Not a tilling of the soil,
not a toiling of the soul,
but intrepid steps
into the mystery of being,
bearing nothing but receptivity,
ready to give all, in return
This is what leads me forth in the morning,
this is what brings me home,
riches of Spirit right here to garner,
everything living a poem.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 1, 2022
I fantasize about a mud Anna,
a figurine of clay, made at the riverside,
a thing that children do, their mothers
playful, too, their daily work
fresh with discovery
I reimagine life as full of play,
needs for survival
managing to bump along somehow,
be met in flexibility
instead of worry,
with laughter
instead of anxious toil
It could be possible, not that I have a key
for reinventing work and play
in our society,
but for myself, I think I’ll find a sweeter way
the more I can allow myself to play.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 31, 2022
These leaps of life we make,
innocent as sky,
reach to the heart of who we are,
and we are pleasing
to anyone who sees us,
we are pleasing
in the interwoven dance of Life,
we are pleasing to what sparks within us,
and we are pleasing
to our source.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 29, 2022
The early morning and I
meditate on being new
(after I stumbled here,
protesting for more sleep),
it having arrived with much more grace,
fog first, then high fluffy clouds,
tinged with pink
Right here, it shows me,
is the perfect place to start,
every thought fully able
to express the light, the dew,
none of them needing to rehash
some old argument, or even
a recent one. Every thought
can take this in, can bring forth
something completely new.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 28, 2022
We were raking grass
before the sun came up,
before our shadows
bumped long across the fields
The heat hadn’t rolled in yet,
so we worked in comfort,
boot toes wet, filling the tarp
and dragging it back to the pile
We finished that task by eight,
others awaiting, needing to be done
before the sun began to burn,
before the hot winds rose
Then we retreated into coolness
(as sun-produced as outdoors’ heat)
and finding our center
and fathoming what it could mean
to be love.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 27, 2022
The moon is not in the pond.
The moon’s reflection
is not in the pond either,
though it looks that way to me,
shimmering there
The moon is not fractured
though the reflection seems to be,
telling of ripples as well as of moon,
showing their shadows
on the pond’s surface
I can learn of the moon
looking at the reflection,
but I can learn more
of both moon and reflection
by looking up.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 26, 2022
All of this is so beautiful,
and so temporary
that any sense of walls and roof
protecting or defining me
seems absurd
Other definitions and protections
fail as well, leaving me held
in what must actually support me,
learning from its presence,
what it is, and what I am.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 24, 2022
My sight clears, and I notice
that I’m peering at the emptiness again,
not sure when the things I took for objects
faded out
Seeking the refocus
that would find me something in this day,
for certainly, there’s something here –
even this inexplicit satisfaction
is good for something
No need to scrape down into
the memory of tears, and their offer
to bring this day down into
something I can feel –
There is feeling, too,
in this craving for deeper purpose,
and it can lead me
to where I find it.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 23, 2022
Consider summer as time suspended,
and ponder if it’s possible:
a day with no fear in it,
having sprung free of death’s specter
and the shadow of other lesser gods,
to recognize the freedom
of being wholly owned
by the spirit of your dear heart’s desire
and its unfolding in your present, active sphere.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 22, 2022
Let me remember
to come here every day,
here where the morning air
breathes you alive
and your smile reflects
my exuberance
Let me remember
this here is available
wherever we are,
wherever the bright fact of Life
fills up all the space.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 21, 2022