From this side
it feels like Spirit sifts me
and all that is opaque
falls by its weight
while all that is transparent
dances and shines,
proving its substance
by how it stands unmoved
by tugs upon it,
and how it swoops and dives
unwavering from Spirit
It is my heart’s deep joy
to be found thus,
and I sense
that from the other side
there is no sifting,
but just that Spirit
knows its own.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 2, 2017
The beast, wounded,
snarls and snaps.
There is a correlation
between unhappiness
and being mean. The unhappy feel
their meanness is justified —
after all, if they aren’t happy,
why do they owe thoughtfulness
to others?
The beast must be captured
with cords of understanding,
wrapped in kindness
till it can’t lash out. Slowly, then,
we can start to heal those wounds
it has inflicted on itself
It may seem more natural
to try to punish it, for all the damage
of its many incarnations,
but that is what the beast would mandate
Let us then heal
the beast within ourselves,
that our hands may be free
to bind and heal the larger, outer beast.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 1, 2017
My fire body
flickers quiet,
burns steady,
straight rising licks
of warmth and intention
softly rippling through the breath of time
I have not known this one for long
though it has surely been here,
powered at its focal point
by the spirit of being
Emerging now to meet the need,
teaching me to move
through these exigencies
calm and potent,
teaching me myself
in a way I hadn’t seen.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 31, 2017
Well, we want to just keep
living our lives,
but the problem is
a little more light
has made us lose the illusion,
and we can’t quite conjure it up
And what we thought were
the solid pillars upon which
our lives rested,
are not even there —
we’re still standing on something
but we don’t know what.
What we thought was true —
very little of it is still relevant
(this comes, we find,
as a relief in many ways)
And we realize we still want
to get on with learning and growing,
which will still be possible,
even if all the landmarks have changed.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 30, 2017
The raw wind is in from the sea,
the warmth of early (and surprising) sun
erased. The firs are in their element —
they dance in the cold moistness.
Cedars, too, take in this breath with relish —
it doesn’t matter
how long it is from now till spring —
long as bending boughs, as winter nights,
as this unnamed span of time and temperature
until our shoots break ground.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 29, 2017
Freedom in small pockets
like sky in puddles
still feels expansive
The possibility
of an evening free of caregiving
feels buoyant,
even if our only outing
is to the grocery store
It’s hard to fathom
being fully untethered,
and useful to remember
what happens to kites
when their strings are released
Reminding us to build a solid anchor
that can lend lift to our flight,
reminding us to base our liberty
not on our circumstances
but on our love.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 27, 2017
The whole story begins to rip
like a wet paper bag,
contents pushing through the corners
We have been so far
from where we belong,
so removed
from what we’re meant to be,
bundled away in this dark sack
wrapped up in our separate packages
But here’s the rain
and here’s a soggy mess,
and here in streaked glimpses
we see some light
We will get out of here somehow
and lift our faces to the rain
and sing and sing
and dance and dance.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 26, 2017
All those who have been wronged
for so many years, even generations,
lift up their voices. It is their time
to howl and howl. It is their time
to be heard.
The hearing is like
the tiny infiltration of water
into the face of rock.
It will bide its time —
it does not need to be a multitude.
In the mundane roll of seasons
it will freeze, and that expansion
will crack the rock,
and in the thaw
it will sink down deeper,
and one year suddenly
a whole cliff side may shear off
and fall, and bounce, and shatter.
Hear these ones who howl
for the whole mountain
is coming down.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 24, 2017
These animal cringings
that keep me in bed
longer than I intended,
that cry out for a little more comfort
than they have,
that won’t move forward,
hunkered in as they are
They are not me. Look,
I can get up,
I can throw off the blankets
and let the remains of dream
roll away.
I can claim the comfort
the little animal wanted —
I can swing myself
into the stirrups of the day.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 23, 2017
In the course of days
we are swept up like rain,
carried along to some swift beating purpose,
let to fall across the land
moving at the hand of wind
through encounters poignant and unplanned,
dissipated like mist, lifted by sun,
the immediacy of now
making us forget
what we may have outlined
for ourselves
A more distant eye
will see patterns,
will see destiny, perhaps,
and some higher design —
what we serve, how we bless,
the breath of life that orchestrates
the cycles in which we move,
timelessness.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 22, 2017