I could be coming to the point
where progress along the ground
becomes impossible,
where my feet no longer
can reach down, can find traction
And it doesn’t matter
that my brief hopes
to be a speedy runner
are dashed,
It doesn’t matter either
if the ground ends
just a few yards ahead,
and it may not matter
that I don’t know how to steer
This is not in my hands,
not in my feet either.
My heart is going home
so I guess
it has to bring me along.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 19, 2015
Throughout the rainy day,
a quiet sense of order
filled the house. People coming, going,
tasks accomplished,
music playing, soft lights glowing —
It was a day of nothing major,
but a visitor remarked
on the abiding peace. It’s been
a good day, in an unassuming way,
while we await the imperceptible
unfolding of a timeless truth.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 18, 2015
I’m learning that I do best
when I come empty —
with nothing that I think of as myself,
nothing to present, nothing to protect,
nothing to be measured, nothing to improve,
nothing to vaunt or hide,
nothing to be envied or to envy
Only my naked willingness
to be formed, like a flame
in the alchemy of interaction,
to discover myself and another
in the living touch of our connection
Here I am doubly blessed —
blessed by what you are
and blessed by what I rise to be
in this holy moment
where we meet.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 17, 2015
We put up lights
to welcome you home,
well knowing that
you must have home in you
to feel at home
You may bring it with you
or leave it behind,
or you could come searching for it —
for all those possibilities,
we summon light,
we celebrate you in our hearts,
we play the music,
prepare your place,
we tend the glow
that makes us home.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 16, 2015
I find myself suddenly
very small,
very still,
glad enough to have
nothing to say,
profoundly relieved
to realize
I’m not my life’s designer
Even more, I see
that it has never been my job
to design or to evaluate
any other life.
I am small and still
in the great hush of seeing
All these lives are each their own,
yet meshed together
in a design so many spectra vaster
than I can even count
These lives, like mine
are loved with such tenderness
there’s nothing I can say about it.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 15, 2015
In my dream we were walking
to the city — hundreds of thousands
of us, freeways full of us.
There were clouds of black smoke, too,
and sirens,
and trying to get across roadway barriers
And we were all helping each other,
moving with urgency,
moving to stand up for some imperative
(I don’t know if I knew what)
In my dream we were fearless,
for our unity was awesome.
May we be so as well
in days to come.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 13, 2015
Those lurking, haunting images
don’t want to distress your heart,
don’t want to cause pain,
don’t want to be there
Their deep desire
is to be touched by the light of Truth
so they can burn up like moths,
illumining, in their brilliant moment,
the vastness of the Love
that holds you safe.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 12, 2015
I was surprised once again
to see the kindness in the night sky
where the dark of clearness
interlapped the lighter dark
of clouds
It seemed to hallow the earth
in its breath.
It still surprises me
that all I need to do is look —
no projections, no expectations required.
All I need to do is look —
the love is there.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 11, 2015
Things start to feel
more like a story,
less like my life
All the things we failed to engineer,
all the things we tried to make happen,
the things that happened anyway,
the time that passed,
all the little memories —
trapped jewels of moments
glinting in the web
of our day-to-day past
The soft glow of acceptance
soothes the edges
of fervent and forgotten hopes —
we will not cause
the things that happen
but we will move through them
like light across the day,
we will take them in
to our ascending warmth.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 10, 2015
There will be no Christmas letter
from us this year.
No Christmas letter, and no attending parties
where people talk and laugh and fill each other in
on their lives.
We have gone under water
and all our currency is ruined,
Or we have flown or fallen
into some different world
where we have yet to learn the referents.
We are rendered mute
not by being empty
but by being full —
too full to stir the new things in
(sloshing over the sides)
We’d love to tell you all about this
but we can’t.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 8, 2015