Whiplash

--Yesterday was a stranger day than usual at work.  I had to go to the Ft. Lauderdale campus for training on our online platform, even though I've taught with that platform before.  When I got there, a member of the Corporate team told me that every campus would close at 5 pm, and we wouldn't be allowed to return.  I sat there for the morning of the training trying not to throb with anxiety.

As the day progressed, the guidance about whether or not we would be vacating the campus changed.  This morning I'll go into the office, but there will be fewer people there.  Admissions is working remotely, and students are not allowed.

In my life in academia, it feels so strange to write "students are not allowed."  Similarly, last week, I wrote an e-mail that concluded this way:  

"Since we are almost done with these documents, S___ wanted us to finish those off so that we could send them to you today, in case we can’t get back to campus. I am not expecting a complete quarantine on Monday, but he’s less sure.

I am now going to take a moment to be astonished at that last sentence that I wrote. Never in all my apocalyptic visions of the future did I think that I would send a work e-mail that would talk about quarantine."

--I am taking the situation much more seriously than our U.S. president.  As I drove home yesterday, he was about to have a press conference to announce what sounds like a reversal of earlier policies which called for social distancing.  Of course, that decision may have changed again.

--No wonder I'm feeling a bit whiplashed.

--Last night, my spouse held a virtual Philosophy class during the time he would have been teaching, had the semester gone on as usual.  He told the class he would be available, if any of them wanted to talk in person using the virtual meeting technology.  He halfway expected that he'd be sitting alone, waiting to be needed.  But about 3/4 of the class showed up, and they talked for hours.

In a way, I was thrilled.  How wonderful that some students want to talk Philosophy.  But I had to keep remembering that he was on the clock; I kept quiet, of course, but as I got tired, I wasn't sure what to do.  Our bed is in view of his broadcasting area; if I went to bed, his students might wonder what was happening in the background.

We can fix this in the future by pinning a curtain to obscure the view of the bed.  But I didn't want to interrupt his class last night.

--Did I sketch last night?  No.  So I decided that I must sketch this morning.  I am part of an online journaling class that's exploring Cynthia Bourgeault's Mystical Hope.  I wanted to hear Pachelbel's Canon in D, the first piece of classical music that I really loved.  I found the first version of it that I loved, the one by George Winston.

--What moved my brain to John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery"?   I don't know, but I did a Google search: "make me an angel that flies from Montgomery." I wanted to see who had covered that John Prine song. I was not surprised by all the versions. I was surprised that this search would yield some porn. I suppose that every search does these days.

--I found a friend's Facebook response to her friend that said she would always be Gen X in her soul.  I made this comment:  "If I wrote songs, I'd write one called Gen X in your soul. It would be a wistful, John Prine kind of song, and it would make an oblique reference to angels that fly from Montgomery."

--I did find it soothing to take a break, to read something that wasn't disease related, to sketch.  Here's what I created this morning:

Here's the quote, in case you can't read it:  "Must we be whiplashed incessantly between joy and sorrow, expectation and disappointment?" (p. 2-3).  The book is a sustained answer to that question.