Magic

A box unfolds
Each side becomes a box
These boxes each unfold
Each side a box again
Each box contains a story
that opens out its own world
its past
its cast of characters
an atmosphere
and changing seasons
days and nights, and different scents
Each story leads along a path
that changes everyone who walks it
taking them along while still contained inside its box
Each box in you
A gift
Each smile of yours a key
that you may give to one who sees
who then may open up a lock and know
a tiny thread of something in your soul
which, if they follow, leads them to your gold
The stories loop away but all return
—for one who has the patience to discover—
to that sweet core your essence hinted with your eyes
Whoever walks with you along this path
(in which you both will change)
will gain a prize.


©Wendy Mulhern
October 29, 2011


And then . . .



    When the whole story falls away
sloughed off
like the great side of a glacier
tumbling down with crashing echoes,
the silence that arises afterwards
will hold a clear and crystal space
in which the warble of a bird
will thrill
and in the faint glacial dust
that keeps dispersing,
some very fresh taste to the air —
and our eyes
will soften
and we’ll see a new light
in all the faces
and in every dewdrop
and in every life.


©Wendy Mulhern
October 24, 2011

(Background Music: Isaac Shepard, “unattainable desire”)

Returning

Thank you for your peace
Today I’m back for more
Thirsty
Vaguely lost
Disoriented
by relentless tides
pushing from within against my skull
And so I turn
Lay down the package I’ve been toting
All the bricks and rocks I seemed to think I needed —
stories explicating who I am and why —
Spirit, I am yours, and that’s enough
No need for more
No need for knowing what
bright path tomorrow will provide
Only that you guide me from inside.


©Wendy Mulhern
October 6, 2011



Love Tuning

I weary of the stories
that keep running in a loop
I want to lay them down.
Quantum love is everywhere at once.
It doesn’t need to travel
doesn’t need to struggle
through the rough terrain of speculation
tenuous analysis of data
evaluation whether
there exists enough attraction
on the other side
to match one’s own.
Love requires no story
and engenders none.
Love was here before the words
and love endures long after
all the words are done.


©Wendy Mulhern
October 3, 2011



True Stories

No story is the truth
but there are true stories
If story is the arc on which you fly
some will launch you clean and true
and where you sail
will be the place you feel
the rising up of what you are
to meet the opportunity
the awesome, scary challenge
calling forth your deep integrity
A story that is true
will keep on ringing
with fractal echos still reverberating
the rightness of the patterns it’s creating
affirming you
forever reinstating
what you have always been
and now shall be
A story that is true
will set you free.


©Wendy Mulhern
August 7, 2011



A true story

No story is the truth
but there are true stories
and this is one:
(it could be said the story is the frame)
This is the one in which
I own my name
move strongly in the archetypal power
where all particulars of who I am
can flower
with no apology, no shame
Like wings unfolding
once a chrysalis has split
They stretch and take in substance
from the sun and air
They multiply and reach
their shape still undefined
their ribs still forming
their planes coming aligned
Their strength now building
They soon will show
their bright resplendency
With opalescent glow 
they’ll carry me
No story is the truth
but here’s a true story:
To own my name
delivers me a new glory.


©Wendy Mulhern
August 6, 2011



Enough

I don’t need your story
Your explanations of
The way you are
And why
And what it means
In terms of what you’ll be
I don’t need your stuff —
Self-constructed reasons
Phobias, reactions
I don’t need confessions
Pried with pain
From where you have them clenched
The miracle of who you are
Is enough.


©Wendy Mulhern
August 5, 2011



On Story

I.

Although I know
that story is a tool
with which to carve
the potent wave of feelings
and stir and move emotions
along the course the story indicates
Today
Let me not try
to carve them
Let me not define
with story 
what it is I feel
Let the weather go through me
the rain
the strong wind
that which beats against
the inside of my eyes
And let me be
like a field
that takes in rain
lets it spread deep into the roots
Compels the sudden bloom
of countless flowers.

II.

I once said,
to be without a story
is to be without a home
and you have to go and live
in someone else’s story
a supporting character
who sleeps on their couch
and drinks their leftover coffee
before they wake up
brown ring on the cup
no choice of your own
but now I see
To live without a story
is to live
on the edge that is always unfolding
with new surprises
A story you’ve never heard before.


©Wendy Mulhern
July 30, 2011



Resistance and Yielding

A friend taught a workshop in kinesthetics about resistance and yielding.  She helped us experience the extremes of those opposites so we could recognize them in our bodies, and then to consider a way of moving that might integrate the two.  
Integration
There is a rhythm of the tension and release
a gathering, and then a flowing
I speak of giving birth,
and many smaller things:
telling a story — giving all the words
their needed space, their needed hush
so in their turn they can pour forth
with their needed rush
and prayer — the sweet immersion
into silence, the waiting pause that builds
until the stillness is profound enough
to welcome in the Word
There is a time to hold your breath
to be a vessel where the forming hopes distill
till they well up and tumble forth
along the channels of Life’s will.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 15, 2011



Communication

My daughter and I work with words
share phrases back and forth
shuffle clauses for clarity.
Her granddad is different.  His words
day after day, are the same —
same stories, same phrases.
Many of our words he doesn’t hear
His son says it makes little difference
even when he could hear he didn’t listen
even when he could remember
he still told the same stories.
But today
when he came home
I was digging up the garden
He said, Want me to do that?
I let him take the shovel
I steadied him
he broke up the dirt
I tossed it, with another shovel
into the pile.
He tired quickly, but joined in again soon
and we moved
in the steady language 
of working together
remembered by the body
safe from the mind’s forgetting.
We finished that job
the smooth soil
our own new story.


©Wendy Mulhern
April 28, 2011