When RWW was brand new, everyone was excited to be part of our splendid new program. In our very first workshop I wanted to give people a chance to get to know one another, so I said, “Please tell us something about yourself that nobody in this room knows. For instance, for about a year, I impersonated a nun.” People laughed. With a mischievous grin, Kay Mullen piped up, “For many years, I was a nun.” What a lovely and unexpected icebreaker.

During our year together, Kay wrote of many things—leaving the order, marrying her beloved AJ (a former priest), moving to Alaska, their adoption of an orphan from Viet Nam, the birth of another son, and her ongoing devotion to the community of women.

When AJ fell ill, Kay thought she might have to step away from the program. I suggested this: Kay could send me eight lines a day. I would receive them with respect but would not comment on them at all. They were words for survival, not for analysis. Somehow, Kay wrote those lines. Some of them we revisited, later, and revised. At first I worried that I had added weight to the burden Kay was already carrying. But she told me months after AJ’s passing that focusing on language as she sat at his deathbed let her know that she could find ways to go on.

What a privilege to spend a year in literary conversation with Kay, and then to enjoy our friendship all the years after. She often came back to RWW to enjoy evening readings during residency.

Here is a sample of her work:

day 5  Maundy Thursday

Clouds keep their own vigil,
gray scarves cover the sun
the way linen drapes an altar.
Nothing breaks through
but silence.

The rain may last for days.
Even the moon must wait.
The flight of the kingfisher can’t
be timed. Yet light will open
on tendrils of moss,
on spirals of fern.
And I shall know as I am known.

—Kay Mullen

Kay Mullen
April 9, 1930 – September 30, 2025