A LETTER FROM LIZ O'CARROLL, QUARANTINED IN CENTRAL OREGON DURING THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC
Inspired by Nick Farriella’s F. Scott Fitzgerald quarantine letter that has been floating around the internet in the past few weeks, my sister wrote a quarantine letter of her own from her little boat in a sleepy marina in a tiny village in Nicaragua. She’s asking friends and loved ones around the world to do the same. I think it’s a wonderful way to return to the power of simple letters strung together with simple words to connect us all in these complicated times. My contribution is below.
Dear Audrey -
I'm writing to you from my quiet office in my quiet house on our quiet street in our quiet town. The only sound that fills the house these days is a chorus of voices - some projected from weekly zoom calls with my Boston, CT and Bend girls, the many cartoon like ones I use to express what Henry must be thinking, and of course Kevin's booming one (usually on conference calls or shouting at puppy races on tv). I am more grateful than ever for the sound of my people's voices, their pixilated smiling faces, and for the little moments of laughter and intimacy that Kevin and I share in these unsettling times. They remind me what life is truly about anyway.
I have to admit we miss social interaction, I'm disappointed about my Bend business momentum grinding to a halt, and we're a little sad our first spring and summer here will be shaped by the stay-at-home restrictions in place, but I know I can't complain. Though this transition looks nothing like we expected it to, we're more fortunate than most. We have a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food on the table, each other's love, wonderful people in our lives, and Kevin thankfully has a stable job that will keep us financially secure despite the crumbling economy. We also don't have the pregnancy, health issues, nearing retirement, little ones, international sailing plans or any of the other challenges that many of our friends and family are having to contend with. Kevin says I'm "bright-siding" more than ever, but what choice do we have when this will likely last much longer than any of us could have imagined?
I'm trying to keep my days as normal as possible to support my mental and physical health throughout all this. I know if I stay healthy I will be able to cope with anything that comes my way more effectively and still be able to show up for my people. I feel the latter is more important than ever, since so many people I love are struggling right now. I hate not being able to hug them, to hug you, to hold your little hand. I miss you more than I care to think about. Too sad.
I walk with Henry in the mornings as I always have. Our walks are now graced with little signs of spring that remind me of why we moved out of the city and to a place with seasons. Tiny baby tulips pushing through frost-bitten ground, butterflies dancing through pine-scented air that's thick with birdsong, funny fat little gophers having a blast destroying the golf course we sneak onto when it's quiet. I return home to meditate and journal in my happy spot near a big window that looks out onto the bird feeder Dad gave us. It's like a little zoo out there thanks to that feeder. We have an albino ground squirrel named Otis, a few tiny chipmunks (yet to be named) and a big fat grey squirrel named Rude that visits daily. They pick over the discarded seeds left behind by the two fat speckled woodpeckers, a pair of blue-grey doves and endless finches with proud, vibrant, red and orange colored chests.
I'm doing as much work as I can with corporate clients and community work on pause; trying to find a way to support people in these unprecedented times. It's difficult to know how to do that when everyone's experience is so unique, and the way we cope as humans is so varied. So I do what I know how to do, I write, research, read, share, coach a little, and in between, make nourishing meals for Kevin and I. I try to take evening walks before or after my video calls with my girls because I find the more time I spend outside the less I feel restricted. I come home with windburned cheeks to cook with Kevin while we listen to old records. We play games or watch British television together to fill evenings formerly filled with quaint Bend concerts, trying new restaurants, networking or girls’ nights for me or bingo nights with friends. I do have to say the absence of sports on tv has been good for our marriage:)
Our weekends have been spent exploring Central Oregon and the endless trails, mountains, parks and rivers that are sewn together like a beautiful patchwork quilt. We feel so much more expansive and free after a day of exploring, and if we avoid the news or social media on those days it almost feels as if things are normal. I think of Mom often when we visit places like The Painted Hills or a snowy wood that looks like a fairytale come to life. She would love to paint the wild and diverse scenery here. We had planned to fly her out around the time of her birthday, but it's unlikely that will happen now.
We're hunkered down for the foreseeable future, with plans for a spring trip to NYC and Hawaii cancelled. We're praying they don't ban hiking and walking on trails, as that seems to be a big part of what's keeping our heads in the right place right now. I wish we knew how long this would last so we could start planning your trip here. We know the two of you would love it so much. The darling, safe, happy community feeling of downtown would make you feel right at home, and the river, fishing, camping and endless opportunity for exploring would make G feel right at home. Summer and fall are wonderful here, let's hope there's still hope that we can see your faces here before next winter comes.
I love you and think of both of you on that little boat in Nicaragua many times a day. I try not to worry, but you're my Sweet Baby Ginger and you're oh so far away. I'm grateful for your resourceful renaissance man of a husband because I know together you can make anything work. You're both brave and bright and bold and I have so much faith in you. But I still want you to come home. Now please?
Love you,
Lizzie