Bubbles: Story 1

Who doesn’t enjoy a trail of iridescent, soapy orbs?

Meditating on an excerpt from Thich Nhat Hanh, I wash my dishes in the sink of my rented unit as though it is my calling, as “only this actual moment is life.”

The bubbles burst open and thrust their clean scent into the air in front of me.

Somehow, on vacation, more than 1,000 miles from home, cleaning up after myself is a simple pleasure and provides instant satisfaction. At home? I can rarely complete cleaning off a surface or organizing a drawer because the very thought disables me with overwhelm.

Two of the three Airbnbs in which I stayed in Texas recently were damn near immaculate and left me inspired to be a better housekeeper. My brains feel far less anxious in a tidy, clean space, which is probably why it’s easier to clean an already orderly abode.

I leave my studio apartment gracefully hygienic and make my way to the pool overlooking Lake Travis. Water erupts from a nearby waterfall, creating a babbling, bubbling delta below it, and I get lost in its singing. I snap to a few pictures of these glorious, private moments and send them to a friend who’s in back-to-back meetings. “Look at my life!” I shout maniacally to him with intent to inspire good-natured jealousy. I envision his eye rolls as I laugh, sweat pouring off me in the Texas heat.

Look at my life.

Only this actual moment is life.

And then it is gone.