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
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
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
With rain comes rest
and pleasure at work well done,
and the realization
that it’s been a long, hard grind
and we are just beginning. It’s not clear
how long it will take
till the tiredness lifts
or if we can afford to let it
before we dive back in again
Meanwhile, on another plane
(as fall rolls in, all drama and color)
unfolds a sprout of inner knowing,
small leaves hardly hinting at
the vastness of the world
its presence indicates exists.
It is an invitation
to pause here and consider
what we are really building
and where it really stands.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 5, 2018
We do what we can
in the aftermath of tears,
in the relentless beauty of days
and the work that is too much for us
We will go home again
tired to the bone, and weathered,
but also saturated in song —
tree song and cricket song
and the creaking flap of raven flight
We will return, as we have
so many times. We’ll take up
the work we couldn’t finish.
We’ll struggle through the cold
of the long edges of days
and be graced by their brilliance,
and learn the meaning of work,
perhaps. And the meaning of praise.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 24, 2018
Nothing moves in a straight line.
Turkey buzzards circle and circle
without a flap — just the slightest
adjustment of feathers,
and suddenly they’re much higher,
up on a thermal
Swallows soar faster, their circles
suddenly crumpling as they dive
into a different plane,
following their flying feast
Our project, too, soars and crumples,
regroups, gains ground …
We could use a thermal around now,
or a fine and crooked line of tasty objects
of nourishment and motivation,
as we drive towards the long-envisioned end.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 14, 2018
Limbs lie down and wait for ease,
a place to decompress
from the efforts of the day’s work.
There are moments where it seems they won’t find it,
but then it’s 3 a.m. and they feel better,
ready to stretch, ready to turn
and catch the rest that will prepare them for the morning
They are willing servants — they will trust
they can perform what they are called to do.
They’ll find new sturdiness
as they bring ease to others,
and feel their worth
in every earnest hour of honest work.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 8, 2018
This work is changing us.
We are tacked and tapped
and jostled and nestled,
whacked and wrestled
into a closer fit
This joinery, of old called harmony,
will make of us a sturdy structure.
What we build upon it — ah,
that is unfolding day by day,
in rhythm and in dreams,
in understanding and in laughter.
Maybe someday
we’ll have time to see it.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 7, 2018
My thumbs have been
deeply in opposition
in the twisting of rebar wire,
or so they complain
now that I have paused
It was pleasant up at the site —
goldfinches delighting in thistle,
gentle breeze cooling,
officious yellow jackets notwithstanding,
buzzing where they had no right to be
And it feels good to train my hands
in skills essential now and maybe useful later —
they may protest, but I insist
that they be strengthened,
whether or not this work
is what the scripture meant.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 16, 2018