When I was absorbed in the drawings, whole days went past, and I think I must often have forgotten to eat. And, too, there is something in that kind of concentration, that loss of self, that burns huge amounts of energy; the soul that is responsible uses energy without considering, without exhaustion, until it is done, and then it collapses. And so I grew thinner, and the heat of my energy kept me warm.

Occasionally I realized that I must eat, and at those times I went to the freezer and retrieved some kind of food, making a conscious effort to have a proper meal. Afterwards my stomach would feel stretched and painful, and the lethargy would come and I would retreat to bed, sleeping until my body was stoked up again, ready to go on.

I do not remember thinking about what was happening. The time then had such — not unreality, which is what I was going to say. But considering it now, I see that what it had was a total reality, a complete sense of being where I was, doing what I was doing, with nothing between myself and the experience, no thoughtful mediator saying, “now I shall do this,” and “that looks all right, now let’s go on to this,” or even, “this is very pleasant.” There was none of that, and I only noticed in the absence of the mediator that it had ever been present. And even that didn’t come until later, until after the winter was over.

The immediacy of living in that winter began the sharpening of my instincts, my perception of what was to be done. I did not think. I sensed and then I acted. So that when my body began to make itself known, after weeks of inactivity, showed itself tightening and restless, needing occupation, I let it tell me what to do.

There was no system of exercises, nothing that I knew of, and I let my body itself move, releasing it, with an understanding that it would know what should be done. I stood and it began to touch my toes, slowly up and down, or it wanted swift movement and urged me to run until I was sweating, around and around the cabin. I could let it have its time, choosing when it wanted to move and how, and it did not seem as if its demands were excessive.

The winter days had achieved a rhythm of their own, different from the other seasons. It was purely instinctive, not based on anything outside my own mind and body, every action a response to some impulse. Sometimes the urge was for exercise, other times for sleeping or sewing or eating. The instincts never failed me, even if they suggested only that I stay in bed or make a cup of tea. They required only that I be aware of them, and respond.