"My Bubbles!"

I practice blowing bubbles as a meditative act. I know it's a strange habit for an adult, but I love it. It allows me to connect with beautiful memories of childhood. It takes me back to getting gradually soaked in sticky bubble solution as I spun around with my wand arm out so that I was surrounded in floating rainbows. It reminds me of stealing pans and dish detergent from the kitchen and bending wire hangers into giant loops in hopes of making giant bubbles. There's an innocence and carelessness about it: you simply can't be too serious while blowing bubbles.

At the same time, it gives me an action and a focal point to keep my lower consciousness occupied so that my mind can focus on deeper things. In that way, it's a bit like a rosary. Moving the beads and saying the simple prayers of the rosary occupies one's motor functions and allows for praying about other things. For me, bubbles serve the same function. It keeps my hands busy and prevents me from seeking greater mental distractions. And bubbles can be a metaphor for almost anything, which gets me started on inner reflections.

I've tried for years to write poetry about bubbles because I love their beauty and simplicity. I love their connection to people's childhood memories. I don't know of anyone who dislikes bubbles or has bad associations with them. But I can never seem to capture that in a poem because it always seems cheesy. Even the metaphors that stir my mind sound schmaltzy when written down and don't express what I see. I suppose I should just leave it to meditation, since trying to grasp or capture bubbles almost never works.