It’s a new day and I like it.

Soft folds of cotton wool mist crept in while we were sleeping and I don’t ask:

“What is out there?”



“What might be out there?”

As the shrouding evokes wonder and possibility.


The noise of the world seems slightly muffled and its bustle muted.



Maybe in our bruised and weary brokenness God says I will hold you tenderly in cotton wool today and hold you safe.

A whimsy perhaps of my battered brain.