My Sheep Hear My Voice

That precious part within,

Held in a small, dark place

encompassing the infinite,

The birthing place of 

all we may attain

Will hear, unerringly,

when it is called by name

It will rise up, surprised

to find itself, eager

to live what it is called to,

endlessly relieved,

intensely grateful

to have been called —

To thus be sure

of its existence

and that the promises

given it before the world was born

will be fulfilled.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 8, 2015

Refining

When the fuel of our stories was spent,

when we had hurled our “perspectives”,

demanded to be heard,

burned up all our points of persuasion,

set forth our posturing

and watched it fall

We finally had to admit

What held us together

was far stronger

than what held us apart

and it felt better to find a way

to concede our points

than to win them

And our only reason

for bringing the whole thing up

was our need

to be closer together.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 7, 2015

Getting Out of the Way

Why would I even want

any of this

to be about me?

Why would I promote

a limited identity,

weak and needy,

piteously bargaining

for some (no doubt unearned)

acceptance, recognition?

Who would not prefer

to be in service

to the bright upwelling

of delight, affection,

the overflow of wonder

and the clear intelligence

uplifting both of us

when seen in you, in me?

Why would I not give up

that which holds me chained and cramped

for this divine permission to be free?

Hence this work each day

to set my self aside

for that which glows 

as you, as me.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 6, 2015

Stalking

We imagined

our joy would come

with the conclusion

of our hard efforts,

with the attainment

of our long-strived-for prize

But in fact

our joy had been there

hiding in the bands of shadow 

of our suspense,

slipping into the footsteps

of our work,

stalking us

Not waiting for the finish

but for us to notice

it was right there with us

ready to slide around 

shafts of hope

into the sunlight.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 5, 2015

Old Things Are Passed Away

We leave our notions

of ourselves, our lives,

splayed and empty

like abandoned puppets

(How is it possible

we thought they were alive?)

We start inhabiting

(with this expansive breathing

and each breath’s surprise)

the place in the dynamic

cause and effect,

impulse and follow-through

where all we fiercely hoped we’d be

is, indeed, ourselves

And the command we wield

of our existence

brings dazzling forms,

eternal, iridescent,

into view.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 4, 2015

Light and Heat

Light answers light —

the brightness multiplies

Heat is not the same:

heat flows towards cold —

the same desire perhaps

but different mode

Heat spreads its blanket out

towards all who seek it,

cooling down with distance,

still too generous to hoard

We make heat inside —

we make it from our substance,

from our thoughts.

We feel and feed the small fire

that warms like coals

somewhere behind our hearts

So we come to know

the essence of this gift,

the little inner furnace

by which we recognize the sun.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 3, 2015

photo by Eric Mulhern

The Growing Season

We keep shedding ourselves —

layers and layers

of what we thought was so important

fall like sheathes,

like petals,

like pollen,

and we keep rising from within —

the same impulse

keeps creating us,

new as this morning’s contact

with the silvered sun,

timeless as recognition.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 1, 2015