Bubbles in My Eyes
I love watching children blow bubbles, their eyes light up as if it were singularly the most magical moment in their lives, and perhaps it is. Right then. I love the single-minded way that they go about their lives. It’s so here and now. We adults could learn a thing or two from living like that. I just love the lit eyes. It’s so in the moment. Nothing else matters. Not the moments before and not the moments after. It’s sincerely priceless.
Tell me why it is that living in the moment seems so much harder for an adult. What is it that makes us baulk at that kind of belief, at the very idea of it? No imagination left? No monumental display of fireworks so we get a cue? What? Personally, I would put it down to no imagination; we’ve forgotten just how to imaginate through lack of a mental dexterity that’s gone rusty through lack of use! Do I jest? No, not at all!
The thing about children is they give their imaginations such a rigorous work out on a daily basis, it’s no small wonder we adults look at them somewhat enviously as we speak of it [their imaginations] as having run wild. The truth is simply this, they do allow it to run wild, let it tumble around in the long grass where we adults have a far greater tendency to want to mow the grass. Now there’s a difference!
Long ago some friends of mine, Sarah and Mark got married. They swapped the rice throwing for bubble blowing as they walked outside the church to a waiting car, ready at once to sweep them off to parts unknown for one hour of torrid photographic memorising.
It’s the bubble blowing I remember most. That and Sarah’s keen blue eyes sparkling with that youthful mischief, chin thrust heavenwards as all those tiny transparent bubbles floated out to forever and her deep throaty chuckle rang in my ears as if the delight of it all was as good as it got. It was a wonderful day. Made perfect by the fact that I wasn’t exactly blowing bubbles forever but gee they were a sight for sore eyes. Carefree, as ever.
