The Familiar Voice

365.

Gentle hands on my shoulders awaken me from a deep and troubled sleep. How long I had been dozing at her bedside, unknown. I shake the fog of transition and return to the present tense. My body hurts. There is a new type of pain, not simply the soreness accrued from physical exertion, but a stinging sensation more like what pain an inflamed nerve might create if left untended, spanning the length of my right leg. I stand to relieve the pressure and stretch, looking down at Mustang as I rise. I reach for her hand and repeat the 'I know you can hear me' protocol.

"Put yourself at ease my dear friend. Rest and heal in the loving light of positive energy. Recall that we rehearsed the restorative power of high-intensity, high quality energy flow. I have got to go get cleaned up," I nod towards the nurse in anticipation of her request, "but I'll be back shortly, and that's a promise."

Downstairs I am disappointed to find a parking ticket on the Escalade, shaking my head and tucking it into glove box for later reconciliation. I quickly play back the tapes in my head as I navigate my way back towards the hotel. On the internal big-screen are a hundred full-color images, the requisite crime scene black and white photos, a handful of key sound bytes, all edited seamlessly between several highlight quality video clips. No wonder my brain hurts as much as my bag of bones!

The highlight reel concluded I segue into coming attractions. What have we learned? What loose ends are left to tie up? What priorities dictate immediate action? Are there current threats pending or open protocols needing attention? What is status in Madison, Austin and DC? What is the threat level?

And perhaps most importantly, what might my continued role in all of this be? I am haunted by the image of Mustang laying motionless on the Capitol lawn. She was following my orders, and although it was a field decision under duress, one that I tried to hedge by drawing fire away from her by going first, the guilt and responsibility I feel is as heavy as any I have previously encountered.

Lost in an ethical tug of war, the morality of which transcends all political correctness, I consider my place. I consider myself. I consider my proper spiritual path, my values and my commitment to the service of others.

The freeway is eerily bereft of volume. Once a metaphor for my process, I am on cruise control - freeing up precious bandwidth to allow symbolic input from the cosmos.

As a peaceful rain begins to fall I hear the familiar voice of my muse:

'Continue your practice.'