M - Bubble Thyme

Thyme was picking at a welt in the corduroy of her chair, her face
uncharacteristically expressive, the scowl that had become habitual,
her green eyes dulled, clouded. Sharon was finishing their diner
dishes.
1
"It wasn't right," the child all by barked at her mother. Sharon
sighed at the fifth repetition of their conversation since she got home
from work.

"Thyme, stop it, right this minute! You're not being fair."

"Was it fair of her to just disappear, refuse to help me? She knew
how." No softening, just a flat out argument.

"She was trying to help. You are the one who ran her off. She tried to
reason with you . . ."

"She doesn't live in my head, and neither do you! No one knows what
this is like," Thyme snarled.

"So now you know better than everyone, why do don't you just help
yourself?" her mother replied, putting away the last of the silverware
and walking to her room.

"It's my life!" the girl screamed after her. In a few minutes, her
mother walked back into the living room, eyes flashing like Thyme had
never seen.

"That's right, young lady, it is. It's a lifetime. For you that's six
years. Its decades to us. I don't care what you can or have 'seen'. You
aren't old enough to make decisions that will affect every moment you
live from here on out."

"And you can't understand what it is like, to know yourself, to have to
live with yourself." She was back to picking at the fabric, more
viciously than before.

"I have some idea, Thyme. I've been meditating for years now. No one is
all good, but no one is all bad, either. It's not always easy to face
your own truth, and I'm sorry you have to do that all at once. But
shutting off from yourself is dangerous.

"How would you know?"

"You saw Tera's reaction. She's known people who tried, seen what it's
done to them. Remember, she can feel what they feel, and the thought
made her physically sick!"

"If you really knew yourself, like I know you, it would make you sick
too."

"That is uncalled for." Sharon's voice had gone cold.

"Everyone is like that, Mom. Everyone. You may have tried to see, but
there's all the reasons, all the history, all the excuses for why you
are the way you are. I don't get any of those to screen the truth
through. I get what is, and only what is." By the time she finished,
there was a waver in Thyme's voice.

"I know I don't understand what you do, sweetheart. But I also know
that you don't understand things I do, things that only living can
teach. What you so desperately want, what you believe will fix your
life will only destroy it."

"It still wasn't right, for her to just quit like that."

Back against a thick tree, feet bare on the cool dirt, Thyme sat at the
edge of her backyard, staring at one particular blade of grass. When
she moved again, her muscles had stiffened and cramped, so she returned
to her seat, to her blade, trying to lose herself in green. It was no
use. She floated exposed, superimposed over anything she looked
at.

When Sharon called from the back door, the girl didn't even blink.
Threats didn't bring a twitch, so she went on through dinner, her
daughter's place empty. As dark slid in, she couldn't risk Thyme's
safety, so she relented and crossed the yard. She'd lost the battle of
wills yet again.

"Thyme, you must come in now."

No reaction. She reached down to hold her daughter's bony shoulder, but
met no resistance. Her arms hung limp at her sides, still warm.

"Thyme, answer me. Thyme, quit it. Thyme."

Sharon dropped to her knees, grabbing her girl by the arms, trying to
shake her.

"Thyme!"

The fear, the panic pried into Thyme's awareness, broke the geas of her
true self long enough for her to gain a fingerhold on her senses. When
her mother screamed, the mounting terror that was at her core swelled,
giving Thyme a breath, time for one great lurch back into the normal
world. Her eyes refocused and muscles jumped at the sudden jolt. Then
her stomach did the same.

"Sweetheart?"

Coughing at the burning in her throat and mouth, Thyme grabbed hold of
her mother's wrist. Once her air returned, she gasped at it, trying to
speak.

"It's okay, honey, it's all right. Relax, Thyme, just try to
relax."

Needles shot through Sharon's wrist, the knuckles of her child's hands
white and straining. Night had deepened till she couldn't see Thyme's
face. It took all her strength to pull herself and her daughter to
their feet, but once there, Thyme seemed to steady a bit. Step by
uncertain step, they made it inside and to the sofa. Then the trembling
started.

"Thyme, try to calm down, honey. It's okay now."

"Is it?' The eyes that looked up were a small child's, desperate for
hope, for a mama's reassurance. They wanted to believe her, not argue.
Sharon was used to Thyme just knowing. She searched and struggled for
words.

