I haven’t left the house by car in more than a week. My only forays have been on foot. This has not been a bad thing. I’ve made soup, baked rolls, shoveled snow, read books, talked on the phone, hauled wood, watched movies, fed the birds and consumed an entire bottle of champagne (which is a lot for me). Most importantly, I’ve started this blog, which I might never have done had I not been handed this windfall of time.

Staying put has made me think about restlessness, what drives us to be out and on the go. It’s often a sense that something more important is happening elsewhere. When I lived in New York, I felt like there was a little battery inside me that never wore down. I had to be out walking, meeting friends for dinner or drinks, running down the broad streets of Tribeca (sadly, one of my running destinations was the World Trade Center). God, I loved New York, but if I had stayed there I think I would have burnt out at an early age.

This is not a vote of confidence in the suburbs, by the way. But it is a paen to staying put. I wouldn’t want to live behind a wall of white, but a few days here has slowed us down, has showed us what’s essential.