In mid-March 2020, our world shrunk.

Like many Americans, my husband and I retreated inside to wait out the dreaded coronavirus.

Gone were our favorite weekly pleasure rituals. No more omelets at our favorite diner. No more local improv shows. Jazzercise. Free samples at Trader Joe’s and Costco. No more brunch with friends or hikes in the Georgia mountains.

Not for the foreseeable future.  “Maybe through June!”  we thought. Naively.

These rituals were more than weekly treats. They distinguished our workdays from weekends. They signaled for us to pause, unwind, enjoy the now. And they gave us a sense of time.

Without them, our days felt like a real-life version of Ground Hog’s Day. Like TV weatherman Phil Connors reliving the same winter day over and over again, we felt despondent, claustrophobic, and stuck.

The only break in the monotony was a week run to the grocery store, followed by 90 minutes of wiping down groceries and sanitizing countertops.

We wanted our life back.

And so it went for several weeks. Until…

An unexpected break in the monotony that was breaking us.

It started with our cat Joey. From my office, I heard his unique, strangled yowl in the dining room. He frantically clawed at the window and tried to climb the glass.

When I went to investigate, a reddish-brown bird flashed out of the holly bush outside the window.

And there, nestled in the jaggy leaves, was a perfect nest with two light-colored eggs.

Mama cardinal’s quick exit indicated she wasn’t thrilled with the black feline fireball body-slamming the window just an arm’s length from her new home.   For her sanity and the cat’s safety, we taped newspaper over the bottom of the window. He soon drifted away to watch the oblivious chipmunks in the backyard.

And from the upper windowpane, we watched new life slowly unfold.

Just like that, something mattered to me again.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - -- Emily Dickenson

I had something to worry about!

I fretted when the mother was gone for hours. Was she hit by a car?

I fretted when the father cardinal didn’t show up to help feed the hatchlings. Was he an absentee father? Did the neighborhood cat get him?

Why did the eggs hatch so soon? It isn’t even eight days.

Are the babies moving?

There’s an early spring tornado watch. Should I do something to protect the nest?

I fluctuated between angst and amusement at my own distrust of the evolutionary expertise of these beautiful creatures.

But one thing was clear: life was happening again.

Or rather, life never really stopped. I just stopped paying attention.

The coronavirus made me too absorbed in missing what I used to do and mourning all the forfeited future events. I was spending way too much time in my own imagination.

The little cardinal family brought me back to the now.

Of course, it came to an end. The babies seemed to get bigger daily. And one day, before I knew it, I looked out and the nest was empty.

No ceremonial first flight. No good-bye to their doting human godparents. Just gone in the wee hours while we were sleeping.

The perfect nest stayed put, but the parents obviously vacated it, moving on to start a second family.

But they taught me a lesson.

My life didn’t go anywhere. It was right here, where it always is.

I just needed to remember to visit it once in a while.

So I made a list of things that brought me back to the now.

Like the owls that call at dusk on the walk from my house to the community lake.

There are the friendly Muscovies at the lake, parading their flocks of ducklings, hoping for handouts from the humans. (PSA: Don’t feed wild ducks! Resist their charm.)

Azaleas in the spring. Day lilies in the summer. Fiery maples in the fall. The camellias that surprise me every single January.

There’s my first sip of coffee. A cat purring in my lap. The smell of burning wood wafting out of the neighbor’s chimney when I retrieve the morning paper. The afternoon sun on my face when I get the mail.

Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you. - Anne Lamott

I know this advice sounds trite.  And maybe it is. Annoying self-help gurus and books are always telling us to “Stop and smell the roses.”

But answer me this: Have you ever tried it?

Why not use your confinement to slip in a little practice of this ancient wisdom.

In fact, think of it as a scavenger hunt. Write out a list of sensory pleasures. What do you like to see, hear, smell, taste, and feel?

Put the list on your refrigerator. Every evening, place a check or a star or a happy face beside any pleasures you stumbled on throughout the day.

Before you know it, you’ll be noticing more good moments. Then you’ll start seeking them out. You’ll find new ones. (Add them to the list!)

Pretty soon, you may even realize how good life can be.

Even if you’re stuck in confinement, isolated from family. Or confined to your town or home because a loved one’s health requires your presence.

No matter how stuck you are, life is still here.

You just have to remember to visit it once in a while.

So make your list. And every time you find yourself regretting your lost past or a long-haul of a future, take a look at it.

What one thing can help you visit the now?

Do that.

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