October 5, 2010
Psalm 107:23-31
“Others went out to sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the Lord, His wonderful deeds in the deep. For He spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves. They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away. They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits’ end. Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and He brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and He guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds to men.”
I recently got a reprieve from my troubles for two weeks, with a bird’s eye view of the South Pacific Ocean for part of that time.
I couldn’t stop staring at the restless sea.
Surfers were out from early morning until the sun set. Barges, fishing boats and yachts sailed under a boundless, ever-changing sky. I saw humpback whales breaching from my perch on the 23rd floor of a beachside condo.
I’ve always been fascinated by oceans. I can sit for hours, walk for hours, stare for hours.
It’s in my blood.
My ancestors on my father’s mother’s side come directly from Maine mariners. My great-great-great grandfather was a captain who sailed the Atlantic Ocean. When his sons were old enough they joined him on the sea. My great-great-grandfather had asthma and the open salty air helped him. However in his mid-20s he headed for the dry air of South Dakota and set up a livery stable there. I’ve often wondered how he felt, being landlocked after being raised on the wild, craggy coast of Rockland, Maine.
Part of the reason I visited the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia is to recoup myself while I deal with my husband's penchant for infidelity.
Funny thing is, seaside is where I usually head when my soul is in need of repair.
From scripture, it appears that Jesus headed for water too.
This passage in Psalm 107 reminds me of the time when an exhausted Jesus headed out to “sea” after he heard about his beloved cousin John the Baptist’s beheading at the hands of a vindictive, power-hungry mother/pimp who wanted Herod to have her daughter. Matthew 14:13, “When Jesus heard what had happened [to John] he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.”
After Jesus spoke to a crowd all day about the parable of the sower, a lamp on a stand, the parable of the growing seed, and the parable of the mustard seed (see Mark 4), He was dog-tired.
When evening came He suggested to the disciples that they go to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Other boats went along too and it wasn’t long before a “furious squall” erupted. Waves broke over the boat Jesus was in and it was nearly swamped. However, an unconcerned, exhausted Saviour slept soundly on a cushion.
Can you hear Peter waking Jesus up? “Don’t you CARE if we drown?” In other words...”Hellllooooo! Why are you sleeping at a time like this? At least you could help bail!”
Imagine that a groggy Jesus (because He was human like us) got up, rebuked the temper-tantrum winds and waves and said, “Quiet! Be still!”
Of course, the disciples were terrified because the wind and waves obeyed Him.
So.
Here I am, recovering from a nearly four-year, life-changing tempest of unfaithfulness from my second husband that has wreaked havoc in me. I m 10,000 miles from home.
Sometimes it seemed that Jesus slept.
In that same passage in Mark, Jesus asked his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
My response to that question is similar to the man described in Mark 9:14-24 who came to Jesus for his son’s healing. He said to Jesus, “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”
Jesus responded, “’IF you can?’ Everything is possible for him who believes.”
I join my voice to this anonymous father’s answer/plea to Jesus, “I DO believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
I watch the soothing ocean because I seek the result of the mariner’s fearful cries in Psalm 107 when their courage melted away. They were at their wits’ end. They cried out to the Lord in their trouble.
God brought them out of their distress.
He stilled the storm to a whisper.
The waves were hushed.
They were glad when He guided them to their desired haven.
*Footnote: In February 2013, the continued infidelity, lack of repentance, and that my own health was continually at risk, I left. In September 2013, the Lord carried me home, to my desired haven. America.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Deep calls to deep
“Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls; all your breakers and waves have swept over me.” Psalm 42:7
When I was a 19-year-old newlywed in 1981, my husband and I went to Oahu, Hawaii for our honeymoon.
We explored the island and went to a beach on the south side renowned for its isolation and waves. We bodysurfed.
The wild beauty and calming warmth of blue-green Pacific waters hid its deadly force.
Waves crashed so close to shore that when they crested and fell, it was with tremendous weight.
