The morning raven caws in the distance. I let the cold air chill my lower body, naked as I wear only a sweatshirt. I pinch out my cigarette and turn and walk into my small manufactured home. It is decorated with things close to my heart and necessary to life. My sweetie calls from the bed and asks me what I am doing and I answer, “Writing”. He coughs and the cat scampers through the house. The clock is ticking, and Bruce, my dog, adjusts and breaths a small gentle wheeze and he is curled up on the sofa.

I joined a community writing blog yesterday, that a New York publishing company started called Catapult. I am very excited to read so many writers' pieces. They vary is such a magnitude and I learn so much as I scroll through and soak in their words. Writing has become a practice for me necessary and outflowing like the very breath I take in and then release into the small environment that surrounds me. Writing has become like painting was once to me, and as I enter the vast fold of all it has to offer, and the endless possibilities, I am reminded how prevalent it is to revel in such creativity. Endless stories and subjects coax at me throughout the day and writing is all I want to do. I am so excited yet aware of my smallness as I enter the great world of accomplished writers on this blog. I am thankful, truly thankful, for all that has been blessed within me.

Lionel my other mutt walks through the cold house, door open and heat shut off to welcome the morning in its true hue. He laps water noisily from the water dish and walks about, finger claws making noise on the pergo floors like a musical instrument. I embrace the chill on my legs because I am savoring and reveling in all of the truths of life; the fakeness and awkwardness of people; the sincerity and sad revelries of their emotions. My nostrils chill with the air as I inhale to write the closing words of this blog post. Thank you to my readers. Thank you to the listener. Thank you to the observers. We must be witnessed.