Pentimento

pentimento
noun
pen·ti·men·to | \ ˌpen-tə-ˈmen-(ˌ)tō
Definition of pentimento
A reappearance in a painting of an original drawn or painted element which was eventually painted over by the artist

The canvas: my face in the mirror, fifty eight years familiar with this world.

Five or six, roaming like the free-range child I was, I caught the sharp end of a rock that soared from an older brother’s slingshot. He didn’t mean it, don’t think he aimed at me, but the impact was hard, and the flesh below my left eye tore, and years later my mother said,” We probably should have gotten you stitches there.”

It’s faint now, a sleeping crescent moon at the top of my cheek. Grace that it didn’t hit my eye, methinks. Pure grace.

Pentimento.

Seven years old, my neighborhood friend
Chrissy rammed a big branch end into the tender space between my nose and my lips, that little grooved path that caps my cupid’s bow.

I’ve since learned its name is philtrum, and no hard feelings, but the game we were playing tattooed a constellation of broken blood vessels across my upper lip, and dotting towards the tip of my nose.

Pentimento.

At twenty nine I had some of that lasered away. Safe for the pale philtrum, not so for the tender lip herself, and so I carry the permanent memory of that day as some big red blotches across my lip. Lipstick never covers it completely.

Pentimento.

Teenaged and beyond, the blackheads landed on my nose and built whole neighborhoods there, and some pimple friends moved in to join them. An anxious one I was, and I discovered the simultaneous relief and delight of squeezing all those things.

So many years later, I can find a few little craters, and small dark lines that seem to drag one pore into another. Not enough so you’d notice, but my nose reminds me I lived through those times. And survived.

Pentimento.

At forty five the crinkling started. The skin at the outer corners of my eyes led the way.

Vertical lines across my forehead came a little later. Layering and playing with texture and color, nature gently added grooves. There are smile lines, and the little cupped channels below my eyes that trace the outlines of darker circles there.

Pentimento.

Sometime between then and fifty, one side of my mouth shifted downwards. It has the oddest effect, like half of each lip is larger, and the drooping side disappears into itself. Sometimes, I paint on lipliner to even it all out.

Pentimento.

Around fifty I began to notice that the skin was slowing way down. Once pressed and imprinted with pillow or a hand propping chin or cheek, she wasn’t so quick to plump back into her former texture and shape. Sometimes I carry the pillow lines until lunch, and I’m an early riser.

Pentimento.

The eyebrows have thinned. Some come in white, and there is a vacant patch in the thickest part of the right one. Sometimes, I pencil in some dark to seed that bare spot. Often, I don’t. The white hairs? I usually thank them for visiting before plucking them away.

Pentimento.

There are some random dark splotches over the cheeks, above the lip.. They call them age spots, I call them places of interest. I don’t cover these, though I wonder, sometimes, how many more will arrive, and if I’ll care.

Pentimento.

Face as canvas, and the mirror shows me the privilege of a longer life than many are given. On close inspection I find layer upon layer of sad and happy, hurt and scared, content and growing wiser. I find hope and despair, and lots of letting go, and a glaze of peace on top of it all.

Tender

Raccoon, bread, apple by Bink


Tender.

Unless I am speaking of meat,
which I mostly don’t,
the very word owns its ness,
as in,
what is tender
evokes tenderness,
and what calls that forth in me
is that which I am drawn towards,
or s/he whom I draw close,
or want to.

Draw close,touch,
be connected with, and to—
it’s like a song whose notes
sidle up beside each other
and seem happily married,
or a poem that dances
smoothly,
word to word,
meant to be silken,
not rough and chopped
like this one.

Tender.
Tenderness.

Decades ago, as a young mother, I joined a playgroup with the odd name of Warmlines. I was lonely in my complete consummation with motherhood, and with my baby. The group name continued to strike me as odd, until recently.

I am thinking of the people in my awareness that are hurting, that are celebrating, that are lonely, and tired, and scared. There are mothers whose adult children have complex special needs ( like my Bink) , and they are trying to hold their ground in choppy waters, and I so get this and I feel connected to their pain. There is the friend from a writing group who has recently been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer. I’ve never met her in person, but she is a sister of the pen. I can only hold her image in my heart, and pour small offerings of caring into her hands, her mouth, as I trek through my days. There is a friend whose brother has mental illness, and his dangerous behavior pulls something from my depths which reaches out to her. There is my dear Aunt, recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s, and my beautiful friend M who mourns the loss of her mother.

On the celebratory front, my niece is blossoming in her first independent teaching job, living in her own apartment. One of my Yogabilities™ students is in a new day program, an art program for adults with disabilities that encourages her immense talent and will also market her work. My own Bink is creating rather wonderful art in an afternoon class nearby. She also began horseback riding a year ago, and she has exceeded my expectations with her interest and ability.

