| Biographical Non-Fiction posted June 19, 2021 |
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Paradox of mourning: grieving both loss and resurrection
I thought I was over it, but ...
by Elizabeth Emerald
The reign of Corona is winding down. After fifteen months of mask mandates and social distancing, we in Massachusetts are free to mingle face to face. Pubs and clubs have reopened and outdoor events have resumed.
When the world stopped, in mid-March of last year, I commenced full-time residence in StoryLand.
Fortuitously, my daughter had just left her job (a week before Corona shut the place down), so I commandeered the laptop she had no need for and commenced to work, daily, well past midnight (by three hours).
Thoroughly engrossed in my work, despite intermittent pangs of nostalgia, I spent little time bemoaning the loss of life as I knew it. As time passed, my longing for Wednesday and Sunday dance nights and weekend road races dissipated.
Moreover, I was adamant that if the world ever got back to business as usual, I'd take a pass. Why chance to reboot the mourning process; inevitably, clubs will close for good at some point, regardless of whether there's a resurgence of Corona.
Three weeks ago, Wednesday DJ night was resurrected and my friends tell me almost all the regulars have returned.
I've been blindsided by an oxymoronic change of attitude.
That is, my enthrallment in StoryLand notwithstanding, I find myself yearning to rejoin the party.
It is ironic that circumstances have made it impracticable; as a non-driver, I'd be obliged to blow a hundred bucks on a taxi. My partner in dance (and otherwise) is hesitant to resume the commute after the extended hiatus, during which period he soberly reflected on the close calls he'd incurred whilst driving un-soberly.
The world has restarted without me; I grieve.
The reign of Corona is winding down. After fifteen months of mask mandates and social distancing, we in Massachusetts are free to mingle face to face. Pubs and clubs have reopened and outdoor events have resumed.
When the world stopped, in mid-March of last year, I commenced full-time residence in StoryLand.
Fortuitously, my daughter had just left her job (a week before Corona shut the place down), so I commandeered the laptop she had no need for and commenced to work, daily, well past midnight (by three hours).
Thoroughly engrossed in my work, despite intermittent pangs of nostalgia, I spent little time bemoaning the loss of life as I knew it. As time passed, my longing for Wednesday and Sunday dance nights and weekend road races dissipated.
Moreover, I was adamant that if the world ever got back to business as usual, I'd take a pass. Why chance to reboot the mourning process; inevitably, clubs will close for good at some point, regardless of whether there's a resurgence of Corona.
Three weeks ago, Wednesday DJ night was resurrected and my friends tell me almost all the regulars have returned.
I've been blindsided by an oxymoronic change of attitude.
That is, my enthrallment in StoryLand notwithstanding, I find myself yearning to rejoin the party.
It is ironic that circumstances have made it impracticable; as a non-driver, I'd be obliged to blow a hundred bucks on a taxi. My partner in dance (and otherwise) is hesitant to resume the commute after the extended hiatus, during which period he soberly reflected on the close calls he'd incurred whilst driving un-soberly.
The world has restarted without me; I grieve.
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