The Lighthouse Keeper's Vigil

The room settles into stillness as I press play. Om-chants-reverb-and-rain fills the space (Pixabay), that deep, resonant hum weaving through the patter of distant water. I let the sound wash over me, preparing the field.

My pen touches paper. First, the outline of a head. Simple. Quick. This is Questioner, not the real person, but the icon who exists in this moment of seeking, of asking. My hand moves almost without thinking as I draw the symbols, opening the channel. The energy begins to flow, that familiar warmth cascading down from crown to shoulders.

I pause. Look up and read the question once more:

"What is the dominant collective energy the community/society/ourselves are moving through? How to best respond to this energy?"

The pen continues—down the body, down the legs, all the way to the feet. The Reiki flows like water, finding its path.

And then something shifts.

The Om chant deepens in my ears. The reverb stretches and bends. Suddenly, I'm not hearing meditation music anymore; I'm hearing foghorns, the low, mournful call of a ship at sea. The lighthouse beam cuts through mist, sweeping, searching, warning.

It's cold. Moist. Salt in the air.

There's a dog on shore, barking frantically. I can see it—paws in the surf, eyes locked on the dark shape of a vessel moving through the fog. Its people are on that ship. It's family. The dog's cry is desperate, loving, insistent: Come home. Come home. I'm here.

The sound grows, filling not just my ears but the entire room, the entire world. My awareness expands until I am the shore, I am the fog, I am that barking dog, and that lost ship simultaneously.

The vessel is heading for the embankment. Danger. The dog barks harder—turns, runs a few steps back, then returns to the water's edge. A warning. A plea.

The ship corrects course. Barely, it veers, just enough—sliding past the rocks and into the harbor.

The dog erupts in joy, bounding down to meet them. Reunion. Relief. Love made manifest in wagging tail and jumping paws.

But then,

BOOM.

Out in the water. Beyond the harbor. Bombs. Distant but real. The sound of war rolling through the fog like thunder that won't end.

The vision expands:

More boats appear, feeling their way through the darkness. More dogs on shore, barking their people home. The community builds a great fire on the beach, not just for warmth, but as a beacon. The lighthouse can only do so much. The fire says: We are here. We are holding the shore. Come to us. 

One boat at a time, they navigate the fog.
One family at a time, they are reunited.
One dog at a time, they call their loved ones home.

But the bombs keep falling in the distance. This is the reality: in a time of war. Not all ships will make it. Some are already lost, dark shapes disappearing beneath the waves where the lighthouse beam cannot reach.

The message crystallizes:

We cannot stop the bombs—not yet, not today, not from this shore. But we can tend the fire. We can be the lighthouse keepers. We can be the dogs who bark and bark and bark until our throats are raw, guiding those we love to safety.

This is how we respond to the dominant collective energy:

• One boat at a time. We cannot save everyone at once, but we can guide the vessel in front of us.

• One moment at a time. We use our instincts like the dogs use theirs—immediate, present, unwavering.

• One person at a time. One act of love. One vote. One choice to hold the light steady in the fog.

• Together. No one tends the fire alone. No one navigates the harbor alone. We are a community of lighthouse keepers.

When the fog finally clears, we will see the full scope. Some ships were lost. Many saved. The bombs will need to be answered. The planes will need to be grounded. Those dropping destruction will need to be stopped so that good people can live their lives in peace.

But until that clarity comes, we respond with love.

We assess what's in front of us. We do what we can. We stay strong together with a sense of purpose: to protect and serve our societies, our communities, and one another.

We keep the fire burning.
We keep calling our people home.
We save the boats we can reach.

This is not the time for grand gestures that we cannot complete. This is the time for radical, humble, persistent presence. The lighthouse doesn't judge which ships are worthy. The dog doesn't calculate the odds. They do what must be done, over and over, in the fog, in the dark, in the not-knowing.

That is how we move through this collective energy.

That is how we bring each other home.

End of session.

The Om chant fades. I look down at the sketch. The figure is surrounded by symbols, by waves, and I didn't consciously decide to draw it. The paper holds something I couldn't have planned.

This is the response that came through the fog.