Beautiful day: sunshine, blue sky and cozy breeze. Claire was outside blowing bubbles. She preferred to catch them or run after them. So I waved the wand for her. A joyful laughter made the silent community suddenly alive.
For kids, it’s so easy to have fun. They can quickly enter their created world. “One bubble goes to the tree, one bubble goes to the car, one bubble goes to the flower, oh no, one bubble goes to the cactus…”she began to sing. The words were plain, describing barely the fact, but I was amazed by her rhythm. There was more things behinds these simple words.
I have played with her many times for bubble fun, but usually, I just did what I should do: blowing. Today, I asked myself to concentrate on my joy, willing to become as innocent as my daughter. “They are racing !” shouted Claire, “naughty girls.”
“Look, there are two birds enjoying the scenes on top of the tree,” I pointed out. Claire giggled as if she had accepted me to be in the same world.
But was it only a child’s imagination that counted for the joy ? No, for the bubble fun, it’s the beauty of being in middle: reality and fiction. The colorful bubbles, which existed only one or two seconds, displayed their most shining beauty and allowed us so little time to figure out their story. They each deserved a moving and unique story.
I suddenly remembered one unpublished poem written by Jean-Paul Sartre at his adolescence. It reads like this at the beginning:
“I’m a little boy who doesn’t want to grow up.
The game, the game of the wind in the trees,
The game of the leaves in the wind,
The game of the sea in the sea,
The game of the sunshine on the white stone,
And the nature which is my favorite game,
Do you think I will give them up,
As broken stuffed toys,
For the pleasure to be a grown-up ?”
In the middle of this poem, Sartre mentioned the bubble fun and wrote:
” Is there the truth ?
When I played with soap bubbles,
The truth of my bubbles, it’s their color, green or purple
And those amazing things we saw through,
And the surprising but unique way in which each of them
I admire Sartre, I admire children, I admire more those who keep their children’s eyes to love the world. With joy, love and imagination, we may be very close to or just in the real happiness, although it seems like so evanescent as the shining bubbles.