The London skyline sparkles in the dark distance. A frying pan held, hands shielding it from the wind, while intentions and goals for the next moon cycle, scrawled on wine-stained paper, are lit and placed in the pan. I stand with three people that were mere strangers only weeks before and have become my family. People that have walked beside me through tears, laughter and silence for 900 kilometers; we part ways only to be drawn back to each other in the hands of the Universe.
The full moon breaks through the clouds above us and I think back to the last full moon. I remember it vividly, walking through the streets of Italy, nursing a Spanish hangover and searching for carbohydrates. Not just another full moon, but a time in my life that I feel I have been on a higher vibration. My concept of time has shifted. No longer is it the little dots on my phone calendar signifying a task to complete, countdowns to weekends or the next time I pack my suitcase. Time has shifted to prominently noticing my nails have grown too long again and need to be trimmed. I am able to recall the last place I stood in the bathroom with the nail clippers. Time has been marked by the length of my ponytail; four full moons ago I couldn’t even pull it back and now it sits prominently at the top of my head swaying with my stride.
As I stand on the balcony, cold cement against barefeet, windswept hair in my face, clinking wine glasses with heartfelt toasts and looking out over London, I start to feel trepidation. I fly back to the States the next day and I fear the loss of this beautiful energy. I fear monotony or lackadaisical routines of everyday life could potentially sneak back in, but I choose to not allow that. I choose to maintain my inclination to abandon monotonous false security and not wait for life to discover me, but rather me to discover it.