\u201cTell me a story.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I was young, my father told me\u00a0stories before I went to sleep at night. He had a great imagination and he took\u00a0me on journeys to fantastic places with fascinating characters. When the lights\u00a0were out, I repeated the stories in my head and I made up my own. I continued\u00a0to do this throughout my life.<\/p>\n
I began to seriously work on my\u00a0memoir after my mother passed away. There were things I did and said that she\u00a0wouldn’t have liked or approved of and I didn\u2019t want to hurt her, so when she\u00a0was no longer here, I decided to tell the truth about my life. I had questions.
Had I done enough? Had I made too many mistakes? Had I met enough fascinating\u00a0people and been enough places to write something compelling that would capture\u00a0a reader\u2019s attention? As the highlights of my life flashed before me and I wrote\u00a0them down, the answer was an unequivocal \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I was in elementary school, I wrote\u00a0poetry. I never stopped writing and as I grew, I kept penning stories and poems\u00a0about the things I was going through. I took ten trips to the Philippines to research\u00a0the faith healers. I kept a journal and the stories that I wrote became my first\u00a0book, \u201cAwakening the Healer Within.\u201d I lived in Monte Carlo for a year when I\u00a0was in the ballet. I wrote about it. I learned French and I wrote a poem in French.\u00a0I was in Italy, dancing in the Spoleto Music Festival. I wrote about it. Doing this\u00a0made me feel less lonely, more connected and a path to lighten my heart.<\/p>\n
When I review these stories, I start\u00a0to remember things I had forgotten. Pieces about my travels, my loves, my\u00a0losses, my family challenges, my failures and my achievements. The more I read,\u00a0the easier it becomes to recall the wondrous, curious, funny and often tragic\u00a0events that define my life. I\u2019m often moved to tears by my courage and my\u00a0fears, sometimes proud of myself and at other times, ashamed. How could I have\u00a0been so wise? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so aware? How\u00a0could I have been so blind?\u201d<\/p>\n
My stories help me realized how I\u2019ve\u00a0been affected and transformed by everything and everyone that showed up in my life.\u00a0I get in touch with the lonely little ballet-obsessed girl who worked her butt\u00a0off and later, the grown woman maneuvering her way through a life of obstacles.\u00a0I recall times when I wondered if I should take the right path, the left path\u00a0or just stand still. But whether I\u2019m clear or confused, enthusiastic or\u00a0embittered, fearful or brave, anxious or paralyzed or parts of all of the\u00a0above, I\u2019m constantly astonished at what shows up:<\/p>\n
Figuring out how to raise myself\u00a0when I left home at 14. Performing at the White House. Standing out in the\u00a0street in D. C. to watch the procession for JFK when he was assassinated.\u00a0Jackie\u2019s veiled face. The horse with the stirrups facing backwards. World leaders.\u00a0The sound of the muffled drums.<\/p>\n
I remember seeing Salvador Dali\u00a0flying down a stairway in a flowing black cape and an ocelot on his shoulder.\u00a0Rudolph Nureyev walking across the beach in Monte Carlo in purple swimming\u00a0trunks and purple suspenders. Andy Warhol peeking through a crack in the studio\u00a0door to watch us rehearse. And then, there were the bleeding blisters, the\u00a0loneliness, strained muscles and the disappointment of losing a coveted part in\u00a0a ballet.<\/p>\n
When I wrote my memoir, I faced some\u00a0hard questions. Would I tell the truth about the things that shamed me or would\u00a0I leave them out? Would I write about my failure and risk being judged? Would I
talk about my successes or would that seem self-important? I finally decided to\u00a0tell it all with no filters. If I had gone through something, anything, other\u00a0people were going through it, too. I wasn\u2019t that special. I was a regular human\u00a0being and it was a relief to tell the truth.<\/p>\n
Painters paint. Dancers dance. Writers\u00a0write. Whatever form of creativity you do, I believe it’s an artist\u2019s responsibility\u00a0to expose the things that that people fear. To reveal themselves and become
vulnerable. To stop editing and start telling the truth. If you don\u2019t, you\u2019ll\u00a0be bored and your work will be dull. As long as you\u2019re honest on the page, the\u00a0canvas or the dance floor, your creation will be captivating. Just start\u00a0anywhere and let it flow. Celebrate yourself for the wonderful things that you\u00a0have achieved. Forgive yourself for things that you wish you hadn\u2019t done. Or\u00a0for things you wish you had done.<\/p>\n
Remembering and telling your\u00a0stories gives your life meaning. You don\u2019t have be a great writer. You don\u2019t\u00a0even have to be good at it. Writing isn\u2019t about being good or bad. It\u2019s about\u00a0being authentic. Your stories are the blue print of your experiences. I have told\u00a0my stories to process my life. To create connection to myself and the world\u00a0around me. I see it as a tool to understand what I\u2019ve done and why. I use my\u00a0stories to spark my memories. I keep in mind that what we forget, we repeat.\u00a0What we remember, we heal.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cTell me a story.\u201d When I was young, my father told me\u00a0stories before I went to sleep at night. He had a great imagination and he took\u00a0me on journeys to fantastic places with fascinating characters. When the lights\u00a0were out, I repeated the stories in my head and I made up my own. I continued\u00a0to do […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":2701,"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-2702","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\/2702","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=2702"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2702\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2703,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2702\/revisions\/2703"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2701"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2702"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2702"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2702"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}