There was rain last night, so when Drew and I step out on the deck this morning, everything is wet, though the sky is blue streaked with cloud and the trees are green and gold in the morning light.
I pick up Drew's little chair and turn it upside-down so he won't try to sit on it and wind up soaked (his understanding of cause-and-effect leaves something to be desired) and, to distract him from the chair I know he wanted to play on, I pick up the container of bubbles on the table and ask if he wants me to blow some. He makes an eager sound of assent, so I unscrew the cap and start blowing bubbles.
The ones which land on the deck don't immediately pop, thanks to the rainwater; instead they form perfect half-bubbles, irridescent domes. For a while Drew walks around and pokes them, popping them one by one. Then he notices his little push cart, and begins happily pushing the cart back and forth across the deck.
I keep blowing bubbles, watching them float through the morning air. Drew pushes his cart through a shower of rainbowed globes. I can see our reflection in the biggest bubbles for an instant before they pop. I blow a stream of bubbles angled up into the sky, and they float, dipping and dancing, irridescent in the sun. That's when I realize that these bubbles, this moment with my son, is my first morning prayer of this day.
I sing modah ani, pausing to blow bubbles between each line. When Drew hears me singing, he stops pushing his cart and looks up at me, and I sing for him; I sing for the beautiful world; I sing for the Holy Blessed One who created all of this just for me.