There are family reunions.
And then there are family reunions.
Most of us spent the morning worrying about important things.
You know…
Food.
Drinks.
Ice.
Tables.
Chairs.
The tent.
Who forgot the potato salad.
The usual high-level logistical concerns that have kept civilizations functioning for thousands of years.
What I didn’t realize was that, tucked away beneath the trees, another group had concerns of a much higher order.
Spiritual concerns.
I happened upon them completely by accident.
Or perhaps…
I was meant to.
There, standing motionless, was Zen Master Scott.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t smile.
He simply existed.
Bubbles floated around him as though they had received prior instructions.
I immediately lowered my camera.
Not out of respect.
Out of fear.
You don’t interrupt a man who clearly has diplomatic relations with soap.
Beside him stood two eager disciples.
One wore glasses.
The other sported a magnificent mustache that looked as though it had already achieved enlightenment.
Their names?
Jake and Dave.
Naturally.
Scott nodded once.
The ceremony had begun.
I later learned they were reciting an ancient passage from The Scroll of the Thousand Bubbles, one of history’s most closely guarded manuscripts.
According to legend, only one worthy master could perform the sacred rite known as…
The Rite of the Floating Sphere.
Its purpose?
Not entertainment.
Oh no.
That’s what they want you to believe.
The real purpose of a bubble is to carry a single breath of life into another dimension.
You see…
Bubbles don’t pop.
They simply complete their assignment.
The instant one touches a leaf…
A blade of grass…
A tree…
Or your brother-in-law’s forehead…
Poof.
Portal opened.
Mission accomplished.
Another world receives one tiny shipment of hope.
Suddenly my entire childhood made sense.
I wasn’t blowing bubbles.
I was running an interdimensional oxygen delivery service.
No wonder kids laugh every time one disappears.
They’re witnessing successful international diplomacy.
Scott remained perfectly still throughout the instruction.
Not once did he chase a bubble.
Not once did he correct the wind.
He simply allowed the universe to participate.
That…
my friends…
is Bubble Zen.
Meanwhile, Jake demonstrated remarkable concentration.
Every movement was deliberate.
Every breath measured.
Every bubble released with the precision of a neurosurgeon performing microscopic soap surgery.
Dave watched with complete admiration.
Occasionally nodding.
Occasionally stroking his mustache.
Which, according to ancient Bubble Zen tradition, is apparently where wisdom is stored.
Then came the practical examination.
Bubble-Do: The Ancient Way of the Wand.
Grace.
Timing.
Control.
One sweeping motion.
A shimmering arc of floating spheres appeared before us.
Not one.
Not ten.
Hundreds.
Then…
the impossible.
A nearly perfect 360-degree Circle of Bubbles.
I swear I heard birds applaud.
Even the trees seemed impressed.
Zen Master Scott offered no congratulations.
Only the slightest nod.
Which, I later discovered, is the Bubble Zen equivalent of a standing ovation.
The disciples had passed.
They were now fully initiated into The Ancient Order of the Bubble.
The ceremony ended as quietly as it had begun.
Scott walked away.
The bubbles followed.
Of course they did.
There remained only one final lesson.
The Master turned to his students and uttered the only words spoken all afternoon.
“Now… find the children.”
And that’s when I understood.
The bubbles were never really for Scott.
Or Jake.
Or Dave.
They were always for those wonderful little humans who still believe impossible things might actually be true.
Children don’t chase bubbles because they’re fragile.
They chase them because they’re magical.
Adults know bubbles disappear.
Children know they go somewhere.
After spending an afternoon with Zen Master Scott…
I’m not entirely sure the children are the ones who are wrong.
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