On a recent road trip, my little girls and I discovered the perfect bubble wands: over a foot long, their bubble-blowing ends shaped like giant purple flowers. When we tried them out at the gift shop by the beach, waving them lazily in the air around our bodies, we thought they made the most wonderful, hugest bubbles ever. Viscous rainbows on a mission, floating past the heads of passersby, rising up into the humid sky like silent, untethered balloons: they were beautiful.
After we got home I searched our cabinets, rounding up forgotten bottles of bubble soap for us to pour together into the bin where we would dip our wands. When the girls saw that most of these bottles came with their own little wands, they had to try them out. They breathed in, pursed their lips, and blew out medium bubbles, and tinier ones, and minuscule ones that darted around our kitchen happily like sunbeams.
When I took the wands and started to blow, the girls danced and sang and popped and giggled in the shower of bubbles I created. For a while time stopped, like a bubble frozen in flight, and we just were, in that place at that time–anyplace, anytime–until the moment popped (because that’s what happens with bubbles) and we came back into our lives. Only this time a little different, somehow seeing things with newer eyes.
Some people meditate on their breath, or on a mantra, or a flickering candle flame. I dream of meditating on bubbles.
Feel it: uncomfortable and questions and worries and doubt. Fear. Breathe in… Now blow! See the fear dance away, transformed: circles and circles of rainbows, floating worlds, possibility, hope, laughter, lightness. Magic.
Right. I’d forgotten about bubbles.
I’m glad I remembered.
© Jaime Greenberg and discovered in play, 2011