There’s a little voice that whispers in my ear now and then. I like to think it’s my deceased parents, banding together to clue me in on things they wish they would have known when they were alive.

If you’re still reading and haven’t labeled me a paranoid schizophrenic for hearing voices in my head, here goes.

This voice is oh so gentle. I’m not used to gentle voices. As a child, my house was a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” kind of house. My parents loved us but I’m not so sure we learned to be gentle with ourselves. So this voice is welcome, as well as new.

It tells me, as I reach for the glasses: “Use the crystal wine glass. You’re worth the crystal.” This comes with a flash of memory, as I recall my mother’s “good” towels sitting in the linen closet, unused, after her death.

Lately, if you peeked in my windows (this is not an invitation, locals), you’d see me sipping from the crystal wine glass and smiling. As well as using the fluffy bath towels and the “good” sheets.

It says to me, “It’s the weekend. Yes, you could organize this house for the next two days. But, compromise. We’re heading downtown for a haircut, missy. And then to meet an old friend. Closets only half cleaned but sanity restored at the same time.”

It tells me chastising myself for not finishing the book club selection this month is just plain silly. That carving out time to meditate is a sans-guilt activity. And that I am worth the loving kindness I extend to others.

When you have watched two of your closest die in the space of 18 months, as I did, it’s an attitude adjustment, to say the least.  This voice says, “You’ve seen how it ends. What do you want to see on the reel you replay in your head when it ends for you?” In the clearest possible way, this voice says, “Just do it.” I am tentatively following its advice. So far, so good. Working my way up to the trek to Machu Picchu and horseback riding in the mountain plains.

I like this voice. I think everyone should have one. Have you found yours?