I keep finding myself going back
to the image of the blessed ground
and how, before anything has yet appeared,
the light plays on it,
and in that light, a silent warble,
a bright impulse of joy,
a calm
In that calm, the sweet assurance —
the presence of the law that guides all growth,
the way that everything that is
shares all these properties —
all that develops
will always bring them forth.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 2, 2020
I reflect on the present times
when I’ve run afoul of the temporal —
burning the chicken,
letting mold destroy the car —
things are fine
until the moment when they’re not,
and then there is no turning back
All things temporal
can tumble …
There is a grace that rides along the top
of all events,
and cooks things perfectly,
and cares for all things well,
and, centered in the present,
is not slave
to how things fall
And though I stand here in this shambles
(such a mess to reckon with)
my next step
is not from here.
All things in time fall down
but grace will stand me on the ground.
©Wendy Mulhern
March 1, 2020
Let me approach
with utmost respect,
with reverence for the size and shape
of the place in you
that is designed to open
You will recognize me
in our mutually reflected light —
you will let me in,
you will come out to play
We will multiply our brightness
like flames in oxygen,
like fragrant blossoms in the midday sun,
we will be fed
and we will feed each other
in the pastures of the Allness of the One.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 29, 2020
The wind began to blow cold
though the day was still sunny,
and we delayed our work
and then had to persist
through windblown bands
of overcast and sun,
and after awhile
it felt good and fresh to be working
And then it started to rain
and it started to get dark
and we kept working
till the plants were planted
and deer-protected —
less than we’d hoped
but enough to be satisfied.
When we had dried off
and started a fire
and stoked it till the cabin warmed up,
and scrounged some food
and tended to the water
we were too tired
to do anything else.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 28, 2020
You can’t see your source,
the same way
you can’t see yourself —
it comes up from within,
it faces the same way you do —
it is your impulse, your inspiration,
nothing you can separate
in any observation
from what you are
Certain things you can see
in reflection,
but then you and your source
are both looking at the same image.
The point isn’t to try
to see it face to face,
the point is how you dance with it inside.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 27, 2020
I feel great peace remembering
the starting point never
gets far away
Whatever structures
I may have erected,
whatever standpoint
I may have backed myself into,
they never dictate
my next step,
which can always start right here
with the fundamental innocence
of all life,
with the first impulse
that unites us all.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 26, 2020
The birds seemed as happy as we were
for the return to the land,
for the spring
or its precursor,
the time of prodigious effort
we can now set to,
the time for making home
and for noticing
that it’s here.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 24, 2020
We may look and find the place
where fear was painted
up in the mauve underside of your scales,
making your protection prickle,
making you uneasy underneath
We will hold you so gently
as we rinse you clean,
all of that pigment
making it take a long time
till the water runs clear
You will feel it then,
the knitting together — yourself
with yourself, the relief
of the new clean place,
the integration, now that there is no foreign substance,
the power rallying within
You can rest now
and let yourself absorb
what it is to be fully you.
You’ll reach out open
to make the true connection,
the flash through you
and us
that lights the land.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 23, 2020
My feet suddenly remember
how they tingle in damp grass —
my toes stretch and grasp the feeling
and I consider
taking off my socks and going out
It is as they remember —
a little colder, maybe,
and the grass bends flatter underfoot.
There are fir cones in the grass,
small birds trilling from afar,
and soft socks to return to
in the house.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 22, 2020
Not in a map
so much as a practice —
the practice of presence,
the practice of catching
the tiny upliftments
each moment holds —
the silent flowing,
the intricate crystalization,
the clasp of life,
always a celebration,
every living thing reprising
life’s essential properties,
joy ever being what rises
like oxygen, what fills and blesses,
what confirms my being here.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 20, 2020