"Of course, baby. Of course it is. You walked in here with me and
you're talking again. We'll be fine." She didn't believe herself, but
Thyme seemed to accept it and the shaking slowed. They sat huddled
together, falling asleep and waking up the next morning, still
hugging.

Sharon called in sick that day. They had to do something, but she was
at a loss. Thyme sat at the kitchen table while she made french toast
for them.

"What are we going to do, Mom?" The question was sad, scared.

"I'm not sure, sweetie. Can you remember what caused it?"

The red hair fell in sheets, hiding her face when she shook her head.
"I sat down. I thought the tree would help, but I guess it won't
anymore."

"What about how you felt?" Or is that a blank this time too?"

"This time," Thyme repeated quietly before tossing the long hair back
over her shoulder, out of her face. "How many times? There wasn't even
a storm coming, Mom."

Sharon put a plate of french toast on the table between them before
sitting down. "I'm worried too, honey. If we don't know when they'll
happen or why, then we have to find a way to deal with them. Can you
remember anything at all?"

"I saw myself."

"Isn't that always there?"

"Yeah. But this time nothing else was. It was like . . . like
everything else faded out to black, everything but who I am."

"So why didn't you shake it off like you have been?"

1"I couldn't." Thyme's eyebrows furrowed as she thought. "I do remember
trying, but . . . I was trapped."

"Maybe it was a trance," her mother thought aloud, but Thyme shook her
head slowly.

"I don't think so, Mom. There wasn't any sound or movement, and I could
think clearly, just not about anything else."

"Sounds more like hypnosis, really."

"It was like I started looking at something, but then couldn't move my
eyes away, like they were glued."

Sharon started nodding, then thinking aloud again. "Okay, it was the
being stuck so we have to work on letting go. How can we learn to let
go of thoughts, to unattach? Unattachment . . . Buddhism . . .
meditation. That's it!" She even smiled.

"What?" Thyme's eyes were wide; hope was creeping in.

"Meditation. Bubble meditation. It would help with your own and maybe
even others. Finish up, honey. We've got practice to start.

Thyme learned to sit with herself. Sharon taught her the bubble
meditation, and they worked at it on and off throughout the day. Each
time they began, they would settle into their most comfortable
positions: Sharon's accustomed cross legged seat on the floor, Thyme in
her brown chair, legs tucked under.

First, Thyme pictured bubbles rising up in front of her, blown by some
gigantic set of pursed lips. Then she worked to put those lips into one
of the bubbles and watch it drift up past her view and then disappear.
She wondered why it didn't pop, and saw a cartoonish POP float by,
again in a silent bubble. "I feel stupid" and "This is a waste of time"
also drifted up and away. After an eternal fifteen minutes, they
stopped. Sharon read while Thyme wandered the backyard forest.

An hour later they were once again practicing. Every thought Thyme
encased in a slippery soap bubble and watched float away. The half hour
session left her exhausted, but Sharon was pleased.

"It normally takes much more practice to reach the level you have,
dear. Maybe that glue of yours is working for us now."

After lunch, they sat down yet again. Forever had ceased to be relevant
when Thyme was assaulted by the vision of her truth. Her breath came
sharp and hard, bringing Sharon back to see that something had
changed.

"Put it in a bubble, Thyme. Wrap it in the soap."

The cold crept up her legs and turned her stomach into churning acid.
But it was so beautiful . . . until it shifted like a hologram sticker
she had, back and forth, the hideousness firing the hatred, the beauty
freezing her thoughts. Finally, she heard it.

"Thyme!"

As the horror surfaced again, she fought to shield against the
beautiful just waiting to seize her. What would a soap bubble do? The
truth laughed and she despised it! The shimmering, swirling colors
bloomed between and trapped the truth in a sphere. It floated up and
out of sight. Thyme slumped in the chair.

"Honey?" Her mother was sitting on the arm of the chair, reaching over
to hold her tightly. "Honey, did it work?" The child nodded slowly, but
didn't look up. "Good. You did wonderful, sweetheart. You took control.
Understand?" Again, a slight nod.

Sharon helped her to bed, her legs wobbly. She lay down and stared at
the wall till it faded to black. Fountains, streams, showers of bubbles
filled her dreams.