So Friday and Saturday happened, or I should say there was the job – and it wasn’t me writing books or talking about my books. Now, I have fought this term for most of my adult life. You see, I always – and I mean, always – opted for the words avocation, passion, career, you get the picture. Since my family was shackled with the belief that life was not complete until one had a “good job” and was “making a living,” I, without a doubt, took another direction. I wasn’t looking for a two-week vacation, sick-time, and the security of someone holding my life at the discretion of corporate profits. I was to make my own way, and with bumps, bruises, and some conflagration, here I am, with a job. I chuckle as I read because even as I have to clock in and make sure I adhere to schedules, my job is still not what most people have to endure. I have a set schedule but with lots and lots of flexibility; I have no need for a two-week vacation or sick-time package; I have a place I can be creative and use my instincts and career knowledge to make change, to make improvements after given a little guidance. My “job” as it were, is a passion. Yet, Friday and Saturday involved ramping up a dormant wine cellar with calls from salesman, calls from customers, and making sure the staff around me knew what was going on. For the first time in many years, I was multitasking and trying to remember how I kept track of entire state’s and region’s healthcare politics, policy, and regulations. Friday ended in a blur. I came home and sat with a glass of wine and caught my breath. This is far from someone’s life hanging in the balance and me on the clock 24/7, this was wine. This was an end to a day when the clock was punched. There was nothing hanging out there I had to worry about at three in the morning or getting emergency calls at five in the morning about some testimony that someone needs for a hearing at nine. After the wine, I cleaned the house and made dinner. I found myself really happy, but it wasn’t until Saturday that Christine was hearing for the umpteenth time about how much fun I was having when she looked at me and said, “You can be creative.” That’s it! My writing and books and lectures all went away in this virus riddled land, and as much as I painted, wrote, and gardened, the creativity was stifled. I was in a very cushy comfort zone of the mundane. But now, yes now, I can reorder, restock, and reconfigure doing something I only ever dreamed about: I have a wine cellar to experiment with. Best of all, I have the owners of that wine cellar on the same page of the playbook; however, all glory is fleeting, and I have reopened pages of the Tao to make sure I live as life hands me the fruit knowing it may end the next day, and I can feel good with the day before and the day after; to make sure at the end of every day, I can say, as I lay down to sleep, “This was the best day of my life.”