Try to feel every day: the good days, the bad days, the beautiful and the ugly. Feel them all. Feel them completely.

When it rains, do not run. Let the cold cut you to the bone. Trudge home a beautiful, pitiful disaster. Wear your wet clothes like a basset hound wears its ears.

Not because you're a glutton for punishment but because you're a believer that in order to be present in the joy you must be present in the pain; that in order to be present by the fire you must be present in the rain.

You will eventually get back home. Know this. Believe this. Cling to this like a child clings to its mother's hand.

When you arrive, close the heavy door behind you. Strip away your clothes. Let them fall in a wet heap at your feet. Strike the match. Light the bunched up newspaper hugged between the dead, dry wood.

Wring out your hands against the flame. Feel the warmth walk along the lines in your hands, circle your wrists, climb up your arms, rest at your shoulder blades and then fall down your chest and your back and your legs and your feet––until the warmth replaces the cold.