizing placated this panic as the day went on, in fact it grew louder and more insistent. Did I do anything about it? Of course not, I trust my rational brain way too much. Gut feelings are the domain of kooks and poets, we are told. Smart, rational people must not trust the unfathomable, the unscientific. Yet this feeling of dread persisted as though it were not mine to control.

My neighbor was eighty-two and lived alone. I recalled a conversation I had with her in the hallway after her partner moved into a care-home. “Do you mind if I keep an eye on you, now that you are alone? I worry about you.” She smiled, “That would be lovely.” Since then she kept me informed if she travelled, or when she needed a helping hand. For years she and I had been exchanging keys whenever we went away. All of this contributed to my worry about that newspaper laying on the threshold till evening. I knocked repeatedly but got no reply. I checked to see if her car was still parked in her usual spot, it was. Then I asked the building’s security to fetch the skeleton key to the apartment. When we entered the lights were on and a radio was blaring from her bedroom.

To my horror she was prone on the living floor, cold and rigid, her face blue from the blood that had seized circulating hours ago. This was not what I had wanted to discover, despite that nagging voice inside me warning me so all day long. I like being right as much as the next guy but in on this day I seriously wanted to be wrong. On the elevator ride up to her apartment I half prepared to apologize to the security guard for having dragged him up there for no good reason. Instead there I was calling for an ambulance despite the evidence, still hopeful something could be done.

The family expressed generous gratitude to me but I still harbor a guilt because I did not listen to that inner voice earlier. Had I pushed the panic button when I first experienced it, might we have found her still alive?

As the days pass I have bigger questions. To whom did that voice belong? Was it my better instincts, a sum of my life’s experiences? Or was it something more? Could that silent knowing have come from a place beyond myself, an untapped well of collective wisdom?  Or perhaps do the dead speak through that silence? Did some aspect of her linger, unable to rest till her loved ones had found her body? Perhaps I was her only hope of being found and so she persisted with me? All I know for sure is that the voice was without words and not my intellectual logical self. Since my rational mind was fighting the voice all day long, it must have been other than my rational mind.

I now think we give too much importance to our rational mind. It knows what it knows. It holds firm to what it has expererinced and what it has been taught by the culture to which it belongs. Instinctual knowledge, on the other hand, is where I go when I am lost in creating a painting or a story. Perhaps it is through those same mysterious laneways of understanding that I can access the totality of wisdom, the living and the dead.  Since this tragedy, I see now that instincts are wiser than the intellect.

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