Christmas.

There is no snow falling, today. There are the remnants of a small snowfall last week, the tiny accumulation of white and grey sludge on the lawns of homeowners who were entirely unprepared for the snow, but otherwise, the only precipitation is the hazy, slightly-wet fog floating above us.

Snow for Christmas is a rare gift on the Pacific coast, so I am not surprised.

There is snow, however, on the mountain. I can see the mountain outside the window behind me as I sit by the fireplace, not far from the tree, and wait for everyone else to stir from their slumber.

It is warm, cozy, here. This is not just a reflection of the temperature outside, but of my temperament inside. I feel warm, comfortable. I am at ease.

There are people I love asleep in the bedrooms not far away as I sip my coffee and survey the mound of presents and decorations and baked goods strewn across the living room. There are people I love just waking up to a cold, icy morning in a city three time-zones away, not realizing that I am thinking of them; I am, very much. There are people I love everywhere around the world, at various stages of their day, surrounded by their own loved ones, warm, comfortable, at ease.

Everywhere I know, there are people I love, and people who love me.

It is not snowing, but it feels like Christmas here, this morning.