Today I worked, wearing a mumu my grandmother gave me. It used to be hers. My day was boring and beautiful. I listened to footsteps on the stairs, dogs barking, and children laughing. I clicked and typed. I stopped for an hour and went running with my friend down my familiar road, beneath skyscraper trees.

Then I closed the computer and stopped. Feeling satisfied for a moment. I find myself willing to let go now. Work and not-work are more clearly delineated by dollar signs in the sand again. When it all flows together I never felt like I'd done 'enough'. Sure I maybe tired, I may be stressed, I may have filled out forms, driven back and forth, made phone calls, and even made money.  But I didn't go into an office every day or have set work hours. I didn't kiss the kids and walk out the door or sit at my desk. I wish my brain and my culture could somehow understand that working at home is just as hard, just as needed, and just as valuable as going to an office or going on business trips and staying in 5-star hotels. That you deserve to sit and veg out for an hour in the evenings, even if you didn't bill 11 hours. Honestly I feel guilty.  It's nice to dress up and have lunch catered in. It's simple to book a flight or order an Uber. It's more fun to talk to your co-workers and than try to match 1,431 unmatched socks alone in the laundry room.

Today, once work was done with 'work' I put on my muckboots with my mumu still on. I was done. Now it was 'my time'. I leaned against Rosemary and milked. Milking adds a warm regular heartbeat to my life. Every 12 hours I connect to the animals that are feeding my children. Rain or shine. Early and late. Sometimes I even say 'thank you' outloud. We are connected by our labors of body and soul, for those that nourish us in turn. My children have defined my life in every way. Working inside or outside of my home, my life and labors are all tied to them. Someday I'll finally untie all the knots inside myself and just be. Until then, life is beautiful orbiting them.