The magic of you
is in the place where you find yourself
drawn to where you’re needed
like deer to a waterhole

Your life blooms here —
bright growth along the vein,
your presence makes this wilderness
rich with heart, with meaning

The pattern stays
even when the water
has seeped away —
you are marked by this place
even as it is marked by you.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 21, 2017


Don’t worry —
this is not a place
where you can go wrong,
this is not a test, and not a contest.
In your design, you’re given
everything you need to thrive —
this is your life
and you its only master

Don’t worry —
that which you most deeply wish
won’t be denied, though it may seem so,
many times along the way.
Your desire is part of who you are
and its fulfillment
is in your destiny,
cut, as it is,
from the same rock,
bound, as it is,
in your same Life.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 20, 2017

Tending Fire

As taught by tending fire,
having words for these things
doesn’t mean I know them

The fire teaches me
to pay attention,
the rules that I’m applying
don’t need more refining
so much as faithfully adhering

So in fire tending
I go wordless,
letting the flames do the talking,
letting them draw
their foreordained conclusion.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 19, 2017


Resolution separates colors
from a bland plane,
definition of moments
makes them sparkle,
throwing my whole self
into the dance of now
creates a fence against
the creep of scatter

We are negentropic, after all —
It’s not a losing fight against
a tide of tiredness —
these circles I draw around everything,
to define, to know, to celebrate
bring brightness
as each entity emerges —
each appreciated, each empowered,
each collecting light
within its sacred orb.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 18, 2017

Walking Meditation

I walk like a whisper
in the time when dark
is turning light,
when people are up
because they have to
(so it seems to me)
lights on, cars starting up,
while other houses sleep

Around my hands and arms
and in my breath, the gift —
the gift of presence
and the almost-tasted promise
of being dearly loved

Along the sidewalks,
in the grass, and in the street,
my feet step dutiful —
not yet tuned in, perhaps,
to the day’s blessings.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 17, 2017


And if it feels like a fierce effort
to come into focus,
to actually see
all the way to the end of my thought,
to make the conclusion,
to set the course
according to what I now know
(instead of vague conjecture)

If it takes a fierce effort
so be it —
better the sharp blade of awakening
than suffocation by fluff.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 16, 2017


It was a light task
picking up the ashes
though they are heavier
than they look like they’d be

It’s not so surprising, however,
that a lifetime of stories
would be ponderous
and besides

There are roots that go down
that must be still connected
where we can’t see them
that would also render
a package like this
hard to lift.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 14, 2017


Plum colored plum leaves
swirl over each other
up the road,
gold leaves of birch and cherry
hold on against the wind,
windfall of fir branches and pine cones
half cover the street,
wind sings like traffic

It’s not so much a scatter
as a recombination,
this convocation of wind
and colored leaves, rain
and rays of sun —
release from former service
to the next gift,
coming into being
with the current of seasons
and moving onward.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 13, 2017

Lines of Light

I start to define myself
by the lines of light streaming through,
I start to feel their lift, their strength,
and to be less impressed by clay

If Mind doesn’t hold me here,
what ever could? What, possibly,
except idea, could hold this form in place?
What but Mind could let me move
in grace, and with intention?

Look at me dancing —
look how the music lifts and moves me.
Surely it is clear
that I am made of lines of light
for clay could never move me,
clay could never move like that.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 11, 2017