Bubbles are appearing in the puddles everywhere that I look. I am sure that it has always been this way during the Oregon rainy season. But I don’t seem to have noticed them before this week. Or if I did notice them, they weren’t in the forefront of my awareness.
Yesterday, these bubbles were bouncing all over my awareness. Hundreds of them on every puddle in parking lots, roadside gutters, and leftover potholes from our winter snow and ice. They appeared to be doing a disappearing dance. Each one rose to the surface, danced for a moment, and then disappeared in a watery burst of liveliness. I wanted to be one.
Lately, boredom and grayness has saturated my spirit. But beneath the surface of this soggy and damp place in which I find myself, something is swelling and rising. Like the bubbles before they appear on top of the puddles, there is movement toward a breaking out in dance.
When my lively dance finally bursts out, it may be brief. But I will have danced. And after the dance, I anticipate more swelling and rising movement followed by more dancing. I will be doing the bubble dance in the midst of the rainy season.