The cure for an aching heart

There is a lot of that stuff called “real life” swirling around these days; life that leaves me worried and sad.
I think of the people I know and love as though they are part of my herd or my flock or my pride (call it what you will).
I can circle this group that I call my own and stand guard to keep the enemy away. But sometimes something gets in and grabs one of my flock, takes him/her down, and all it seems I can do is watch with my mouth open in shock and my heart aching.
I can put on a brave face, a positive disposition. “Live each day to the fullest because we never know when. . . .”
The truth is there are moments when we just don’t have what it takes to put on that positive cap. We want to throw ourselves on the floor and kick our feet and scream for someone to make it right, to make it all better.
We know in our grown-up hearts that no one can do what we beg for, but still we just need to be raw and open and truthful in that moment. We need to crumble and weep and be angry.
Then we begin to look for ways to help, to heal, to move forward because that’s really the only direction the road is going.
I found something the other day that helped—something wonderful. It came to me by way of an accident, a surprise, yet somehow felt deliberate as if someone had steered my path in just the right direction as if he/she knew what I needed.
I bumped into this extraordinary thing at a sidewalk sale, when I was lost in thought, feeling reasonably flattened by the recent news events of which I refuse to give any time in print.
I was strolling, a bit the way the Frankenstein monster strolled, not paying attention and looking somewhat distracted. I bobbed out of the path of a woman and her cane, trying to manage my feelings of being clumsy and obtrusive when my hip collided with one of the tables.
Off tumbled a magic wand.
There is no other way to describe this wand other than magical. It was a delightful lime green, and Harry Potter might have abandoned his own crudely wooden wand for this given the chance.
This enchanting wand was filled with bubbles, 130 mls of bubbles to be precise, and I knew the instant I put my hands on this wand that the cure for melancholy, though perhaps only temporary, was imminent.
Bubbles. Surely you remember the tiny coloured plastic bottles with blowing devices tucked inside from which would erupt a wonderful series of bubbles that your dog would chase, that you tried to capture before the bubbles burst, that simply made you smile.
Yes, I see you nodding. You’re remembering.
I went out to the yard where the breeze was gathering a bit of momentum, but not enough to pop the magic, and I withdrew the long-tapered loop from the wand’s sheath.
It takes a bit of precision training to get it just right; to pull your arm gently to the side as if you were in a ballet.
Some bubbles were long and awkward, tumbling around in the air like an over-weight balloon. Others were small and uniform, their surfaces catching the light like a prism, falling so gently to the ground that they rested there on the tops of the grasses for several moments before they vanished.
As I pulled the wand from its holder, I gathered a big breath and blew each heart-ache, each worry and sorrow, into the bubbles. I let the bubbles lift with the breeze and float out over the lawn.
When the bubble popped, I felt relief as if the confusion and sorrow I felt earlier about fallen friends, or broken dreams or any number of woes, drifted off with that bubble.
It was delightfully healing and I realized how wise children are; how they know exactly how to deal with a broken heart.