Bubble Theory in the Holiday Season
Giving ourselves the right to exist in any space
This is the closest I'll ever feel to being cryogenically frozen.
Then rapidly de-thawed as the years dance past my rigid, non-cognizant body.
Three months ago I was, along with many others, dropped back bang-thwack into the real world. I had been living for the most part as a hermit since March 2020 and was accustomed to it but desperately craving something new. Cheeks and lips began grazing whilst associates greeted, elbows rubbed against each other in packed crowds, groups of people shouted over each other. Collective nerves ricocheted around rooms. The return of social paranoia. The loneliness in a crowded room. The loneliness of being alone again because you've forgotten that sense of peace you had begun to find in your own company. Asking yourself if it is normal to want all this time alone when you have the possibility of seeing others whenever you fancy.
It all happened very fast. And I want to be back in the melee. I want to take risks. I want to be having panic attacks in friend's cars and toilets and public squares again when I am overwhelmed by the sea of looking eyes and voices. Because I believe in the power of community and what we can do when we organise together. I learn better alone but see value in peer-learning, particularly as it aligns with my interests of choral singing, playing music, moving the body, as well as the psychology of what makes us who we are. I am interested in precisely all of these things because I am bewildered by people and misread social situations. But here I am. Back in rooms again with other people.
I believe the antidote to being angry on the internet is going out there and being angry in real life. The anger comes from somewhere and it’s got to go somewhere. But online it imitates the circular nature of content and publications constantly being churned out, dictated by advertising and algorithms. It is engineered anger. We are doomed to go around in loops, rarely reaching a mutual understanding or accord.
I believe that we can sometimes, not always, come to a more balanced conclusion when we are in a room with people. And I mean really and truly in a room with them. Not debating, or posturing, or disassociating, although the latter is often my go-to response in a room full of people. I am working on reducing this, little by little. Letting myself be present and responsive to what’s around me. It can feel abrasive but at other times rewarding. I am examining anger and reactivity and how I cope with it in my body in real time. I am remembering I am in front of a live person and I notice that how I express myself and react impacts them.
I sometimes make the arrogant mistake of thinking I'm the only person working on myself.
Self-improvement for me is ritualistic. The abrupt withdrawal from society when perplexed, the intensive scramble to reflect, exploring anxieties through visual and writing aids such as tarot cards, dream interpretation and note-taking. When the struggles have been processed and investigated, I share my findings with trusted people, or anyone who will listen. When I am not so reflective I forget we are all walking icebergs and there is much looming beneath us that others can't see.
I made this error with my partner. He is a naturally quiet, laid-back person. I naively assumed that abstaining from providing information about his mental health plan meant he didn't have one at all. How wrong I was.
He illuminated me after a squat party in Sevilla.
Although I loved parties in my youth, the enjoyment came in conjunction with self-destructive behaviour and boozing. Once I decided to change that behaviour I realised that mostly I disliked parties and didn't see the point in them unless there was an interesting activity involved, or they were small and intimate, with people I liked and knew well. My partner isn't the greatest champion of parties either. But we were there because a friend had organised it to showcase the talents of artists living, working and squatting in Seville. I was keen to observe the creative work of people living in "the big city" and outside Jerez, which although bursting with creative activity, mostly platforms the safest, non-challenging type of art.
It was an okay party. We missed all the performance art and my friend's comedy set because we needed to psych ourselves up to go to the party beforehand. We got there in time for the music and boozing. I sat on the stairs in a corner of the room, sipping my non-alcoholic beer. I put in my earplugs and quietly watched the bands, which were all very good, if not exactly the type of music I usually like. I had a great view of the room. I could people-watch, checking out the studied, punky, squat look the party-goers were rocking, observing the behaviours of the Seville art crowd, comparing it to Jerez, London and Glasgow, the other cities I’ve lived in. I took videos on my phone and felt I was doing some good at the same time. My perch prohibited anyone from getting into my friend’s room, which was at the top of the stairs.
A Spanish guy with thick dreads plonked himself right beside me, taking up a lot of space, flicking his braids into my face and hovering his joint dangerously close to my tights. I was wearing my big lace up boots which may have gently jostled him a couple of times. Finally I was forced to move from my coveted perch. I lost the will to continue waging my war against the thick cloak of smoke enveloping me, the embers of ash threatening to burn my thighs, the lashing of thickly coiled hair belonging to a confused identity. He was calling encouragement to a woman playing onstage. She was talking about free love and feminism and thanking us for supporting the cause. I was trying to work out what the cause was.
Though I had enjoyed myself, I was delighted when the party ended at 22.15 after the heavy hand of the law banged against the door with deafening thuds. Afterwards, walking back to our hostel, I told my partner that I felt happy that I had “done” the party my own way even if I had felt quite out of place. I hadn't felt obliged to drink or behave as if I were someone I'm not. Then my partner told me that he had used his own technique that we afterwards dubbed “Bubble Theory”. His technique blew my mind.
What is Bubble Theory?
I don't know if the phrase has already been coined but it reminded me of Buddhist ideas, such as the metta bhavana. My partner tells me that every time you enter a room you have this bubble around you. That bubble relates to you and you only. No one else is involved at this point. That bubble around you is protective. It says that you have a right to be there. When you feel stable and comfortable within that first bubble, you can think about making it bigger. The bubble extends to the people in your vicinity or the person you might be talking to. They are included and accepted in your bubble and vice versa. The bubble gets bigger and bigger until it includes everyone in the room. In the end, everyone has a right to be there. You above all! You create the bubble that allows everyone the right to exist in that space, without judgement.
I am touched by the simplicity of it. And I couldn't believe that after all these years my partner had kept it to himself. It explained his easy manner, how unruffled he appears in settings wildly out of his comfort zone.
Considering we are in the thralls of the holiday season, I thought it was only right to share this gem with you. I hope that it serves as a useful practice, and that you may bring it to wherever you find yourself. This is a time of reunion, rest and renewal, but it is also emotionally taxing. It's safe to say that many of us are bravely carrying and working through the collective traumas that being part of a family inevitably brings. Remember Bubble Theory. You have a right to exist without judgement, as does everyone in your vicinity. We are all vast, beautiful and complex icebergs.
Seasons greetings and a happy new year.
Recent creative work:
A visual poem with Lisa Derrick, who narrated the poem and co-wrote the words with me:
Those Who Were Dancing:
Keep tuned to Those Who Were Dancing, an online music and archive collaboration with Lydia Beardmore. Subscribe on Medium for my next article, which is a creative, meandering exploration into the feminine voice, looking at Ancient Greece, mythology, medieval nuns and PJ Harvey.