Living a Cinematic Life

My husband and I have a little inside joke—at least, I think that’s the category it would fall into. 

Whenever we have experiences that give us a certain feeling, one that is larger than life, we refer to it as “cinematic.” Some experiences, people, and places are so unique or absurd or joy-bringing that we file them away into the cinematic category, and we refer back to them often with a warmth and clarity that few memories have. 

There is a hole-in-the-wall burger joint west of town that we frequent. It’s small—maybe five high-top tables plus the bar—and totally bizarre. In its past life, it was an Asian restaurant, and remnants of its former self are everywhere. The menu still has crab rangoons, and a gigantic gold lucky cat greets visitors on their way in. Every burger is served with fries and yum yum sauce.

Once, when we were sitting at one of the aforementioned high tops eating our burgers (cooked medium) and drinking our beers (brewed locally), a short Asian woman climbed up on the counter to erase the drink board and write up the weekly on-tap specials. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and the sight of her standing up there made me burst out laughing. 

Another example is our Wednesday night engagement that has come to be known as Liturgy and Lagers. 

Every Wednesday night, the historic Episcopal church downtown hosts a 30-minute prayer and holy eucharist service. It’s much different than the church I grew up in as well as the one I am now a member of, but something about reading along from the liturgy booklet in a beautiful sanctuary haunted with more than 100 years of history puts me in a worshipful headspace and brings peace to my heart. 

After the service, we usually head over to one of the breweries downtown with some friends and, occasionally, the priests. A few weeks ago, my husband and I enjoyed our lagers with the organmaster, who told us all about the parish’s plans for installing a new organ. The current one is old and has been struggling with the changes in weather—over the summer, one of her pipes (Yes, organs are female—like ships.) got stuck during the service and filled the sanctuary with an eerie whine for the rest of the service.

There are other cinematic moments—falling asleep on a picnic blanket in the backyard on a sunny afternoon; waking up at 3 a.m. to drive to the big airport in order to catch the first flight out; running into a friend while you’re out and about and spending the day together…

These little vignettes feel more real than most of life. Our brains flag them because they are unusual or interesting or joy-inducing. They are the things that make it into my writing, things that make it into stories I tell my friends and family.

The more of these cinematic moments I experience, the more of them I want to have. And I’ve realized that they are all around me—I just need to acknowledge them. The key, I think, is to be aware of the moment. 

How often am I distracted, voluntarily or involuntarily? 

As someone who has too often let anxiety run my life, I’m learning that life is much more beautiful when I’m living it rather than worrying about it. This is much easier said than done, and I’m not discounting my struggle with anxiety (or anyone else’s for that matter). But I think there is a level of learned worry that we can all learn to… well, unlearn. And there are definitely things we do that steal us away from the present moment—our phones, media, or even self-interest. 

The details are what make memories cinematic rather than filled with white noise. So much of our life is mundane—repetitive tasks. We learn to tune things out because they're boring or routine or unpleasant, but when doing that, we miss out on so much beauty life has to offer.