Listening for the Voice Within

We live surrounded by voices.

They call from every direction — in headlines, in adverts, in the chatter of our own restless minds. They are quick, urgent, persuasive. They promise answers, certainty, and belonging.

Yet somewhere beneath the noise, there is another voice.
It is patient. Gentle. Steady.
It waits for you, but it will not compete.

This voice does not force its way into your attention. It is the sound beneath the sound, the silence beneath the noise. And if you are still enough, you may hear it — not in thunder or earthquake, but as the whisper Elijah heard in the cave (1 Kings 19:12).

The Breath Beneath All Things

In the old Christian bardic tradition of these isles, they spoke of awen — a word that meant “flowing inspiration,” the breath of God moving through the soul. It was not a private possession, but a gift. A current you could step into.

For those early poets, awen was the Spirit’s own life flowing into the heart, shaping truth into song, giving courage to speak what was needed and wisdom to keep silence when silence was holy. It was not only for music or poetry — it was for living.

To walk with awen was to walk with Christ in every breath, to live so attuned to His Spirit that each step felt like it was carried by a deeper rhythm.

Why We Miss It

The world is loud.
And not just in sound — in speed, in expectation, in the relentless pull to do more, be more, have more. We have grown so used to this pace that we call it normal.

But normal is not the same as holy.

The voice of Christ is easy to miss because it does not use the tools of the world. It does not shout for your attention. It does not drown out the competition. Instead, it asks you to choose to listen. To turn down the volume on the things that fill your ears but drain your soul.

The old monks called it closing the door — not only the physical door of the prayer cell, but the inner door that keeps out the endless stream of opinions, fears, and self-justifications. Without this closing, the awen remains unnoticed, like a river flowing beside you while you die of thirst.

Making Space for Stillness

Stillness is not simply the absence of noise. It is the creation of a space in which the Presence can be known.

This is why the Celtic saints built their oratories on the edges of the sea, on windswept islands, or deep in the green hush of forests. They sought places where the heart could unclench, where the Spirit’s breath could be heard without distraction.

You may not live on an island, but you can carve out your own sacred edge. It may be a chair in the corner of your room, a quiet morning walk, a breath taken before you answer the phone. These small choices to turn aside are what make the soul ready to hear.

The Words That ComeWhen you make space, the voice that waits begins to speak. Not always in words, sometimes only in a shift — a lightness in the chest, a lifting of anxiety, a sense of rightness you cannot explain.

When it does speak, it sounds like the One who once said:
“I am your salvation. I am your peace. I am your life” (Psalm 62:1).

It does not feed the ego or confirm your fears. It does not flatter or condemn. Instead, it draws you into peace — not the fragile peace of everything going your way, but the deep peace of knowing you are held, even in uncertainty.

Living in the Flow

To hear the voice is one thing. To live from it is another.

It means allowing the awen — the Spirit’s breath — to shape your choices, your responses, your relationships. It means slowing down enough to notice the difference between reacting from fear and responding from love.

It may lead you to speak when you would have stayed silent.
It may lead you to stay silent when you would have rushed to speak.
It may ask you to forgive when you still feel wronged.
It may guide you to release something you thought you could never let go.

This is not a loss. It is the making of space for more of God.

The Cost of Attentiveness

Listening to the voice that waits will cost you. It will cost you your illusions, your need for control, your craving for approval. It will strip away the noise you’ve used to distract yourself from the deeper work.

But it will give you something greater — the ability to walk through life without being ruled by fear or tossed by every change in the wind. You will know where home is. You will recognise the tone of the Shepherd’s call, even in the midst of chaos (John 10:27).

A Voice That Feels Like Home

The more you listen, the more this voice becomes familiar. Not because it is predictable, but because it is true.

It is the voice that called you into being. The voice that spoke light into darkness and still speaks light into you. The voice that says, again and again: You are mine. You are beloved. Come with me.

And when you follow, you find that every step brings you deeper into life — not the brittle survival the world calls success, but the fierce, quiet blooming of the soul.

This voice is your home.
It has been with you all along.
It will never leave you.

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