A Billion Tiny Bubbles

Part I: Tea Scene

I gave the moment a cup of tea and looked up at my tree.

A cup of tea with a tree takes much more than one moment. One cup of tea will give me an infinity of paired seconds, side by side, like bubbles with soapy air in between, to stretch and breathe individually.

Underneath my ancient tree, if I can sit with my cup and my tea, if I can blink and slurp and see

No needs unless they come from me, then I am free.

If I can leave a full picture alone, without my hand or smile or lines, leave it framed with ground or leaves or never-ending shades of blue,

Then for a couple of moments I am guest to my family, a leaf at the top, a stretching blade of grass, and a bird on the middle blue.

I become partner again to my sister, friend to my mother, tutor to the bird, the hanging bird that wants to dance with me in that line-less center, the meaningless blob right in the middle with only the blue to hint at something right.

If we can follow, we'll dance in an alphabetical dimension, on particles of air and momentum and bending, colored numbers.

We would be like billions of tiny bubbles, too small for perspective, but still everything under this tree, and around this teacup, above the legs of this seat.

A couple more moments and the tea is done or I am gone with other things, like homework, dependents, maybe bugs and some muddled strokes of scenery.

Part II: Remember September

She began the journey in September, a road-trip across the state, a collection of stories to perform, a first love to navigate.

She was a stage actor, and she found her best self in the backgrounds, motivations, obstacles, and choices of other souls. And this time, she was flying, and on fire, and disintegrating like a billion microscopic waves in motion together and in different directions. This time, she was in love.

They had met on stage, backstage, and in the audience seats during rehearsals. They had discovered each other’s crazy during auditions, two fascinated observers, wondering about the distant twin at work, performing in front of them. They had crashed into the other’s talent, the other’s discovery through play and permission, and together they made the world of the play for each other and everyone. They built blocks out of bravery that turned more and higher into some collective castle, and a country, and a continent, and a constantly expanding multiverse beyond the theater, built of flailing limbs, deep character divides, beautifully articulated poetry, spontaneous chases after nothings, and caught seconds of settled wonder:

Who is this mirror into whom I’ve needed to become? What is this thing that happens every moment now, with him in my days? How did I come to doubt these unlimited possibilities I remember believing in, that now are tickling and teasing at my fingertips?

In September she fell in love.

In December she remembered.

Part III: He Hardly Speaks

She gives him an earful to speak in,

He gives her a mouthful of warm gin.

And wide-open palms?

He despises alms.

And nothing’s as loud as a sharp chin.

Her caroling complaints are wailing,

His confidence is swiftly failing.

When her voice is free,

“You’re not listening to me!”

And little no-peep’s still prevailing.

No caressing whisper will atone,

All outbursts will stack stone on deaf bone.

So if he don’t break

In her prodding wake,

Then leave the dumb bugger alone!