I've stepped into a new place, laced with both familiar and unknown. Familiar is the wind sweeping and slashing around me, blowing bits of past and future in unpredictable swirls, messing up my hair and pulling at any loose clothing. Familiar is the resolve of muscles held tight in their place, and familiar is the sword raised above my head. Familiar is the stake I drive into the ground before me, the refusal to turn from the truth I know and taste, despite the storm. The unknown stands before me now, that wind still stirring and messing, pushing at my frame. The unknown is a softening inside me- not the kind of softness that allows for doubt, but the kind that gives way to unclenched muscles and a crumpled form on the ground. It's the kind of softness that feels vulnerable and... unknown. The truth is still in my eyes, but my posture has changed. Most of my being wants to rise up and raise that sword, stepping back into the stance of contending that I know so well. But thi