As the year is coming to a close, can\u2019t help but go back to 2020, the beginning of the virus that left a\u00a0permanent mark on all of our lives. We will never be the same in the way that\u00a09\/11 and for us older folks, the assassination of JFK, is etched into our\u00a0psyches. We remember where we were, who we were with and how we felt when these\u00a0landmark experiences occurred. The phases of our lives are divided into \u201cbefore\u00a0and after\u201d \u2013 from a time when we had never imagined these events could happen until
a time when we will never forget them.<\/p>\n
On February 11th, 2020, the World Health Organization announced the emergence of a pandemic called the Coronavirus or \u201cCovid\u201d as we\u2019ve come to call it. Like a familiar nickname. We learned about social distancing and we were told to \u201cshelter in place\u201d for the next two to three weeks. That sounded like a very long time. It\u2019s a good thing we didn’t know it would last for years, that wearing a mask would become as normal as putting on our shoes.<\/p>\n
As weeks turned into months, single\u00a0people felt staggering loneliness. People in relationships felt smothered and
hid in closets to get some alone time. We were filled with fear and hopefulness\u00a0that a vaccine was coming. Was it too soon? Was it taking too long? Was it\u00a0dangerous? Would it keep us safe? We pondered these things as we stayed\u00a0indoors, fashioned new routines for our lives and searched for activities that\u00a0made us feel comforted and connected in a disconnected and uncertain world.<\/p>\n
I remember wandering from room to\u00a0room in my house, organizing and clearing out piles of unconsciousness. An\u00a0object like a pair of pink pointe shoes or a random thought about following my
ballet dreams, triggered unexpected memories. I gazed at a selfie I took the\u00a0first time I wore my armor to the grocery store. My face is covered with a\u00a0painter\u2019s mask with a silver nose clip \u2013 it’s all I had at the time \u2013 and I have on a pair of blue latex gloves. There are wispy clouds overhead and the\u00a0sun is lighting up the right side of my hair. My eyes look a little wild and\u00a0I\u2019m waving at the camera.<\/p>\n
As I kept noticing things I had\u00a0forgotten about and had become oblivious to, I began to recognize patterns in\u00a0my life: what had magnetized me, what had repelled me, what had formed me, and
what did I want for the time I have left. When I think back, I\u2019ve lived a full\u00a0life and while I\u2019m proud of my victories like being accepted into a
professional ballet company when I was sixteen and living in Monte Carlo for a\u00a0year, I\u2019m still trying to forgive myself for my bad relationship choices. For\u00a0not thinking before I acted and randomly filling in the space in my life because\u00a0I was afraid to be alone. I should have\u00a0known better, I tell myself. I should\u00a0have chosen differently. Has my disregard for my well being damaged me
permanently?<\/p>\n
I was moved to sit down at the\u00a0computer and see what came out. For me, there is no better pastime than\u00a0writing, something I\u2019ve been doing daily for so long, it\u2019s become second\u00a0nature. It helps me feel \u201cnormal\u201d and it calms my nerves. It\u2019s my form of meditation.\u00a0I rarely sit, close my eyes and try to follow my breath. Writing gives me the
same rewards as a sitting meditation. It allows me to lose time and exercise\u00a0the part of my brain that supports my well being, encourages my creativity and\u00a0transforms my loneliness into connection.<\/p>\n
When I began to write my stories, I\u00a0couldn\u2019t imagine what was in my future but I could see how my past experiences\u00a0were all connected. I dug deep to find hidden memories, some that made me happy\u00a0and accomplished and others that revealed my dread and my regrets. After I\u2019d\u00a0finished seven or eight pieces in no discernable order, I sat back. What was I\u00a0writing? It didn’t look like anything I’d done in the past so I began calling\u00a0it my \u201cun-book.\u201d What would I call this collection of stories? Were they revelations\u00a0that made up the foundation of my life? Where they reflections? Memoirs? None
of these labels sounded right until the word \u201chauntings\u201d came to mind \u2013\u00a0splintered, loosely connected memories that never leave my psyche completely.\u00a0They appear and disappear, fragments of my life and loves, of my wins and\u00a0disappointments that will remain with me until I leave this world for whatever\u00a0comes next.<\/p>\n
Now, it\u2019s almost 2024 and I\u2019ve come
to call my writings:<\/p>\n
\u201cHauntings in the Time of Covid.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I read them over, I can see\u00a0the value in exposing the hidden gems that make up a life. Whether we are\u00a0artists, writers, dancers, musicians, business people, volunteers, homemakers\u00a0or family members, our offerings of what we went through during Covid, of setting\u00a0it in stone for all to see, will show us who we are and offer the next\u00a0generation a new way of viewing humanity. As I capture the details from my\u00a0past, viewed through the veil of a lengthy pandemic, I see my stories as\u00a0nuggets of consciousness that still tap me on the shoulder and whisper,\u00a0\u201cRemember me.\u201d That\u2019s what I\u2019m doing. I\u2019m remembering the people and events\u00a0that have created the underpinnings of a human life. My life.<\/p>\n
What we forget, we repeat. What we\u00a0remember, we heal.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
As the year is coming to a close, can\u2019t help but go back to 2020, the beginning of the virus that left a\u00a0permanent mark on all of our lives. We will never be the same in the way that\u00a09\/11 and for us older folks, the assassination of JFK, is etched into our\u00a0psyches. We remember where […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":2425,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2426","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2426","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2426"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2426\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2427,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2426\/revisions\/2427"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2425"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2426"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2426"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2426"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}