It’s a lovely sunny January day. The sky is that clear hyacinth blue that inspires me to think about painting the kitchen that color, so it will cheer me during winter days. The sunlight comes through the leafless maple tree in the backyard and dapples on the pine tree needles, jumping and splaying across the snow.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table today, having woken up a few hours ago at 10:30, since I can sleep in as late as I want to. I am a night owl, and was up well past one o’clock last night. Usually I’m up until two, then I get up with the dogs and go back to sleep for a few hours. I have the house to myself, my laptop plays my favorite music, and the day is mine to do what I wish.
I’ve been working from home since August 2010, so it’s been over a year. And I could never go back. I was an okay employee, if a bit too absent-minded and stubborn when it came to following their rules. Blame the Aquarius sun for that rebelliousness, but meeting a company’s profits or trying hard for their quotas made me shrug and say, “Who cares?” I sure didn’t, and the weekly paycheck wasn’t enough to make me care.
Neither did I want to ascend to upper management and be a boss. Telling others what to do didn’t sound appealing, and I’d be *gasp* responsible for their work. I’m all for leadership, but not simply for the sake of getting more money, and I’m certainly not power-hungry or besotted with titles like “Manager” or “Executive Director.”
My coworkers are my dogs, my boss is myself, and my desk is the kitchen table. Time stretches out lazily, mine to mold and sculpt how I wish. I look out on the backyard and think about perhaps planting a garden. I sit near the stove, and between my freelance articles look up recipes to cook. I read and research for my stories, which I have time to write. Time.
Time is what it makes it awesome to work from home. Time to make my life my own. I can write my articles as quickly as I want, so that I work at most maybe six hours a day. I have time to cook dinner and have it ready for my husband when he gets home. Time to keep the house picked up, time to have finished two novels before I turn thirty in a few weeks. Time to take care of the dogs, time to plan, time to dream. My time is my own.
Working from home is not for everyone. The extroverts of the world might find it a bit lonely, and those who enjoy their jobs couldn’t imagine leaving them. But I love being here, at home, and never found this kind of deep satisfaction by working in an office for somebody else. 
