Heart So Full
I am sleeping on a hill in Dolores Park. The wind rolls over me like bay waves. It tussles my hair like an aunt. Head buried under sweatered arms (afraid to burn so easy), I ease my face into the earth and breathe; sweet grass, budding clovers, dirt. I feel so grateful to be here—to be alive. The first week in San Francisco has been a blink, each eyelash interlocking a fleeting moment.
I am in love with this overwhelming weight of joy and gratitude. When you’re living with thirteen different people and tasked to document so much of your day, it can be easy to lose yourself and forget your body / your mind / your soul in it all. So, I remind myself: feel that heart so full.
I catch myself recognizing it in the smallest things. In the shower each morning / pouring maple syrup into my coffee (a Stevie signature) / each moment a film brings me to tears / or someone incredible says something profound in an interview / the views of the city from Uber passenger side windows / stitched into Makayla’s vintage vest / paying for Audra’s strawberry lemonade cupcake / overhearing Kallie’s lovely shower singing voice / each turtle I find swimming in the Palace of Fine Arts lagoon / every bird that calls Alcatraz Island home / the cohort’s collective belly-laughs / morning meeting debriefs / post-meeting fit checks / the first bite of a honey crisp apple at breakfast. Heart so full.
I feel bodied with emotion—vivid. So bright in fact it brings tears to my eyes on the regular. On the opening night of Frameline as Jimpa’s introductory speeches rolled on, I scrawled a line into my notebook hastily as to not forget the idea: “This is what it must feel like to go to church for my religious family members.” I have never been compelled by any particular faith, but yearned for the feeling those spiritual believers get in the temples and chapels. I have wanted to understand how a sermon could move someone / how a hymn could bear tears / how it really feels to pray. I think these theaters are my temples, the films are my scripture, the words from directors and cast my sermons. With so much fear / danger / pain / destruction happening around us constantly, I feel so privileged to be able to feel comforted / inspired / emboldened by these stories and experiences. I love this feeling, and I cannot keep it to myself. I want to pack it into my suitcase and bring it home to share with everyone. I suppose that’s the whole point of this; I’ve been worried about not doing the immersion right, but I think I’m getting the hang of it in my own personal way. I am learning how to immerse.
Words rattle around my chest in the starkest way; so hot it’s cold, like a bathtub running too high. After spending winter and spring months shrouded in permafrost, how I revel in the summer melting. Even the exhaustion, the overwhelm, the sweat feels welcome because it means movement; body walking steeply uphill, red-faced and panting—filled to the brim with passion.
Dear reader, I do not know any clearer way to sum it up. I can see it in the photos and videos I take, I wonder if you can too. This energy / aura / re-ignition does not look nor feel invisible to me. One gigabyte of storage on the SD card of my “ancient” early 2000’s digital camera; what a shoebox to attempt to cram a city into. I think every time I look through the lens, I capture the colors that envelop me / the joy that fills my lungs. I don’t remember the last time I was able to smile so effortlessly. Too long. Even the films I hate, the overexposed photos, the peeling sunburn on the button nose, reminds me where my body / my mind / my soul is.
Afterthought: It is ten forty-five on a Sunday, I am the only one around. Plain bagel and cold brew with maple syrup. The back patio of the condo is walled off with succulents and plants I wish came naturally to Wisconsin soil. As I write, a hummingbird beats inches from my head, enthralled in the sweet nectar of blooming flowers. I feel so lucky to be here—to be alive.
