Where I live, it's warm.
Not literally, of course. It's the beginning of January, you silly goose-- and it's rather cold up here in Indiana in January. Although yesterday was pleasantly warm-- almost 60 degrees. Which is strange, and absurd, and wonderful. Like a Christmas present you forgot about until mid-February, when it's nasty and cold and covered in salt-residue outside and that red wrapping paper is just what you need to cheer you.
The kind of warmth I'm talking about is much different than the sun shining outside. It's a warm contentment. A peace with where I am. My house is harmonious.
I know a lot of people don't have warm houses. They're cold, either because of things they've done or things they haven't. But that's not how it is at my house.
I'm so thankful for that.
I'm so thankful that we all get along. I'm so thankful that we all genuinely love one another. That's so abnormal these days . . . I'm so blessed.
I revel in this warmness. I love it here, because I live here.