Aurora Australis

I want to write again, but I am besieged by scattered toys, crowded bench space, and piles of washing. Said washing machine doesn't complete the final spin cycle, meaning I have to get medieval on it and wring out every item of clothing by hand. I have told my husband and he murmured something about having to open the back of the washing machine to recalibrate the drum balance, but he has forgotten, and I don't want to nag him.

 In the pottery where he potters, he is finishing restaurant orders that were placed a year ago and were so large, it has taken countless hours, firings, and bags of clay to complete. I have sanded and packed boxes full of handmade plates that he has driven to Sydney and come back in one day (about 11 hours on the road).  

A hundred other orders have come in since, and we work and we mumble and we stumble. We try to raise our kids right. To plant tomatoes after frosts, to pull up weeds, and count our blessings. We pull our belts tighter. We look in the freezer for forgotten fish caught once when we had time. We attempt to mumble a prayer before bed - before the spin cycle starts all over again. And it is humdrum and it is hard. 

Words feel far away. The poetry, and youth, and promise. I wrote my life's story as a myth and it is perhaps worth sharing, but not today. 

I remember our wedding ceremony, particularly the second stanza during the Dance of Isaiah, when the couples hands are joined and the priest leads them in a circle in the middle of the church three times.

Today is for the Martyrs. Wherever you are, if you are reading this, keep fighting the good fight. You will receive your crowns. 

O Holy Martyrs,

who fought the good fight and have received your crowns,

Entreat ye the Lord,

That He will have mercy on our souls.