Twice every year, the position is right, the skies are clear enough, the night is dark enough so that the moon is framed in the upper panel of the window that sits next to my bed. During it's pregnant blush, the silver sea flows down onto my face and against the flesh of my chest. And I lay curled up in it, comforted, some otherworldly and instinctive belonging hushing my tired eyes.

A month has passed since I was visited by the wind tribes and the raven masks. During that time, I have lost my wolf ring to the unforgiving pipes of a toilet, I have become sick and then well, my mother has gone through two surgeries, and I have helped say goodbye to two animal people. I have struggled with eye maladies, have prepared myself for having to move from my apartment, have worked very hard, and have gone through a depression. During that time, I have performed a Samhain ritual which marked the beginning of 2008. I have had deep conversations with good friends. I have mourned the long dead. I have come to many realizations.

But I have not written anything until now.

There are three flavors of "no". There is the knowing that "no" is the answer. There is being afraid for either very good reasons or temporarily immovable reasons. And there is fear from uncertainty. I've made too many decisions out of the last flavor of no, and many of those decisions, though small, eventually gather together and scurry and soon have weight enough to squeeze shut expression and openness. Spend enough time trying to outfox uncertainty, trying to navigate it without stumbling, and you eventually find you aren't moving an inch.

Saying yes to uncertainty is embracing impermanence. Nothing is certain and all things change. Nothing is fully predictable. The streams of moonlight through my window will be gone in a few months. Already as I write this, they shift position further and further from my face. Last night may be the only clear night this season where I will get to experience them. Or there may be clarity for weeks.

And so the questions I ask myself as a writer who finally wants to take himself seriously, who is more than a bit bored with journaling, are "what's next?" and "where?" and "how?"

Answering those questions is trying to determine something that is uncertain. The only way to determine it is to walk through it. And that's what I plan to do. Tonight, I knew that I wanted to post. That's enough. Tomorrow, we'll see what comes along the path.

Overall, at this moment, I know that I want to go to bed and see if the moon will meet me in that quiet place again. It's a place where wolves dream and howl in their sleep, and everything makes sense. It's a place of vulnerability and promise, and communal with the eternal yes.