Marisa lives high up on a mountain. She wakes at dawn and does yoga outside as the sun rises, then sits in silence for hours, listening to the wind blow and blow. She goes indoors to cook an omelette with eggs and milk from her chicken and goat, and jerusalem artichokes and chard from her garden. Then she writes and writes and writes and sings and moves in a beautiful light-filled room with an old grand piano, Indian tabla, a guitar, a cello, an oboe, shofar, a harp, Javanese gamelan and the Maori poi. She goes kayaking and swimming every afternoon. She is not afraid of snakes and she faces bears without fear. Nighttime she lives only by candlelight. The silence is deep and intense and thick - interrupted only by the sounds of the shofar. Which she blows every once in a while just for the hell of it.