The song playing in my head this morning was To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun that slowly transformed into her cover of Big in Japan. Those are the two only Ane Brun’s songs that I know and I love them dearly.

I was getting ready to go to the office after two weeks of not leaving my little suburb and having minimal interaction with my colleagues or anyone in the outside world for that matter. It felt as if the weeks of summer, of daily walks and swimming in the pool and limiting work to the work hours have washed off all my acquired reflexes. The ritual of dressing up, putting on make-up, checking in the mirror whether the combination of flowered pants, a light green t-shirt and a jacket in a different shade of green was presentable enough to be considered professional – all of it felt bewildering. Felt like I was putting on a mask, a camouflage, someone else’s skin. I have never experienced the constant dissonance between who I believe to be and who I present to the outside world in such a strong somatic way.

The six hours in the office were the most unproductive of my day. I typed, I gossiped, I argued, I chatted about things I deeply don’t care about, I was constantly hungry (I am always hungry in the office) and uncomfortable, I shopped and drank too many too expensive caffeinated drinks. I left the office with the sense of finally getting set free. I came home tired, but relieved to see my children. I went for a forty minute walk towards the forest and then finally I felt at peace. I don’t know how to tell anyone any of this without sounding whiny, too privileged or simply pretentious. But the truth is, when I am at home, even when I am angry or upset or worried, I feel whole and myself. It’s when I am at work, not just at work, but at the office, physically, is where I feel the furthest from my authentic self. It may be the result of repeated traumas experienced in the workplace, it may be the fact that authenticity is punished in most corporate environments. It may simply be the fact that human beings cannot be happy or productive whilst surrounded by gray carpets, concrete walls, dirty windows, parking lots and dying baby trees in their asphalt prisons.

Maya said that space was my medicine. And space is such a wholesome, multifaceted experience: the cool air on my naked legs and arms, the sensation of moving, the complex soundscape blending the chirps of tree-frogs, the cries of distant crows and a mallard, the triumphant trills of cardinals, the sounds of feet and bicycle tires on gravelled walking paths. The familiarity as one often-walked path crosses another then opens into a sidewalk that in its turn leads to this one particular spot from which one can see the sunset over a water reservoir. The joy from seeing someone who is watching the sunset on that very spot. Which reinforces my belief that humanity will continue as long as some of us keep the ritual of watching the sun set somewhere over the water.