Bubble Wrap

I’ve only tried it once myself, but for years I’ve touted the stress-relieving benefits of bubble wrap. That’s the stuff that comes in sheets of transparent plastic, with rows and rows of air pockets designed to protect fragile items for shipping, like Swiss snow globes or crystal stemware or ceramic dogs. Handy little invention.

How satisfying it is to grab a square of the wrap and poke each bubble, one by one. Pop, pop. With minimal pressure, pressing both thumbs into the center of the circle, the trapped air releases. Ahh. It’s almost meditative. Press, pop, ahh. Press, pop, ahh.

For extreme mood states such as high anxiety or rage, bubble wrap can be placed on the floor for a healing round of toddler-esque stomping. Stomp, POP POP POP, AHH. It’s partly the physical effort and partly the accompanying sound effects that makes it so fulfilling.

In yoga class this morning, we explored the neck. Sitting with legs crossed, spine lengthened, arms gently on thighs, I lowered chin to chest. Very slowly, with awareness, extending only to my level of comfort, as instructed. Pop, pop, ahh. Raising and lowering, I felt tiny bubbles of tension release, audible only to me.

Next I turned my neck to the right, very slowly, with awareness. Pop, pop, ahh. Release. And to the left. The same. Now an infinity roll—tracing the shape of the infinity symbol, very slowly, with awareness, and then in reverse. Pockets of stress letting go, pop, pop, pop.

I don’t think about my neck too much. I should, because it’s ground zero for worry, fear, anxiety, even sadness and anger. With deeply embedded strata of muscle knots formed as a result of emotional holding and lousy computer posture, it will take more than a couple of neck rolls to achieve the fluid, loose movements my yoga teacher so easily demonstrates. But very slowly, with awareness, I’ll get there. Pop, pop, ahh.

On the ride home, Laura Carlo, the velvety-voiced morning host on Boston's WCRB classical radio, announced Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man. Oh, Laura. Can’t you please feed us more than your Top-40 menu? If it isn’t Fanfare, it’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice or Greensleeves or the ubiquitous Brandenburgs. Come on. We’re starving here.

But today, mellow and accepting post-yoga, I stopped myself from pounding the off button and relaxed. Timpani stomps. Boom, boom. Pure trumpet unison quartet inviting me in, I cranked the volume. Surrounded by brass harmony and counterpoint, the open fourths and fifths reverberating, I inhaled deeply and let go, steering with my left arm, conducting smooth, swirling waves with my right. Something released. Nothing physical, rather something nameless, almost spiritual. It was like my soul softened. I felt full and alive and happy.

Pop, pop, pop. Ahhhh.