These images of galaxies and solar systems are amazing. They do a number on the falsely enormous problems that rob me of peace. In outer space, there is no noise, or gravity, or heat. Or so they tell me. Issues like the lost registration for one of our cars, and the financial aid deadline seem to float away from my awareness when I look at the Eskimo Nebula, or Kepler's Supernova.  At the other extreme, photographs taken through a microscope invite me to come closer. This collection includes a lobster egg, fish scales and soap film. Perhaps the world that lives in a drop of water is quiet as well. 

Most of us live somewhere in the middle. Neither large enough to visit Mars, nor small enough to fit inside the ovary of an Anglerfish. But peeking into those worlds brings perspective. 

The arguments that exploded at our house last year have dissipated. The debris has floated away. To try to grab it and reform it into a constellation of points is neither beautiful not meaningful. The effort distracts me from what is miraculous about this day, this moment. Around me now are yellow leaves reflecting the morning sun, the last of my orange juice in a hand thrown mug, a quilt I made twenty years ago on my lap. 

Seeing God's capacity for creating both the Milky Way and the strands of cotton fibers suggests that paperwork or not, this day is exploding with wonder.