Hope Bubbles Up

What a summer gathering taught me about aches and pleasures

Have you ever tried to make a giant bubble with a bucket of soapy water, two long sticks, and a string?

“My name is I-Z-Z-Y! Like the two Z’s are twins and the one on the left holds hands with ‘I’ and the one on the right holds hands with ‘Y!’ ”

I meet this delightful 6-year-old sprite at the “land party” - an annual gathering of several hundred humans from newborn to mid-eighties. It’s a mixed bag of political persuasions. I don’t see any red hats, but I know some of those hats were left at home on purpose. This celebration of interdependence has happened every summer for fifty years, hosted by a small intentional community of folks living on 80 acres of land in rural north Alabama.

The hot summer day centers on swimming in a big spring-fed pond to the squeals of kids doing cannonballs off the pier. Most of us loll in the cool water, chatting, laughing, and occasionally getting our toes nibbled by curious fish. We’re humming as old-time tunes float across the water from the folks playing fiddle, banjo, guitar, and brightly-colored ukeleles.

Now it’s nearly 5 o’clock - time to put our potluck dishes on the long tables set under towering twin oaks. Juicy red tomatoes, green beans and squash from our gardens, warm peach cobblers, smoked turkey drumsticks, bowls and bowls of salads, and a huge 3-layer chocolate cake. Vegan and gluten-free dishes have their own special place and everybody will be well-nourished.

We walk to the volleyball meadow to join hands with new friends and old. We hum a universal prayer - yummm. As I look around the circle, I see gay couples - men who have been married for years. I see a woman who teaches reproductive health in the face of conservative pushback. Trans, lesbian, cis, queer, tattooed. There’s a budding diplomat from Japan, traveling the country to learn about Americans. I see aging hippies leaning on canes and young regenerative farmers wearing big straw hats.

Some would say that this is a bunch of misfits, rebels, and renegades. Perhaps. But I see this gathering in a circle, facing one another, as a primal act - one that brings us back to ground, to our roots, remembering we’re all part of the human family. In this broken but beautiful world, our connection is our safety.

After dinner, I watch as barefooted Izzy joyously floats huge bubbles into the gold-orange glow of sunset. She pulls me into her circle of magic with a sweep of one arm.

“Do you want to try it? I’ll teach you how!”

With her expert guidance, I create a giant bubble of undulating rainbows, wobbling in the air. Fascinated, we hold our breath as time is suspended in that glistening orb. When it lands with a wet plop on the ground, we look at each other, clap our hands, and cheer.

This piece was my response to a question from James Crews, a poet whose writing speaks to my heart. He asked,

“What are the extremes you feel yourself living between right now – those aches and pleasures both? What are some of the small beauties you’re leaning into right now?”

The aches? People with brown bodies being snatched from their families, an authoritarian regime grabbing our rights, children going hungry, scared people hiding, bombs falling on innocents.

Of course, there are days so dark I wonder what it’s all for. And sometimes, I remember to give myself the pleasure of lingering. The gift of slowing down to be right here, with these people, in kindness. The wonder of the bubble, perfect in its momentary glory. Lingering with the glimmers of beauty, joy, and community amongst the darkness of these times.

There is no peace without empathy and no empathy without presence.

In service of truth and love,

Lee

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