When I was making the drawing I posted a while ago, it started to rain. It rained heavily enough that I could hear it landing on the roof. Since then, it has slowed to a sprinkle. And when I say slowed, I realize that the individual drops are probably still falling the same speed as when it was raining a bit harder. And when I say harder, I realize I have chosen a funny, if conventional, way of describing something that kisses each leaf, each needle, each blade of grass; each stone, each curb, each round metal drain cover, each mossy mound. So what is it that I am doing, really? What am I trying to say? That I am still alive, that I am still here, and that somehow everything has changed — changed so profoundly that it seems just the same? That I am enjoying my coffee? That it is enjoying me? While I was drawing, I was noticing for perhaps the ten thousandth time how good it felt. And now, while I’m writing, I am noticing the same thing. In both cases, it is a feeling of intimacy, as if my fingers were simultaneously sending and receiving and responding through the touch of warm living tissue and bone and skin. I suppose that sounds crazy. But that is the state I am in, and for as long as I can remember, all the way back to my childhood on the farm, that is the way it has been.