How Is Your Heart?
A string of moments from this past month, loosely tied together.
One night, I go out dancing with friends. I meet a boy on the dance floor. We kiss as we dance, and my neck hurts from how tall he was. Over pizza later that night, he asks what I am doing that weekend. I tell him my plans, and he invites me to go to a house out of state with fifty of his friends for the weekend.
I tell him not to invite me unless he is serious, because I love a spontaneous trip and I would actually go.
The next morning, I meet him there. When I arrive, and everyone hears the story of how we only just met on the dance floor the night before and I know no one else there, they say, “You’re so brave.” You’re so brave. You’re so brave.
The next morning, he leaves before I wake up and texts me he had to “follow his gut.” I try to figure out what to do, and go for a walk with his friend while we smoke a joint. We keep walking until we come upon a small goat shed. There are two goats inside, and the one in the back is standing on top of a mattress, staring right ahead at me. There is a suitcase beside him.
I watch a women read her poem in front of a group of people at an apartment in Greenpoint, while an Italian man plays guitar next to her. The poem is about loving the in-between. To appreciate those transient, hard moments, even when you’re in them. I think about my heart, and wonder if this is an in-between moment.
I keep having a string of nightmares. I tell my friend Chloe about them, and she informs me that we are currently in Kislev, the Hebrew month of dreams. We talk about having a dream-interpretation themed party where everyone acts out their dreams.
I used to have anxiety dreams about carrying multiple bags with me everywhere, so I got an apartment so I could stop living out of a bag. But now I just have anxiety dreams about other things.
I have dreams where I see friends that I no longer talk to. I have a dream that I am seeing one of my eye surgeons, but his office is at a bowling alley. It is him, but he is much younger and shirtless in a loose robe. He seemed relaxed, happy. He refers me to another specialist.
“How is your heart feeling right now?” a friend asks me.
We’re in a dumpling restaurant and I’ve just sat down. I’m surprised by the question. But I respect the blunt vulnerability, so I try to return it.
“It’s feeling… downtrodden,” I tell her. It feels wary and hesitant, and tired. She nods and we continue eating our dumplings.
You’re so brave, you’re so brave, you’re so brave.
I sit on the floor of a hotel room in Nevada talking to a man named Sam, who is wearing a fringed cowboy hat. We talked about my continual search for a more permanent home. He tells me how he thinks every city asks you a different question. New York, for example, asks you, how much money do you have? Maybe I should pick where I want to live based on the question I want it to ask me.
I go on a first date to a wine bar. When he sits down, I notice he is carrying a copy of 100 Years of Solitude. I tell him that is one of my favorite books.
“I always think about that moment where one of the characters eats dirt because she wants to feel closer to the earth. Or maybe it was part of a dream. Have you gotten to that part yet?” I ask him.
“I actually just read it today,” he says.
“Oh, great! Do you remember what the context was? I can’t even remember anymore.”
He shrugs.
“I think she just wants to eat dirt.”
I am wearing a rat mask, and turn to a friend next to me, wearing an identical mask. “It always feels like Halloween,” I say. It is mid November. She shrugs.
“It kind of is always Halloween for us.”
Later that night, he sends me the excerpt of the part of the book I had mentioned on our date:
“She went back to eating earth. The first time she did it almost out of curiosity, sure that the bad taste would be the best cure for the temptation. And, in fact, she could not bear the earth in her mouth. But she persevered, overcome by the growing anxiety, and little by little she was getting back her ancestral appetite, the taste of primary minerals, the unbridled satisfaction of what was the original food.”
It is pouring rain outside, and I’m holding my best friend’s hand as she’s driving. In front of us, the car’s license plate just reads: “Beloved.”
The “beloved” moment sent me 🥲