This cracked sun catcher makes me smile. We spend Thursdays together. Thursdays are my weekly, for one day only, jaunt into a public space for work. As a full blown introvert who learned to act like an extrovert (or stand by my mom who talked for both of us)…I like my space. I like my quiet space to think, to nest, and to be my (braless) self. I have no need to work alongside people who also want to talk about their lives or people who need people to get work finished.

I’m my best self in a room of my own. I’m deeply connected to a personal life that through clinical insights or patterns and typing fingers to keyboard – I do my best work. I do not need a boss, other than me. Others used to just want to talk to me about their personal life or call a meeting or develop a policy that would curtail quality work. They just distracted personal and collective progress. I do not need friends at work, I adore my clients. We chat all day.

It is hard for me to imagine a time when I felt, for income’s sake, I had to work out of the home some six or seven days a week. Sometimes I’d leave at seven in the morning and return at ten in the evening. I feel privileged not to have to do that anymore. Yet, it was a very conscious process that I worked toward for years before this joy ride. While I cherish the shifts virtual work has afforded me, and I hold the greatest gratitude for days that I no longer set an alarm – moving to my own rhythms and not the industrialized pace of life – I like my Thursdays. It now feels special to leave the house.

My commute is short, heading from a bustling town borough to its neighboring historic village. There are only six or so buildings, here – as otherwise rural life recedes around me. My cooperative wellness clinic situates between an inn, a small business whole foods market, and a garden shop. I’ve been fortunate to live in esteemed and dynamic neighborhoods like Cambridge, Mass. I’ve walked the streets of NOHO, Chicago, and Amsterdam. Today, I walk up creaky stairs in this centuries-old building and I pass by this sun catcher that has (unclear to me) either deliberate or accidental tears. It reminds me of my wabi sabi style: joy in the imperfect, impermanent, incomplete nature of the universe. I look at her each week and I think, if I have to leave the house, I was meant to pass this way.