Yesterday, while unpacking my room, at the bottom of my last box of books, after all the scrabbling to find bookshelf space, I was stunned to find a book I had never seen before: "The I-Ching Book of Changes: A Guide to Life's Turning Points." 

The cover stared boldly at me from the bottom of the box. Never before had I seen this book. The impetus for it being there are many: perhaps someone had left it at my old house, perhaps I had accidentally picked it up from someone else's house. But beyond any skepticizing, the foremost thing on my mind, was that in the past week, I have indeed undergone some major, major changes for the long term and the better. Also, I am a first believer in what Carl Jung called, "synchronicity," where you look for something, which then appears everything. Julia Cameron--the writer of The Artist's Way, an excellent book for unlocking the creative subconscious--rechristens synchronicity the Yellow Jeep Syndrome; a process whereby you attune your sense to look for yellow jeeps, and suddenly, there they are everywhere--peeping out from parkways like sassy daisies, rolling out of side streets like elusive suns--everywhere, yellow jeeps. 

And so, I found this book. And so, with that, I begin to sense that the subconscious undercurrent was still flowing; what I knew all along: that the universe is in conspiracy with our best interest. 

 The place I am living in is beautiful: high ceilings, good neighbors, quiet, spacious, and I have a whole study to myself. A good friend whom I had not seen for a year stopped by the other day. 

"Wow, so this is your life now!" She said. "This is the place that's going to breed your creativity!" 

"Really?" I responded. "I thought this was a transition. I never viewed it as a step up, I guess."

And so it is. Light-filled, peaceful, and plenty of leg-room, the first night I spent here, I was sitting on the floor with my new roommate, drinking a much-too-big bottle of wine and celebrating the move. It was about 4 AM. Suddenly, a voice called through the screen of the kitchen window, "Hey you guys, come outside and look at the moon!" 

It was the voice of our neighbor, a painter, a cancer survivor, she paints by night to avoid the hot flashes from a chemotherapy accident. Sometimes she walks out to the ocean, or to a near pond, and jumps into the water. Her paintings are often of the moon: soft purple, lilac, orchid, ejaculate gold. It is the one time she feels cool. 

My roommate and I ran outside. There was nobody out except for us. The voice of his neighbor who called to us was unattached to any visible person; it was as though the woman who called us outside was not in fact our neighbor, but a voice of a distant angel, hung permanently suspended in time. Hovering over us, like the moon. The moon was a bloated ball of glistening yellow in the fog of sky--like a highlighter squeaked through the pages of pertinent text. 

"The moon was a ghostly galleon/tossed upon the cloudy seas," I said, quoting Alfred Noyes' poem, "The Highwayman."

And he and I watched it for a minute, not going anywhere, not thinking, not arguing. And so, days later, as I pull the book "The I-Ching" from my box, I realize indeed the changes are manifesting around me. To behold them in their great luminosity, but to abstain from trying to interpret them. Just like looking at the moon.