In the fall of 1993, there was a blue moon. In fact, there might have been two blue moons. That doesn't happen often. [Obvious pun deleted.]

In the fall of 1993, I had just graduated from law school. I had just taken the Bar Exam, and hadn't yet heard the (positive) results. I had just started a new job as a judicial law clerk in the United States District Court for the Central District of California, a new career as an attorney, and was about to start a new relationship. I was idealistic; I was optimistic; I was frightened as shit; I was 25 years old.

In the fall of 1993, I lived on a lovely street called Ozone Avenue in Venice Beach California, a total of about 100 yards from the ocean itself. Every night I fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing against surf. It was a comforting, albeit awe-inspiring sound to sleep to. I miss it madly.

That fall, in 1993, during one of the blue moons, I needed grounding. I called together my best beach friends at the time - - Elizabeth, Colette, Danno, a few others. We sat on the roof of Danno's building, above the Venice Bistro on the very Venice Boardwalk itself, even closer to the ocean than my apartment 80 yards inland, and held a ceremony.

We lit candles and read aloud from two books I had just purchased about seasonal rituals. There were about six of us there. After reading the pages aloud, we discussed the serendipity of the blue moons, the overwhelming natural beauty that surrounded us, and how lucky we felt to be living on the beach, how happy we were.

It was, in fact, empowering in a non-shallow way. The flickering candles, the closeness I felt with my friends, the music from down the boardwalk, and the lyrical sound of the waves crashing against our surf is a memory I will always cherish, even as Elizabeth is now passed away, and that year remains a distant but delicious memory.

There is a value to those moments - - the moments where we are walking up a hill on a rainy night all by ourselves to put the roof up on our convertibles, when we are caught offguard by the nighttime skyline view of San Francisco and the watery marina below us, of hazy snippets of dancing to "When I'm Sixty-Four" outside Stanford's Green Library, feeling full of life and love, of biking through Redondo Beach's mini-amusement park up all the way to the top of the hill of Palos Verdes Estates, of driving alone (with a cat) in a brand-new purchased Saturn over the golden bridge into Memphis, of stopping to eat a sandwich while looking onto the vast red painted valleys of New Mexico.

These are never moments that we capture on film. Photos would do the emotion no justice.

Spring Equinox is the time of balancing, which is precisely what I am trying to do right now - - balancing all of the opportunities and responsibilities that have gradually been landing on my lap, balancing my too-often-all-consuming work life with the more well-rounded life that I remember, and miss.

According to the same books that I consulted for guidance in the fall of 1993, the power of balancing on the vernal equinox is found within ourselves should we seek it out. It is the time of renewal, and the renewal I currently seek is that of trust, both in myself and in others. Fortunately, on the equinox, optimism is natural; as the nights grow shorter and the days grow longer, light prevails over darkness; it all gets easier from here.