A big part of us
is the space we make for others,
the shape of them
we hold in our hearts,
large enough to encompass
all their potential,
cozy enough to hold them close
We enlarge ourselves
the more we understand —
the more of others we take in
and hold dear.
We become what we love
and so we love what we become.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 20, 2018
The sun looked down
on the wheelbarrow
trundling in front of me
on the rough road,
me crying and crying
where nobody could hear
Me crying and knowing full well
there was no good reason for it
and no getting my way
that could result
(if I even had a way)
There was nothing to do
but roll the wheelbarrow
and cry and cry
and be done with it.
Nothing to gain
but nothing to lose either,
nothing to do but go through
and out the other side.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 19, 2018
Don’t worry — after you’ve left behind
everything you thought you were —
your quirks and your requirements,
your suffering and dearly held delights,
after you’ve abandoned
all the things you once described as “me”,
you’ll still recognize yourself
It won’t be like a distant memory,
vague and foggy, held as maybe true,
or it will be that way for just a little while
like fog at dawn
And that clean brilliance,
that sun-on-dewdrop freshness
of your being,
that young and smooth
as eucalyptus bark
essence of yourself,
will be the meaning of your name,
will be what you have always known.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 17, 2018
I notice
it is my choice
if I am wimpy,
if I say, mixing concrete
is too much for me,
or at least, I sure dislike it —
the heaviness, the dust,
the scritchy sound,
the muddy mess of cleanup
If I say so, I will be weak
at the prospect of moving the bags,
I will express my distaste,
my visage will be sour
I may become emotional
and tell myself I’m played out,
and tell myself I just need to go home
But if I do that,
it is my choice. If I prefer,
I can choose strength and sunniness,
and growing capabilities.
Something to remember,
something to put to use.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 16, 2018
The day we live in
as we walk side by side —
is it the same day? Or is each day,
for each of us, the color mixing of
our outlook and our observation?
The land we walk on —
does it speak the same,
up through your shoes —
do you feel the message
in its ancient language,
the calming reassurance of belonging,
the fleetingness of time
and its irrelevance?
Certainly we both feel
the uplift of the crickets’ tireless chorus
and that exhilarating quality
of sun-warmed air through fir trees
The day we move through
may not be the same
but there are signs
that both of us receive.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 15, 2018
Frost greets us —
silver gift, celebrated
by morning birds —
singular recipe —
beauty, severity
Much as the early chill
made luscious the warmth of covers
and each other’s bodies,
though soon, work demanded
that we rise
The climbing sun brings warmth,
first in its radiance,
later in the winds
which started frigid
but soon were balmy
Tonight we’ll drain the pipes
against the freeze,
the crescent moon will set,
the stars will send their cold light down,
tomorrow we’ll await
the same steep curves,
seasoned by season’s turn,
well met in grace.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 14, 2018
We will be neighbors,
we will not pick and choose,
we will be glad
at those that live near,
those that drop by
We’ll still be neighbors,
though some will leave
and others will move in,
though futures we imagined
involve a different cast
The distance teaches us
to value every face,
the land’s benevolence
becomes a part of us.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 12, 2018
All that we own
lies within us,
all that we build
patterns that form,
We may discover it
bringing it forth,
we may recognize it
as always known
All that we love
lies within us —
the kingdom of heaven,
our hope, our home.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 11, 2018
Some things, certainly, are endless —
the variety the sky gives — this morning,
fog turning blue before it lifted,
day stretching sunny and kind,
sunset (though we were almost
too tired to look) graced us
with its colors through the trees
I had, perhaps, ten minutes
to sit down (after I made the meal,
before the cleanup)
and at one point, in the golden, royal evening,
I thought I might run out of joy
but some things are endless,
they dish up infinite variety
when I am willing to let them in.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 10, 2018
With a small sputter
we swing back into work,
finding our rhythm,
finding the feed of joy
that comes from being mindfully engaged
The tools have secrets
they can teach me —
the crowbar and the hammer
can be artfully employed —
nails squeak and creak
and give up, and come out,
bent and spent, to throw into a bucket
We work till dark,
we put the tools away,
we rest, rewarded
by the progress made.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 7, 2018