I remember as a child holding the plastic wand with a circle at the end.
My grandmother would hold my hand with her hand and she encouraged me to dip the circle into the dish soap, water and cornstarch solution. I remember the liquid seemed odd, with an odd odor.
And then after my grandmother showed me how, she showed me how to blow through the circle.
And like magic, perfect, round bubbles would appear on the circles other side.
They seemed almost invisible against the blue sky, and they sparkled at the tangent with the sun’s reflection.
But as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared.
And then my grandmother had encouraged me to make more, and, more, and soon I had begun to chase them in an attempt to catch them.
But the harder I tried to catch them, the quicker they dissolved.
But then I learned from my grandmother, if I held out my hand and waited, a soap-bubble would eventually land on my palm.
It would safely rest on my unblemished palm for a quiet moment, I would stare at the translucent globe in wonderment as we would become friends just before the inevitable.
I suspect there was some sort of Zen like lesson trapped within those moments.
As I strolled past The Vinoy this afternoon, I had crossed the busy street and over into North Straub Park.
I looked up into a clear blue sky through a cluster of oak tree limbs, it was above 80 degree Fahrenheit.
And then I was graced with the moment a child under his parents watchful gaze chased a curious black-haired dog across the grass; and then they stopped me in my tracks as they crisscrossed the concrete path; simultaneously to my right, were a smiling Asian couple surrounded by friends taking post-wedding vow pictures beneath an ancient bougainvilleas covered in magenta blooms.
I grinned. I nodded at the parents. And I was content that my workout was behind me.
For me, those are moments God whispers to me, to simply stop, and hold out my hand.