In the stillness of the early morning, I find myself contemplating the question: What is asking to be witnessed today?

Handpan music plays softly in the background—gentle, melodic, spacious. The clock ticks steadily, as if it believes it can keep pace with the vast expansion traveling across our galaxy. Somewhere behind me, the cat has made a home in my mother’s Christmas tree. There’s a faint jingle of ornaments, the soft rustle of branches shifting under her weight.

My pup looks up at me from the bed I’ve made for him near my workspace, quietly unamused that the cat—now perched on the table—gets to be closer to me than he does.

My body, fresh from early morning yoga, feels calm and responsive. Grateful. The taste of coffee lingers on my tongue. I pause to take another sip. What a gift that is. The heater clicks on, and I’m reminded of the blessings and luxuries I’ve been afforded in this life. Having spent so much of my life sleeping outside, I feel a particular reverence for this warmth—this safety. I am deeply, eternally grateful for this warm, safe space to write today.

And perhaps that is the quiet conclusion forming here: what is truly asking to be witnessed, in any given moment, is the present itself.

Its melodies, its ticking, its purring, its small gestures—all of it is asking you to sit with it. The present is all that is, all that was, and all that will be. It is full of every potential.

Who are you in the present moment?

That is where the real you lives.

The doorway is always now.