I am currently wrapped up in my fluffy, white, down comforter, a warm cloud of soft protection. I hear my fourteen year old son reading a Magic Tree House book about the Titanic in the next room. He is reading to the seven year old who is uncharacteristically quiet. I see the stack of work items sitting beside me on the bed. Something about their neat, but also slightly off-kilter, pile feels comforting to me. I work from my bedroom most of the time, now, locking the door and turning on the air filter as white noise when I’m in virtual sessions with clients. Today is Saturday, so the…