The Art of Bubble “Shimmering” and How it Might just Save the World
I had made them a scavenger hunt, complete with clues and a decoder. The decoder, unfortunately, was not quite as clever as I thought it was. One of the circles was missing letters, which made the whole thing a little less useful than advertised.
And then there were my brainteasers.
I had worked pretty hard on those too. At least I thought I had.
The girls would read one, look at each other, give that little nine-year-old smile that is almost kind, and gently roll their eyes.
Papa, apparently, had wandered into the land of corny.
They were gracious with me.
That may have been the first gift of the afternoon.
Later, we went outside to make giant bubbles.
These are not the little bubbles that come out of a plastic bottle with a tiny wand. These are enormous bubbles, the kind that wobble in the air and catch the whole afternoon inside them.
I like making the big ones. Emerson usually likes popping them. There is something wonderful about getting one just right and watching it rise above the yard, stretching itself into strange shapes.
Mae had another way. Instead of trying to make one enormous bubble, she twirled the wand around her like a giant sparkler, sending streams of bubbles everywhere.
For a while we were all doing our own version of the same thing.
Then Emerson stopped popping them.
She started trying to keep them alive.
She would put her hands underneath a bubble and move with it, almost carrying it without touching it. We started calling this “shimmering.” Then she discovered she could blow gently from underneath.
The bubbles changed shape.
They lifted.
They trembled.
And then something happened none of us expected.
Emerson blew beneath one of the large bubbles, and somehow a smaller bubble appeared inside it.
Not attached to it.
Inside it.
Floating freely.
We all stopped.
Then she did it again.
Soon there were two little bubbles floating inside a larger one. Then three.
We were delighted.
I would lift the big bubble high enough for Emerson to get underneath it. She would blow. Mae would watch and oo the whole process on. She would shout when another bubble appeared inside the first one.
For a while, that was the whole world.
The afternoon light was changing by then. Evening was coming on, and the bubbles caught the colors of it. Pink and blue and gold moved across their skins. Each one seemed to contain a little sky.
And of course every bubble eventually popped.
That was part of it too.
You would watch one float up and think, Stay. Stay a little longer.
And then—
gone.
But another one would rise.
I found myself thinking about time.
There is ordinary time, clock time—Chronos. Dinner is coming. The girls will get older. Friday will become Saturday. The afternoon will end.
But every once in a while another kind of time opens up.
Kairos.
A moment that somehow feels larger than the minutes it occupies.
That is what happened in the yard.
We were not trying to accomplish anything. We were simply making something together that was beautiful, fragile, and temporary.
And maybe that is why it felt so full.
I have been thinking lately about how much of life cannot be talked into being better. Fear cannot always be reasoned away. Anxiety does not always respond to explanation. Sometimes the body has to discover safety before the mind does.
A foot tapping.
People walking together.
People singing together.
Or three people in a backyard trying to keep a soap bubble in the air.
There was cooperation in it without anyone telling us to cooperate.
I thought, only half jokingly, that perhaps the United States Senate should try this.
Give them one enormous bubble.
Tell them they have only one job:
Keep it from touching the ground.
Someone would have to lift the wand.
Someone else would have to blow gently underneath.
Someone who usually talks would have to be quiet and watch.
Someone who usually wants control would discover that a bubble cannot be controlled.
You can only tend it.
Maybe that was the thing Emerson discovered yesterday.
At first she wanted to pop the bubbles.
Then she wanted to keep them alive.
And I wonder whether that is one of the movements of love.
From popping to shimmering.
From grasping to tending.
From asking, “How long can I keep this?” to simply standing underneath something beautiful and giving it a little breath.
Yesterday afternoon, for a few minutes, there were three small bubbles floating inside one larger bubble.
They did not last.
But they were there.
And I was there.
And Emerson was there.
And May was there.
And maybe this is why we tell stories.
Because sometimes writing is another way of standing underneath a moment and blowing gently.
Trying to keep it aloft just a little longer.
P.S. Spiritual practice discovered: blowing giant bubbles at sunset.
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