Today is the last day of my job, and everything seems like it went sideways in a big damn hurry. This was the plan:

Finish work today.
Spend the weekend with my family, including going to the dojo's anniversary potluck.
Iron five collared shirts and a pair or two of khakis early Sunday.
Drive up to northwest Arkansas for a week on-site at my new job.
Drive home that Friday, do laundry and pack again.
Take a chartered bus with our church's youth group to Disney World.
Pretend to fly the dang Millennium Falcon.

All of those things are either canceled or altered. To wit:

Still finishing work today. They were going to have a cookie party. Canceled.
Still spending the weekend with my family and probably going to the dojo, but it isn't a potluck.
No need to iron anything, because
My on-site at the new job is canceled.
I'll already be home, and no need to pack because
Disney World is closed.
Instead I'll walk around the house saying "You came in that thing? You're braver than I thought."

A bunch of disappointments. My trip to NWA potentially would have involved reconnecting with a friend, and I was really eager to meet my team and get my shiny new development MacBook. And then there's the big stuff. My wife's father is nearing the end of his life, and my own father is healthy but has a compromised immune system. Our kids are of course our kids.

Those are real dangers, and I'm worried about them. But I'm surprised to find that I'm actually fairly chill and here for it all. I'm curious about what's going to happen next. I'm looking for places to be of use. I'm okay with the uncertainty instead of pointedly not grumbling about expectations. That's relatively new for me.

There are creature comforts to look forward to, which helps. New eyeglasses are coming next week, as well as a new pillow. I'm drawing a weird amount of comfort from the backpacking water filtration system that should come today, though this whole thing hardly feels like Fury Road. I'm feeling REALLY smug about the bidet seat I put on the downstairs toilet, a purchase for which I was roundly mocked. And there will be many opportunities to read, to write, to sit and think and maybe sleep in a hammock.

Everything's happening so quickly. Even without a crisis, spring in the southern US doesn't seem to last a month. You reach out and let it brush over your fingertips as it rushes by. You welcome the frogs but not the mosquitoes, the rain but not the funnel clouds. Then you sneeze and it's summer, which is six months of compromises. And who knows how many will have their lives upended (or just plain ended) along the way. In the same breath, I'm eager to see it all and worried for those who will suffer.

I learned last night that a member of my very, very large recovery group has tested positive. I hope he's okay and hasn't infected anyone. I missed the Wednesday night men's meeting and may skip my customary Saturday morning one. I can go two weeks without a meeting before I'm climbing the walls. But I wonder how many people will need a meeting and not go.

I have a friend there named Curtis. One of his oft-used prayers is "Thank you again, you motherfucker, for yet another opportunity to practice patience, tolerance and acceptance." It's a good prayer, and appropriate, but today I'm going to try to keep the focus on what I can do rather than what's being done to me. I like this one:

May I be a guard for those who need protection,
A guide for those on the path,
A boat, a raft, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood.
May I be a lamp in the darkness,
A resting place for the weary,
A healing medicine for all who are sick
A vase of plenty, a tree of miracles.
And for the boundless multitudes of living beings
May I bring sustenance and awakening,
Enduring like the earth and sky
Until all beings are freed from sorrow
And all are awakened.

—Shantideva