Eleven months ago, I sat at Beulahland in Portland, waiting on a girl. I drank a Tecate with lime under a red neon glow and wrote a story about myself as a different person. It was the beginning of my 365 stories.

It’s a weird thing to take a project one day at a time and suddenly look up to find yourself near the end. It feels similar to a long hike in the mountains. All you can think about after a while is putting one foot after the other. Knowing that eventually, you’ll reach a place to stop. That’s where it can become tricky if you let it. You can stop and forget how to start again. You can forget the simple nature of putting one foot after the other and think you have to make an elaborate plan or have more supplies before you start again.

But really— you need to do whatever the next closest thing is. Maybe it’s taking a break to enjoy the sight. Maybe it’s cooking up a meal. Or maybe— it’s getting back onto the trail to follow the pad of your footsteps.

Winter has arrived on the island. The wind whips up from the ocean, reminiscent of the East wind from the Columbia back home. My apartment hears the howl of gale-force winds on odd nights. I wonder why I haven’t explored the island at night as I have in other places I’ve lived. But once you see the long shadows from the dense forest, you’d understand. Tripping over sacred ground by happenstance doesn’t seem to be wise.

I have dreams that remind me of childhood with how they abscond from reality. I forget my name at times. I haven’t had any of the odyssey length dreams yet. Nor, the interactions with forgotten Gods. Still, in the slow movements of the moon, I can know deeper pools await.

Till then, I’ll keep writing stories and listening to errant whispers. Wondering how the muse will present themselves next.