I love to see the magic that lies dormant in an inconspicuous bottle of bubbles until it is discovered by a small child. There is no experience necessary for being transported by the fragile freedom and beauty of bubbles wafting on the invisible wind. How can so many little spheres of translucent color come out of such a tiny jar?

My husband tells me that bubbles last longer if the humidity and air quality are right. I don't really understand these things, but I like it when the bubbles are big and quivering, so I can get a long look at them before they poof away. They come as if from no where, an unlimited supply if the conditions are friendly. But they need to be coaxed from their contained puddle to brave the dangers of the unpredictable world of gusts and toddler's fingers.

Dreams are like bubbles. They lie hidden in the corners of our hearts, often afraid to make an appearance in an atmosphere of criticism and failure. Our partner wants to be a safe place for us to share those dreams, yet sometimes we don't know or remember how. The conditions of fear and loneliness are invisible to the eye, yet they can make the sharing of dreams impossible.

Maybe I could open a bottle of bubbles, and with it open myself up to sharing some of those fragile hopes. I could slow down, and remember what it feels like to be young again.

Unless you become like little children you shall by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 18:3)