Breakers smashed me into sand underwater. The undertow pulled me. I couldn’t get out, no matter how hard I tried. My nose bled, my legs went weak; I had scratches all over my arms and legs from rough pebbles.
“Your breakers and waves have swept over me.”
Sometimes life drags us out and smashes us to pieces. We despair with no way to escape.
After nearly 20 years, my marriage disintegrated. Raising teenagers by myself where none of us made very wise choices was tough. I belonged to a church that turned out to be questionable in leadership and teaching. I made personal decisions that weren’t sensible.
I married again in 2006 to a man who claimed to be a follower of Christ. I and my family and friends had no reason to think otherwise. He said all the right things. But he was a liar. He could not stay faithful to me. I moved 10,000 miles to another country, where he abandoned me emotionally and spiritually and put my health at risk.
In 2013 I was able to come back home to America, to the loving arms of friends and family.
After 52 years, a host of bad decisions roosted like wild fowl in trees bordering my yard.
I read the 42nd Psalm surrounding verse 7: the author thirsted for God as a deer pants for water. Tears were his food day and night while he looked for God. He nearly gave up hope. He wondered why his soul was downcast and disturbed.
Despite the harassment and trouble he finally acknowledged that the answer to all his ponderings was to put his hope in God, his Saviour.
He sang...”I will yet praise Him, my Saviour and my God,” “I will remember you.”
There is an acknowledgment that God directed His love by day and His song over him by night...a Messenger with good news.
I’m getting out of the undertow and struggling my way past crashing breakers with great joy.
God responded to my deep calling to His deep.
He rescued me.
-30-
When I was a 19-year-old newlywed in 1981, my husband and I went to Oahu, Hawaii for our honeymoon.
We explored the island and went to a beach on the south side renowned for its isolation and waves. We bodysurfed.
The wild beauty and calming warmth of blue-green Pacific waters hid its deadly force.
Waves crashed so close to shore that when they crested and fell, it was with tremendous weight.
Breakers smashed me into sand underwater. The undertow pulled me. I couldn’t get out, no matter how hard I tried. My nose bled, my legs went weak; I had scratches all over my arms and legs from rough pebbles.
“Your breakers and waves have swept over me.”
Sometimes life drags us out and smashes us to pieces. We despair with no way to escape.
After nearly 20 years, my marriage disintegrated. Raising teenagers by myself where none of us made very wise choices was tough. I belonged to a church that turned out to be questionable in leadership and teaching. I made personal decisions that weren’t sensible.
I married again in 2006 to a man who claimed to be a follower of Christ. I and my family and friends had no reason to think otherwise. He said all the right things. But he was a liar. He could not stay faithful to me. I moved 10,000 miles to another country, where he abandoned me emotionally and spiritually and put my health at risk.
In 2013 I was able to come back home to America, to the loving arms of friends and family.
After 52 years, a host of bad decisions roosted like wild fowl in trees bordering my yard.
I read the 42nd Psalm surrounding verse 7: the author thirsted for God as a deer pants for water. Tears were his food day and night while he looked for God. He nearly gave up hope. He wondered why his soul was downcast and disturbed.
Despite the harassment and trouble he finally acknowledged that the answer to all his ponderings was to put his hope in God, his Saviour.
He sang...”I will yet praise Him, my Saviour and my God,” “I will remember you.”
There is an acknowledgment that God directed His love by day and His song over him by night...a Messenger with good news.
I’m getting out of the undertow and struggling my way past crashing breakers with great joy.
God responded to my deep calling to His deep.
He rescued me.
-30-
Don’t want to be decadent
I recently stayed by myself in an opulent condo on the Gold Coast courtesy of family in Australia who are financially blessed, and in turn are generous.
My nephew, niece and their six-month-old son checked into the empty unit with me, got the keys, and showed me around. On our way downstairs from the 23rd floor we came across two older women.
They crowded into the elevator with us.
