A Soulful Companion
Your sacred voice has always been there. Sometimes you just need someone to accompany it, so it can be heard in a way that makes you different—the way you were always meant to be.
If you asked me what is different about my work, I'd say it’s the same thing that makes us all different—and yet somehow the same. It's what we’d like to believe about ourselves that we don't always hear but have always deserved.
I imagine myself clearing my throat and meeting my patient’s eyes—closing them as we tune our instruments and feel into our presence. Sometimes it’s quiet. Other times, there’s a lot of chatter in the room—like children within and between us, struggling to settle. Sometimes they’re my own.
As I open my eyes to greet theirs, or anyone speaking through them, I smile softly and nod my head. My words flow easily, like water in a fresh pond: “Thank you for being here to do this work with me. I welcome you, and all of your little ones inside—with my heart.”
Eventually, a voice steps forward to greet me. Sometimes it’s weepy, sad, or angry. Sometimes, they are confused and don't know what to say—which really says a lot about the wounded child inside, who is blended with their adult. At other times, they are more settled, connected to their larger Self—their Core Self—and know where to start.
Either way, I trust my voice to show me the way. I know they are holding a lot. Even if I don’t yet know what happened to them, I trust that it will come later—if it's needed. The focus is on what makes it hard for them right now—what got locked inside from the past that is still present.
What matters most is that I tell them with my heart that I’m here—and they deserve to be heard and understood. Not because they’re paying me. But because what we’re doing is different.
By way of introduction, I say: “Even though there may be a wounded part of you that wants to run, I believe you know—as your adult connected to your Core Self—that it's okay for me to accompany you on this journey, so you don't get lost—and learn to find your own way.”
It’s like I’m sitting at a piano or playing a violin—my patient close by—waiting for the moment their voice is ready to come through—not perfectly but truthfully—soulfully. At first, they may look to me to lead. Then, gently, we start—together.
And in that moment, I say, “Notice what it’s like to be here. Feel your presence as you land. And take in mine.”
I pause—and breathe—listening for the rhythm in both our bodies and between us. Then I offer: “Let yourself settle into this sacred space we’re creating—to explore what needs to be seen or heard, what your hurt little ones longed for someone to notice.”
I remind myself that this isn't about always hitting the right notes. It’s about finding the ones that have been buried—the ones that tremble when they rise.
As the words of their song begin to unfold, I share with my music that I am shining my light on them as the adult, so they can shine their light on the little ones. “Give yourself time to notice—they can see the path and know they’re already home and live in your heart. You are the adult they have become—and are becoming.
Feeling the patient’s breath slowing and their body sinking into the chair that holds them, I add: “The container we are creating is like the quiet beneath the song. It’s our nest—made between us, as two adults willing to be here, because we know we want more—and that more is possible. It’s an offering to the hurt parts within us, who’ve long been silenced, but deserve to be heard.”
As the music plays on, some of those parts start to step forward—courageous yet cautious—like light sneaking through the window shade. Some may sit quietly and listen. Some may turn away, arms crossed—or even flip us the finger.
At first, my adult hands move lightly across the keys—expressing my delight and steadying us all.
Then, as the voice emerges, I stay with it. Matching tone and tempo. I follow, not lead—yet I’m not afraid to redirect and change the pace and direction when the voice falters or strays too far away from the heart—or a shadow enters the room.
If it's my own, I stop and check in with the patient to see what is happening. I play just enough for the voice to rise, remember itself, and connect with the truth inside—without running away.
And the adult in their Core Self looks at me and speaks: “So you’re saying that I’m not as bad as I think I am… and that the light is shining even when I can't see it.”
Then, in the space between the lines of the song, I encourage them to breathe slowly—sensing their light—and then mine. Gently but firmly, I say, "Welcome. I'm so glad that you're here today. Take your time. We are just getting started, but we’ve already come a long way.”
For those reading this now, listen to your little ones. Bring them closer. And, when you're ready, tell them: “I've got you now. We're doing this work together. You're not alone anymore.”
I have a sense you know what makes me different. Instead, tell yourself and others close to heart—and not so much—what makes you different. Then you’ll know who you are—and where to begin and end—each and every day.
Let the song, For a Dancer, land inside as you listen to the soulful Jackson Browne, accompanied on the violin by his soulful companion, David Lindley, a witness to, and facilitator of his voice (and so many others) through the years. He was a natural therapist and true leader—empowering others to see and use their greatness.
Like this blog, feel free to play this video as much as you like—perhaps coming back when it is quieter and you have more time. I invite you to look back at the years and remember what was right, when you could hear the joy in life—no longer feeling that "being myself” means it’s unsafe to exist.
Your sacred voice is timeless—a constant companion that guides you on your way. This healing is about making new meaning from the past—discovering a greater truth.
In the end, I hope you will always know that we can all be a soulful companion for ourselves and others—giving from the heart—receiving even more in the process.
We can cherish the memory of those who could see us—our lights—even through the pain—alongside the person we were always meant to be. They live in our hearts forever, hearing the joy in life from us now—still caring, still proud, even when we get stuck in the hole and have a hard time seeing the light.
As a testament to this sacred work and the light within us all, let’s spread the light of invisibility and enjoy the music—together.
It's the path of transcendence that can take us home—born to make music and dance in our own special way.
A celebration of love and joy. Thank you, David, for your humanness—and the joy that you brought to our lives—and still do.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.