The perfume of a rosebush hit me with a wallop this morning.

During this moment of the Great Pause, as everything has slowed, I’m starting to notice all kinds of new things. It’s so quiet, with few cars on the roads and planes in the sky, no gas powered leaf blowers or construction clamor, and people mostly at home. There’s space for subtlety, now.

It’s like how a spotlight only seems to catch the glitter of dust in its beam when there’s nothing else to see on the stage.

We have made room for songbirds, which woke me this morning just before 6 a.m., and the geese that honked through the skies of my neighborhood again today. The olive tree in the yard behind my apartment now hosts a daily parade of little red finches and a vibrant green budgie, while hummingbirds buzz the flowerpots.

I chose a different walking route this morning, heading south into a new area. I paused to watch a hale senior wearing an old 10K tee-shirt run the quarter mile of the empty beach parking lot length-to-length. The sound of his breath was strong and even, his footfalls steady, until he looped around a light post at the end where he rose onto his toes and shortened his stride to a patter.

At the foot of the stairs to my apartment, the Jasmine is starting to flower. A sweet honeysuckle climbs a chain-link fence on the alley near my parking spot. There are roses everywhere. Some secrete a lurid, oversweet aroma, while others reluctantly offer their sweet whisper of citrus only when you push your face in close.

As the news reports start talking about whether the USA might be arriving at its peak, at 558K total cases and 22K deaths, and policy makers begin to explore what opening back up might look like, I’m beginning to think about how I will be changed by this experience.

One thing is for sure: even when we hit “play” on the word and the grind resumes I will continue to notice. And to smell the roses.