The lift-mates were jolly old souls, decked out in tropically colored silk blouses, with several glittering, jewelled rings on every finger, and bracelets on each arm up to their pudgy elbows.
Their hair was dyed to match their youthful days and perfectly coiffed. Lipstick matched fingernails and toenails that peeped out of gold and silver strappy sandals.
Like magpies, they warbled about their visit, then focused their attention on my niece and her son.
Such kind, fun women they were who chatted to her in the elevator, following us into the lobby and in the parking lot next to her car.
I smiled, nodded, chuckled at the appropriate times, and basically kept my mouth shut while I edged into the background.
Why?
Well I reckon I’m pretty close in age and girth to them, so that wasn’t a problem.
However, I was in a pair of saggy black, saltwater-stained pedal-pushers and an unflattering top ensemble. My hair was seriously gunmetal gray and white for about two inches from the roots. And because it had been a long, humid day, my makeup had melted. My toenails polished with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red, and fingernails accented with “Grand Central Carnation” pink were badly chipped. AND I’m an American, so my accent nearly always causes a fright. However, I did have black, silver and gold strappy sandals adorning my badly-in-need-of-a-filing feet.
Of course it was a matter of time before someone asked a question, and I answered.
“SO! You’re an American!”
Smiling, I said, “Yes I am.”
“Are you staying here very long?”
“For a lifetime” is what I wanted to say, just to see her horrified response. But instead, I said, “About a week. I’m on holiday.”
Then to verify my right to stay there I explained that Jacqui is my niece and I married her uncle.
A suspicious “oh.”
Or maybe I imagined the tone. Yanks can be oversensitive, I’ve heard.
In the underground garage I parked my road-dirty silver Mitsubishi Magna Sport next to shiny black, gold and silver Mercedes, BMWs, Lexus SUVs, and other spotless and polished vehicles.
When I traveled outside, I was followed by the same sorts of fancy vehicles, even to the Fisherman’s co-op down the road.
Even though I felt a tad out of place at times I was amused at how comfortable I felt in the ritzy, practically-on-the-beach Gold Coast condo, despite realizing that I was so out of my league.
But ya know what? I liked it—feeling like I don’t really belong to this lifestyle.
Perhaps some of these uber-wealthy people don’t know, or may have forgotten what it’s like to struggle to make ends meet. I believe “going without” builds character.
While there, I watched a television program about how the Great Depression in America happened with the stock market crash in October 1929. I hadn’t realized that the people it most affected were middle-class people like me. I also hadn’t realized how close America came to repeating that disaster in the latest economic crisis--some call it a downturn; I think that’s putting cake frosting on dog turd. But I digress.
I moved to Australia just before the global financial crisis hit. My house sold for cash before the bottom fell out of the market. I reaped my profit-sharing funds from my place of employment before the stock market plummeted (my boss relied heavily on Wall Street for profits for employees in his company), and I was able to leave the States with a nice little egg in my nest. Australia slipped through the crisis virtually unscathed.
But even if I had gazillions of dollars in the bank and investments, I wouldn’t want to change the way I live.
I like nice things, just like anyone, and I like to travel.
But I’m not into bangles and baubles and high-rises and the decadent way of life that comes with riches.
Proverbs 30:7-9, “Two things I ask of you, O Lord; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown You and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.”
Here’s to chipped fingernail polish, outgrown hair color, a functional car, and my God who takes care of my every need.
My nephew, niece and their six-month-old son checked into the empty unit with me, got the keys, and showed me around. On our way downstairs from the 23rd floor we came across two older women.
They crowded into the elevator with us.
The lift-mates were jolly old souls, decked out in tropically colored silk blouses, with several glittering, jewelled rings on every finger, and bracelets on each arm up to their pudgy elbows.
Their hair was dyed to match their youthful days and perfectly coiffed. Lipstick matched fingernails and toenails that peeped out of gold and silver strappy sandals.
Like magpies, they warbled about their visit, then focused their attention on my niece and her son.
