You often hear of people living in a bubble. Well the first thing that comes to mind is the infamous "Bubble Boy". Next I think of the old colloquialism of people living in their own bubble. Bubbles used to be such a joyous past time, the wonder, the awe, the amazing creation and completion, yet the fun never ended. I love watching my daughter marvel at the wonder that is bubbles, she so innocent, curious, amazed.
She is unaware of figurative bubbles, the bubbles that keep judgment away, that "protect" egos, that close people off, that keep folks "safe", that keep the denials alive, that lets those who need to hide.
In this train of thought, I have pondered my own bubble, a bubble I never wanted, one I wish I could pop. The bubble I live in is bullet proof because no one can penetrate the loss of a child. I have tried to break free, the chisel at my prison, yet everyday I find myself trapped in a bubble that consumed me when I lost my son.
Inside my bubble I am inundated with my own grief, no one else can penetrate it, in fact, they think that it is my choice to be consumed by my grief, yet the bubble does not break so how can I break free? They stand outside my bubble judging, moving on, thinking my bubble is the same as theirs. Our bubbles float away from each other.
I know that everyone has their own bubble they live in, that they wish to pop, such is life. We all have bubbles, in one way or another. Sometimes our bubbles are our conscience, our regret, our sorrow, our insecurity, our life experiences, our journey, our lack of faith or hope, our loss, our love, our hate, our pain, our dreams, our bitterness, our sins, our resentment, yet they keep us from living, REALLY living.
On the flip side, there are folks who don't want anyone to burst their bubble. These bubbles are the ones you look at that catch the sunlight, that, when you examine them further, you see the swirls of color in their arcs. They're beautiful and admire them. I want to be in those bubbles and revel in the Heavenly colors the glory, the wonder, all I see is colorful. I want that childhood curiosity, that amazement. Those bubbles remind me of why I am alive.
My bubble was so small in the beginning, yet taking one breathe after another my bubble has grown and if I look hard enough and keep breathing, the colors start to twirl. I am always afraid my bubble will pop because now I don't want it to.
I envision other bubbles bonding with mine and we travel together, holding on to each other, desperate not to pop.
Bubbles only pop when met with an obstacle, yet I am determined to get my bubble as high up to the sky as possible so it won't pop. My bubble formed because of the deep breath it took to let my son go. It was a gasp, a whimper, yet through the years it has gained strength as have I.
Each step I have taken, each morning I have awakened to face a new day, the breathing that has blown my bubble from a small speck to a bubble that attracts other bubbles like it, we soar together, rise high together, making each other's bubbles bigger and more colorful.
I prefer my bubble, not it's origin, but it's journey. I know it will never pop yet I am not sure I ever want it to. My bubble has become strong because because I breathe on, sometimes I even focus on deep breaths to get through life's bubble popping obstacles.
My bubble is no longer a barrier, it is a compass, it is the wind that carries me on.