Here's a story that's gonna get you thinking for sure. It might even sound a little creepy to you.
It starts off with a tennis match between a coach and what seems to be a troubled man. As the tennis match continues, the man barks orders to himself like a drill sargeant. You can see that this isn't a healthy activity. Needless to say tears and pain ensue in the story.
I won't give away the ending for you but it brings up a lot of questions about your inner guide. It is often stressed that we should listen to our intuition and what our internal monologue is saying to us but what happens when that inner guide is screaming orders at us?
Or even worse, what if our inner guides were negative, abusive versions of ourselves?
This is a lot of food for thought so I'd love to hear what your honest opinions are on this topic. Drop a comment below and let us know.
Do you have an inner guide?
By Zach Kleiman from SoulPancake
After six hours of coaching, I was ready to go home. My on-court clients’ concerns that day had run a broad range: work, weight, and waiting; chronic pain; adultery; addiction to Internet porn; and a service toss (tennis?) that turned out to be connected to his fear of initiation. A normal, full morning.
But I had a date planned with my wife at 2:30 p.m. for some scary movie (The Da Vinci Code). Love the matinees—cool, dark rooms, holding hands, fresh popcorn. Since it was 1 p.m. and pushing 100 degrees in the San Fernando Valley, I began to leave the tennis facility when another player called out, "Zach, you know everyone. Can you help this guy? He needs someone to hit with."
I looked over at a 40-ish-year-old with a forlorn frown. "My partner just called me—he’s totally hung over and cancelled on me."
"Shit. I hate when that happens," I empathized, my mind searching for which of my students might be available and willing to hit balls with this unknown player at the last minute. "What level are you?"
"I'm pretty good," he nodded, without the arrogance some people have when trying to prove something.
A familiar voice inside me urged me to make an offer: "I'll hit with you for 10 minutes, I'll make you sweat, and then go home for my date."
His name was Bart. We walked silently to the court. But from the first shot, that serenity was broken by Bart barking militaristic directions to himself on how to improve every single shot. "Bend." "Watch the ball." "Swing through." I was quiet, listening to his demanding inner guide. I felt a wave of pain and sadness for what he’d probably endured since childhood. The cruelty and fear were repetitive and relentless: "Lift the racket." "Lower your head."
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