Such kind, fun women they were who chatted to her in the elevator, following us into the lobby and in the parking lot next to her car.
I smiled, nodded, chuckled at the appropriate times, and basically kept my mouth shut while I edged into the background.
Why?
Well I reckon I’m pretty close in age and girth to them, so that wasn’t a problem.
However, I was in a pair of saggy black, saltwater-stained pedal-pushers and an unflattering top ensemble. My hair was seriously gunmetal gray and white for about two inches from the roots. And because it had been a long, humid day, my makeup had melted. My toenails polished with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red, and fingernails accented with “Grand Central Carnation” pink were badly chipped. AND I’m an American, so my accent nearly always causes a fright. However, I did have black, silver and gold strappy sandals adorning my badly-in-need-of-a-filing feet.
Of course it was a matter of time before someone asked a question, and I answered.
“SO! You’re an American!”
Smiling, I said, “Yes I am.”
“Are you staying here very long?”
“For a lifetime” is what I wanted to say, just to see her horrified response. But instead, I said, “About a week. I’m on holiday.”
Then to verify my right to stay there I explained that Jacqui is my niece and I married her uncle.
A suspicious “oh.”
Or maybe I imagined the tone. Yanks can be oversensitive, I’ve heard.
In the underground garage I parked my road-dirty silver Mitsubishi Magna Sport next to shiny black, gold and silver Mercedes, BMWs, Lexus SUVs, and other spotless and polished vehicles.
When I traveled outside, I was followed by the same sorts of fancy vehicles, even to the Fisherman’s co-op down the road.
Even though I felt a tad out of place at times I was amused at how comfortable I felt in the ritzy, practically-on-the-beach Gold Coast condo, despite realizing that I was so out of my league.
But ya know what? I liked it—feeling like I don’t really belong to this lifestyle.
Perhaps some of these uber-wealthy people don’t know, or may have forgotten what it’s like to struggle to make ends meet. I believe “going without” builds character.
While there, I watched a television program about how the Great Depression in America happened with the stock market crash in October 1929. I hadn’t realized that the people it most affected were middle-class people like me. I also hadn’t realized how close America came to repeating that disaster in the latest economic crisis--some call it a downturn; I think that’s putting cake frosting on dog turd. But I digress.
I moved to Australia just before the global financial crisis hit. My house sold for cash before the bottom fell out of the market. I reaped my profit-sharing funds from my place of employment before the stock market plummeted (my boss relied heavily on Wall Street for profits for employees in his company), and I was able to leave the States with a nice little egg in my nest. Australia slipped through the crisis virtually unscathed.
But even if I had gazillions of dollars in the bank and investments, I wouldn’t want to change the way I live.
I like nice things, just like anyone, and I like to travel.
But I’m not into bangles and baubles and high-rises and the decadent way of life that comes with riches.
Proverbs 30:7-9, “Two things I ask of you, O Lord; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown You and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.”
Here’s to chipped fingernail polish, outgrown hair color, a functional car, and my God who takes care of my every need.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A sparrow story
A sparrow story
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband, Steve. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As Steve carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband, Steve. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As Steve carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Hope gained
This summer morning, as I look out onto my view from my "treehouse office" at parrots flying low and a moon sailing over pine trees to its rest on the western horizon, I am reminded of Proverbs 13:12, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life."
Perhaps my lighter heart this morning is in response to a number of good events over the last few days. Maybe I'm setting myself up for yet another emotional disaster that hope deferred brings.
But this morning, I feel good. Really good.
Getting married and moving to Australia in January 2007 was a bigger life change than I realized.
There were a lot of highly charged emotional things going on at the same time back in the States, and adding to the mix, the marriage isn't as easy-peasy as I thought it would be.
There were also roadblocks and other outside forces to deal with here that I had no idea were lurking around the corner to ambush me...a steady drone for years.
I finally talked to a professional about some of these things. It felt good to be validated and listened to and understood, and to know there is help available for me without prescriptions, and most of all there is hope.