There are so many more, people I know online, in person, people I know of through friends or family, all dealing with the sticky stuff of life. When I think about them, I visualize myself floating in a kind of emotional outer space, connected to each of these people, who are also floating. There are slender but strong ropes growing out from my body to theirs, or perhaps they originate from each of the others and find their way to a temporary home in my heart. The ropes are purple, and there is an energy pulsing through them; the energy of connection and compassion. That’s when it hit me. Warmlines. Tentacles of caring, linking us to one another as we journey through life. So tender, so very tender.

–Melinda Coppola

Mothering Outside the Lines

The Bus Stop Moms

From my morning window
I would watch
as they huddled casually,
tossed light conversation
back and forth,

an occasional
eye towards their kids
who played and laughed
together, finding sticks,
tracing shapes and letters
in the dirt.

After the big
yellow bus swallowed
their chattering children,
the moms would often stay
and talk a bit
in the easy way
women do
when they have things-in-common,

like an intact marriage,
and Pilates class,
and typically developing children.

I’d watch them wave to each other
as they’d part,
good-bye, see you later,
the bus stop moms turning
each towards her own
well manicured lawn,
highlighted hair shining in the sun.

I’d guess at market lists,
soccer schedules,
Girl Scouts tomorrow,
Johnny needs new sneakers,
such busy mommy thoughts
dancing in their heads.

From behind a fraying lace curtain
I’d imagine being one of them.
How carefree they must feel,
sending their kids off
without concern
for their obsessions,
compulsions, anxiety,
lack of toileting skills,
inability to communicate.

Without gnawing worry
that today might be the day
she bites the teacher again,
(who tells her to wait for the bathroom),

or rips at her clothes at recess,
(because it’s just too loud),
or has a meltdown during snack time,
(because the juice was the wrong color,
and nobody noticed signs
of the impending storm).

Almost two decades later,
the bus stop moms
are all grown up,
and so am I.

We still live in parallel universes,
they in their emptying nests, kids
off to college,
getting engaged,
traveling the world,

and I rarely compare
my apple to their oranges
these days,
having found the appetite
for what I have been served,

which is another way of saying
we can learn to love
what we’ve been given.

I’m busy slow dancing
a day, a week at a time,
having found my own
special mom circles,

and a different carefree
that doesn’t demand
grades, degrees, weddings,

having found a partner who
loves being her dad.

Different house,
the lawn still unkempt,
the curtain perpetually
in need of replacement,

these days I only peek out
to see the bunnies
so at home
in our untended landscape,
as am I,
as am I.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NAMED

Someone asked me

 

What is your name?
To name is to make known,
to specify, enliven, color in,
to make dimensional.

My surname: Verdant. Given name, Green and Round.
Given by me, to me. Green Round Verdant.
Or is that what I long to be?

My name is often She. She plus Who.
She Who Sings, She Who Creates, She Who Loves.

Define me, please, by what I love,
If you must define at all.

Being Gemini feels like
a delicious excuse to be myriad things,
many Shes, and so I introduce
She Who Flowers
She Who Avoids
She Who Storms.
She Who? She Who Knows
She Who Knows Much
She Who Knows Much about Little.

My name is Skin, warm and well-used,
mapped with roads of veins. Rivers of stretch
mark the spots where I expanded
to include more than I ever
thought I could, maybe
more than I should, so perhaps,
this She is named Adaptable.

Almost Crone.
That, too, is mine to claim.
She Who Softens into Aging, She
Who Welcomes the Amorphous Opening Nature of It.

That last one should be illegal, far too long.

Hungry. My name is Hungry for What?
Am I Too Hungry? My name is
Tell Me The Shapes of Your Hungers.

Yesterday my name was Tight.
Not Good Enough.
Not Enough. Never Enough.
My name was I Have Nothing Worth Saying.
May I Please. How May I Please?
May I Please, Please.

Towards tomorrow my name is Santosha,
short for
May I Be Content.
May I Be.
Content.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Caregiver’s Lament

I’m on the couch, somewhere in between sitting and reclining. My right leg is extended out in front of me, clad in a cast to the knee and elevated on an ottoman with a large sofa cushion on top. My left foot is resting on a stool. This is a position I’ve spent most of my daylight hours in over the past ten days. At night it’s bed, elevating the right leg on that same big couch cushion, sometimes with another pillow on top. The only change in this scenario is that today my left knee is bolstered by an ace bandage and receiving regular ice packs in hopes of reducing some of the painful strain that has developed there. I guess it’s hard to be the only supporting leg, the one that enables me to slowly lift and lower and hop a bit to my next resting place–– bed, toilet, couch again.

I am ten days out from a planned surgery to alleviate long-term foot pain from the effects of an old injury. It was just over a year ago that I’d received a proper diagnosis: a ruptured ligament, probably from almost a decade ago. Since ligaments connect bones together (and provide a sort of shock absorption,) over time the bones in the top of my foot, which should be flat, moved. The surgeon described the odd arrangements as “ Bone tips coming out of the joints. A ski jump, and everything coming up from the joint looked like a volcano. The cartilage was almost non-existent, tattered”. All of this was exacerbated by time and lots of use. Probably over use.

