I'm sitting at my table. Tea mug next to me, its mossy-colored liquid rippling and sending its tea bag on mini waves to the beat of my laptop typing. Mr. Tea looks on. He's got his classic mean grill going. But he's just serious. And seriously misunderstood.
I'm glad he's here, because so far, the weirdest thing about working "for myself" is the silence.
I cleared everything off of my desk last Friday and it all sits in boxes in my living room today. A yellow bowl, Leftover tea, HR books, Books about leadership and building community, "Charlie the camel," Cards from friends, Pictures. Six years into boxes. It's heavy.