I'm done with the guilt of feeling like Jesus should be enough, why isn't He? He is...and sometimes He uses other people as His hands throwing me a life jacket.
The biggest source of my joy this week were three week-long visitors.
My step-niece Josie and her 1-year-old daughter, Sienna, along with a friend's daughter from the US, Stephanie, are here.
They are young, fresh, and interesting in conversation (when we aren't chasing Sienna) and easy, enjoyable companions. For being perfect strangers, the two young women are getting along like a house on fire, and adventures are planned for the week.
When I started writing this morning, I felt peace. But now, the household is up, getting coffee, tea, and brekky, Sienna is banging plastic on the floor and squealing, and I realize that to this peace is added a quiet joy.
Maybe this longing fulfilled of a peaceful, hopeful life will become a strong and mighty tree in me.
Perhaps my lighter heart this morning is in response to a number of good events over the last few days. Maybe I'm setting myself up for yet another emotional disaster that hope deferred brings.
But this morning, I feel good. Really good.
Getting married and moving to Australia in January 2007 was a bigger life change than I realized.
There were a lot of highly charged emotional things going on at the same time back in the States, and adding to the mix, the marriage isn't as easy-peasy as I thought it would be.
There were also roadblocks and other outside forces to deal with here that I had no idea were lurking around the corner to ambush me...a steady drone for years.
I finally talked to a professional about some of these things. It felt good to be validated and listened to and understood, and to know there is help available for me without prescriptions, and most of all there is hope.
I'm done with the guilt of feeling like Jesus should be enough, why isn't He? He is...and sometimes He uses other people as His hands throwing me a life jacket.
The biggest source of my joy this week were three week-long visitors.
My step-niece Josie and her 1-year-old daughter, Sienna, along with a friend's daughter from the US, Stephanie, are here.
They are young, fresh, and interesting in conversation (when we aren't chasing Sienna) and easy, enjoyable companions. For being perfect strangers, the two young women are getting along like a house on fire, and adventures are planned for the week.
When I started writing this morning, I felt peace. But now, the household is up, getting coffee, tea, and brekky, Sienna is banging plastic on the floor and squealing, and I realize that to this peace is added a quiet joy.
Maybe this longing fulfilled of a peaceful, hopeful life will become a strong and mighty tree in me.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Hello again
I don't know if anyone reads this anymore...it's been several months since I wrote anything...on here, and at all.
But I want that to change. I want to write, I need to write, and I have suffered because I haven't.
So, if you read this, leave a note if you can. I'd appreciate the encouragement, the comments, and anything else you'd like to say.
But what it comes down to is this...these pages are my thoughts, for better or worse, and a place for me to be me. Whether anyone sees or not.
Thanks. Heidi
But I want that to change. I want to write, I need to write, and I have suffered because I haven't.
So, if you read this, leave a note if you can. I'd appreciate the encouragement, the comments, and anything else you'd like to say.
But what it comes down to is this...these pages are my thoughts, for better or worse, and a place for me to be me. Whether anyone sees or not.
Thanks. Heidi
Hanging on a Line
Warm winds puff,
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls my shirt around my body.
Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
lifting sheets to a clothesline
secured with an orange peg.
If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.
I think of Australian women who have gone before me
those who hang laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.
I picture time-worn faces,
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather
and circumstances and life.
I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots,
and put clothes and sheets on lines in the sun.
I'm not an Australian woman;
But I see her in my neighbors, at the post office
and driving her beat-up ute to market.
As I ponder, black clouds break open,
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered sheets.
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls my shirt around my body.
Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
lifting sheets to a clothesline
secured with an orange peg.
If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.
I think of Australian women who have gone before me
those who hang laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.
I picture time-worn faces,
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather
and circumstances and life.
I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots,
and put clothes and sheets on lines in the sun.
I'm not an Australian woman;
But I see her in my neighbors, at the post office
and driving her beat-up ute to market.
As I ponder, black clouds break open,
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered sheets.
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