The fire

Sitting on the blue couch in front of the wood stove, winter is knocking at the back door.
The black cat's on my lap, the wild tortoiseshell is on the cushion, up tight against me.
The large black and white kitchen clock is ticking; the flames are licking, crackling and roar-rustling against the solid steel of the stove.
I'm reading Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving:

"The most important sphere of giving, however, is not that of material things, but lies specifically in the human realm. What does one person give to another? He gives of himself, of the most precious that he has, he gives of his life. This does not necessarily mean that he sacrifices his life for the other - but that he gives him of that which is alive in him; he gives him of his joy, of his interest, of his understanding, of his knowledge, of his humour, of his sadness - of all expressions and manifestations of that which is alive in him. In thus giving of his life, he enriches the other person, he enhances the other's sense of aliveness by enhancing his own sense of aliveness. He does not give in order to receive; giving is in itself an exquisite joy."