I could say getting well is my highest priority. Sister Shingles was a mother. 2003 wrap-up: Five foreign countries and the adventures of North America have me with a perpetual cold and the edge of a sore throat.

But I get tired of saying I'm trying to get well. And really I wake up each day with a long list of errands and to-dos, phone calls, meetings and projects that devolves into web surfing and masturbation. Each day lived to its fullest.

Except that I'm in hibernation. Holding back on plans and resisting invitations to the Middle East and even Japan to nurse my frail form into long striding confidence again. Here listen - I want to be excited to move again; not defying wisdom and body logic to live experience.

But I felt so full last night - hard rain pounding black highway night driving up the mountain slow but fast, rain skidding windows open blasting heat and The Small Hours aggro depressive grooves. I was alone heading into the mountain night to ritual, invoking the four corners of binding and blessing, bowing to the darkness and the light in the presence of wiser heads. I felt full - life and blue light and noise - natural reckless correct skill.

Hard rain begs home. Celebrate human evolution and particular privilege - bond with your couch in inclement weather. I left my new car to walk down a wet hill, night dark as a laptop on standby. To stick my head near a swollen yule log with many sheathed knives nearby. Mulled wine in my hand, tossing prayer flags into the flames. Touching shoulders of old friends. Forestalling a headlong return to health. Each night I sleep less than seven hours is a tip of the hat to the devil of progress.