Yesterday, I followed a writing prompt: it was fascinating to see what happened as I did the exercise. Check it out.
Here is the prompt:
Look around the room where you’re sitting and describe the “scene” around you—the sights, sounds, smells, and feeling of the room. Who is around you? What are they saying? Is it quiet or loud? What does the air feel like? What is hanging on the walls? Can you smell anything? Taste anything?
My response:
The sun is streaming through the trees outside of the kitchen sliding glass doors, and snow has fallen fresh on the deck and the ground — and shadows streak across the floor. 

Though it is warm inside, knowing the windchill is -33C brings the frigid Arctic air a little too close for comfort. If I open the door connecting to the garage to put something in the recycling bin, the frosty air assaults me. I close the door quickly, slamming out the cold invasion of my home.
I can hear the sounds of the washing machine chugging and churning, round and round it goes. It works for me, as I sit here writing, working too.
Molly, our sweet dog, lies still and cozy in her crate; the blankets and towels we have in there give her a soft place to land. She likes it there; it is her den.

(She’s not in her crate here, but you get to see how cute she is…)

I have my fragrant hot tea sitting beside me on the table where my computer is, and I occasionally sip its amber liquid. Its warmth travels languid through my system and brings comfort. There is something so reassuring about its fragrance and warmth. I cannot help savour it, drink in comfort too.
The aroma of homemade chicken soup still lingers in the air from when I heated it a while ago — the candles on the kitchen table waft cinnamon to my nostrils. 
On the wall to my right hangs two things that bring me delight. One is the picture that my Dad painted for me, a scene of a barn in winter. The trees behind the barn are blue; it’s the snow that robbed them of their greenery, and they stand there like frozen sentinels of winter’s beauty. There is a bird in the air. I wonder how it can keep from freezing in the polar atmosphere. 

(It was hard to take a great picture of this because of the light coming in the glass doors.)

This picture fills me with nostalgia and longing — my Dad, gone now almost twenty-two years this March. How can that be? I love you so much Daddy, and I miss you! I miss your gentle humour, tender kindness, loving affection, your support and wisdom.

The other is a graphic of the word, HOPE. It is large and swoops its letters in a curly-qu, like cursive writing. It is a word I live my life by, the anchor in storms that come my way. Essential, vital, a word that strengthens and gives encouragement, and the ability to carry on yet another day.

I notice the twinkle lights too; they frame the sliding glass doors glittering; they keep the gloom of winter at bay.
Gratitude comes now, it is a deep thankfulness for all I have been given.
I see the love of my family and my friends in the kitchen where I sit. It is in the decor, but it hangs in the atmosphere, this love and care I have been the beneficiary of; it brings a quiet sweetness to my day.
So, this practice of awareness, of taking notice – it opens the door, and as I walk through it I remember all the good and lovely people and beautiful things in my life.