My Pixar’s ‘Soul’ Moment
Matt and I watched Soul together, on the night of my 20th birthday. He very hesitantly spends long periods of time with me, (Matt and I have a very strange friendship dynamic), but I think he knew how existential I was feeling about turning 20, and decided to throw me a bone. I figured I would like Soul, as I typically enjoy Pixar films and animation in general, but nothing could have prepared me for the experience that was falling head-over-heels in love with this film. My birthday is on January 2nd, shortly after New Year’s, so I always feel a sense of renewal around that time, but watching Soul was, in itself, a second New Year’s for me. We started watching a little after 11 p.m., and around 1 a.m., the world was new again.
Turning 20 in the middle of a pandemic, with my future entirely up in the air, and the news reporting injustice after injustice every single day had left me feeling unenthused and skeptical of yet another year on earth. I couldn’t understand the point of planning and getting excited for my early twenties, in a time that could only result in more shittiness, given how 2020 went for everyone. Soul, therefore, came at the perfect time for me, reinvigorating my passion for life, and reminding me of everything I have to look forward to. It didn’t erase any of the horrible things that the world has to offer, but instead, shined a light on why turning 20 was something that I could be excited about.
There’s one scene in particular, in the film, that stuck out for me. When 22's character is experiencing life for the first time through Joe's body, there's a moment when she sits on the steps outside of the Half Note Jazz Club and looks up at the surrounding trees. The sun looks perfect, not too harsh or too bright, but that gentle, warm glow that feels good on your skin. It peeks through the branches and crisp fall leaves, casting these beautiful speckles across the sidewalk. The New York bustle softens in the midday calm and for a moment, all is quiet. 22’s world seems to stop as a single leaf flutters down from above and she reaches out, welcoming it as it floats down to her open hand. A look of amazement passes through 22 and over Joe’s face as this delicate, little leaf lands right in the palm of her hand. I love this scene for its pure and simple take on what makes life worth it; the small, untouched moments that only you can appreciate. Soul is about noticing those fleeting seconds of simplicity and beauty, to remind yourself of the joy that can be had in life and how you don’t need some grand gesture of “success” or achievement to feel it.
After gushing about how much I absolutely loved that moment in the film, Matt asked me what mine was. I panicked slightly. What was my personal ‘Soul’ moment? I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything, that I hadn’t appreciated my life enough to have a moment like that. But without even having to think, I heard myself start to tell him a story that I had forgotten I had:
It was September. I was 17 years old and dating the boy who would soon become the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I didn’t know it yet, but I didn’t love him. I was too young to recognize this, but within the next month, I would have my first encounter with a relationship that was too much, too fast, too soon. But this was before. Even then, I knew there was something wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but I forged on because he was the first boy who thought I was pretty. I was in my insufferable poetry phase and my favorite poet, Olivia Gatwood, was doing a show in San Francisco. It was perfect timing because I hated my hometown, was fighting with my mom, and could barely keep up with my first serious relationship. This was before I moved to New York, when cities were just a feverish pipedream that I poured all of my hopes for the future into. None of my friends liked poetry, but I knew that my mom would never let me go into San Francisco alone, so I lied and told her that Maegan was coming with me. It was my first sizeable lie to my mother about my whereabouts, but something inside of me told me that I had to experience this alone.
In the car, I excitedly whispered my plan in my boyfriend’s ear as my mom drove us to the station. He didn’t share my thrill, telling me that he was worried about me going into the city by myself. He sat with me on the train until it was his stop, but I remember feeling frustrated with his lack of enthusiasm for the adventure I was about to embark on. Couldn’t he see how important it was that I do this? Didn’t he understand that I needed to get away from it all? Of course, I was young and he was right to be worried, but to 17-year-old me, this trip was an absolute necessity to my wellbeing at that current moment. We reached his stop and I rode the rest of the way alone, texting him updates the entire time.
There was a moment when I got off of the train and rode the escalators up to street level; as I came up from the underground, it felt like my head was bursting out of the water. I didn’t realize that I had been submerged, but at that moment, I felt like I could breathe again. My first deep breath, filling up my lungs after who knows how long. There was a shift in gravity, a tilting of the San Francisco streets, that realigned everything that had been ‘off’ inside of me. I have always felt that I could breathe better in cities, and on that September evening, all of the things that were weighing me down - my boyfriend, my town, my life - lifted, instantaneously. I started walking with more bounce in my step, channeling the city girl that I always dreamed of being. Stark, bulky trees hung low above my head, dangling the prettiest red flowers that didn’t seem to belong on its branches. My eyes drank it all in, hungrily, because I didn’t want this feeling to wear off. My gaze drifted past the pretty, red flowers and found a bookstore across the street. I felt myself wanting to go in and it occurred to me that I could do whatever I felt like doing! I was alone, after all.
And so, I slipped into the bookstore, shyly, as if someone was going to ask me what I was doing there by myself. It was a cramped little shop, piled with books and containers full to the brim with old postcards. I picked through them and chose a few to bring home with me. I was thrilled; it was a peek into the life that I wanted to have and the person I wanted to be. Except, I was her. I was the kind of person that rides the train into the city alone, goes into new bookshops, and browses through their old postcards. At the register, the lady told me that if I wanted to pay with a card, I would have to reach the $5 minimum. She smiled and gestured at the containers, suggesting that I go through and pick one more postcard to complete my purchase. Not wanting to take too much of her time, I shoved my hand into the nearest box and pulled out the first postcard that touched my fingertips. I glanced down as I made my way back to the register, but something made me double-take: The postcard I grabbed had a simple, white background and a drawing of a pretty, red flower in the middle. I stopped for a moment, amazed at my luck and flooded with wonder. My eyes darted outside, through the big storefront window, and there, the stark, bulky trees with the pretty, red flowers seemed to wink at me.
“That’s my moment,” I told Matt.
We were both huddled in our beds, the light from our laptops illuminating our faces, and I saw that glimmer of astonishment in his eyes as I finished my story. We continued to exchange tales of our own ‘Soul’ moments, and I went to bed that night, spark reignited and grateful for the life I had lived until that point. And to think, I was so nervous that I wouldn’t have a story to tell, that I didn’t have any life-halting, beautiful moments to share. The best thing about this discovery was the one that followed, soon after; those stories, the ones you tell your friends in the middle of the night with your voice softened and guard down, they’re everywhere. They are endless. They happen every single day, right in front of your eyes, if you stop to notice them.
The other day, I dropped by Matt’s house. I told him what my article was about this month and he said I could borrow his copy of ‘The Art of Soul’ to help me write it. I waited while he rushed back inside to grab it, and in the lull, I glanced around and smiled. His neighborhood was quiet and peaceful and it was early enough that the air was still crisp. It was my favorite kind of weather, the kind that nips at your skin but doesn’t bite. I stood in his driveway, in the hometown that I used to hate but love now. My mom and I no longer fight, and the boy who ruined my life hasn’t been in it for a long time. I’m 20 years old and excited, rather than scared, of the unknowns that my future holds. And in the stillness, I could feel another ‘Soul’ moment coming on.
What’s yours?