“When you use the jetted tub,” a friend I’m house-sitting for told me, “don’t add much bubble bath.”
“Ok,” I said. And I didn’t. Even so, when I turned on the jets, the bubbles came alive. ALIVE! Swelling, foaming, hissing, they rose like continents from the sea.
How I laughed. How I played—in utter delight. I sculpted bubble mountain ranges, a foot tall. I made lakes and rivers for the rubber duck. The bells were ringing. (I’m betting God—whichever one you believe in—found the same delight in making the world—the universe.)
Then I just watched the bubbles as they were born from the foam, grew, lived, and died. Some caught my eye because they swelled and swelled, towering (dome-ing?) like the great and famous above the smaller bubbles clustered around them. But eventually the huge bubbles popped and fell back into the foam.
And I wondered. Were those great bubbles happier for having been seen, for having been immense? I don’t think so. I’m happy being a small bubble.
LORE OF THE BELL:
Play and delight make the bells ring.