There are many different names for the moon. Many different faces, and a name for each one. Full Moon. Hunter's Moon. Wolf Moon. Blood Moon. Amazing, how the names and faces of the moon change. Amazing, how its power, its mystery, does not.

The Vikings thought the moon masculine, and named him accordingly. The Greeks and the Celts thought it a goddess, and gave her many names, each one dependent on her level of understanding of what it is to be a woman.

Everyone tends to tell it a little differently.

Some say that I was a child, others say that I was a young woman. There are some who say that I was neither, but rather at that time when a lass is at her strongest, and at her weakest. At a time when I was just beginning to discover who I was, but at the same time starting to forget who I was entirely. Blood moon shining full in the night.

The feminine forces in my life never change.

There is my mother before me, and my grandmother before her. I have never been without them, though I know that one day they will die. They give me their love, their wisdom. I have never known life without my mother to hold me and sing to me and teach me of love. I have never known life without my grandmother to tell me the stories that I need to hear, to keep me warm and well with all that she knows in her long life. A red riding cloak to keep you warm in your travels.

There are always changes to the masculine forces in the story.

Sometimes it is a woodcutter that comes to my rescue, other times he is a hunter. A man of the forest, either way. Sometimes he is my beau, come to the aid of his fated beloved. More times than that he is my father. A father. That's something no girl should ever have to live without. Protector, defender, provider. Everything that makes a man. Everything that makes a husband. Everything that is found in a father. But most times in the stories he is a stranger... A stranger...

Many will say that it was a real wolf that I met in the woods, but many more know the truth, that it was not just some ordinary wolf. Lone wolf. Werewolf. Fantastical Lycaon. In some stories his very soul is a perversion, an insane predator out for tender meat. Destroyer of the past, corruptor of the future. Big eyes. Big ears. Big teeth. While others will say he is my lover. My furred and fanged swain, come to teach me adventure, of life free from the wide, empty paths going nowhere that too many forebears have tread before me, of life walking my own way. My pursuer, always. In all of them he is a stranger. He was not.

How can anyone be a stranger, when your very soul recognizes them, your equal and your opposite? He knew me. I knew him. How can you not know someone when you've been dreaming of them your whole life? The faces are never the same, and the names change, or are never known, but the energy is unmistakable. It is still you. The same soul. The same dream. I know you. I knew you before. I will know you again. Different face, different name, just as you will know me.