It hurt. It hurt a lot and for a long time. Nothing helped much or for long. Still, I taught Yoga and Yogabilities™ and walked and ran up and down to the basement doing laundry and did everything I do as long as I could.

Why, after learning that there is a surgery available for cases like mine, with an 85% success rate…why did I wait? I am a caregiver to someone with special needs. Someone to whom I am the solid ground, the steady horizon, the predictable and understanding presence that enables all the pieces of her days and nights to work together.

I know what you might be thinking, especially if you don’t happen to be, say, a parent of someone with special needs. Hmm, Melinda sounds like she has delusions of great self-importance. Maybe she thinks the world can’t spin without her direct push.

And I get why you might think this, I really do. I’m not mad at you in the least. It’s not quite like that, though. I don’t think I can do most things better than others, or that I’m imbued with any gifts more amazing than yours. I am, however, the one who knows Bink best.

I know her intractable fear of beads with holes, and her pure delight in the deep male voices she calls Oreo. I know her requirements for space between things; rising and mint tea, her morning desire for a short video in response to a question. I know when I am to respond verbally, when in text, and when to not respond at all. I know what to look for after the clothes are on; a twisted bra strap, pants or a shirt on backwards.

I know how important the food talk is. What will supper be? What day will she eat that treat someone gave her yesterday? She is tired of the big pot of soup we made together just yesterday and says “ Don’t force me to eat it.” I know how to patiently answer a question for the fiftieth time, or the five hundredth, and when to push a bit more flexibility, and when that will mean disaster.

I know how the world alternately perceives her as less than, and also as someone who should be capable of more. I know how to keep her hydrated and clean and warm enough and I know the exact time of year her hands will chap because she doesn’t dry them thoroughly.

I know how to translate her idiosyncratic language for others and how to help her advocate for what she needs and when to step in and when to let things be. I know she really needs to get out somewhere every afternoon, and that this is no more rigid or unacceptable than your need to, say, have your morning coffee.

(Can you imagine, by the way, being entirely dependent on others to bring you that coffee, just the way you like it? Can you imagine being told that you shouldn’t need it every day, that you should be more flexible about this? That perhaps tomorrow you will not have your coffee at all because you should be able to get used to not having everything you want all the time? I digress, and for that I’m only slightly sorry.)

I know her by heart. She is my heart. And this forced semi-invalid state I’m in, this inability to directly help her with the tasks of daily living and with keeping the pantry stocked and cooking her what she wants and driving her to her program and ensuring her supply of soft pink shirts will not run out ….well, it’s really hard.

I have Superguy, who is going above and beyond. We have some help from caregivers. I am incredibly grateful for this and for the fact that this is a temporary thing. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel thankful for access to good healthcare, something most of the world’s people do not have. And I know Bink will be ok, and that she and Superguy and I will likely grow from this in ways I can’t imagine. I know this journey is rich with lessons.

It’s still damned hard.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

Inner Child Remembers

young melinda coppola

Before The Tax

that adolescence imposes on body, mind, and spirit, probably in that order, there were hearty chunks of time that were some sort of unencumbered.

Inner Child remembers

discovering the fairies living well in tall flowers near the sandbox. How I loved to honor them, grabbing kid-sized chubby handfuls of sand and running through the tall stalks flinging the tiny granules. Oh, the sounds that Fairy Dust made! Songs in my ears and in my half-fairy heart. The magic-making kind.

The woods, the woods, the woods, acres of them, full of Brownies and Fairies and adventure. Long and free and wild days spent roaming the neighborhood, without fear or consequence.

On the first of May, I’d gather flowers from the garden and form them into weedy little bouquets. Carrying the wilting lovelies in my hands, I’d traipse ‘round to the neighbors. I’d stand on tiptoe to ring the doorbell, then place a bunch on the front steps, and dash out of sight.

One Christmas there was a little rubber duck, yellow. One of my older brothers had “wrapped” this for me by putting it into a huge box which he taped up. Made me wonder every minute until I got to open it. I loved that little duck so much, I’m quite sure it was my favorite gift that season.

Playing dress-up in the odd eaves above the stairs: I’d search the large steamer trunk housing big old velvet dresses, shapeless, and shawls. Layering myself in their heavy elegance, screwing rhinestones into my tender earlobes, shoving my small feet into pointy-toed high heels. I knew I was beautiful because nobody told me otherwise.

There was chocolate, sweet and smooth, melting in my hands, on my lips. There was the utter abandon of living well in my skin, loving having a body. No shame in me, yet. The eating for pleasure, until full, no thought of waist size or the “virtues” of making less of oneself.

Singing! Fancying myself an opera star, I’d belt out song after song, my 7 year old soprano notes echoing down the hall of that old childhood home.

After we moved from the big old white house with the gardens that housed fairies, I bonded with the small stream that ran through the new land. How I loved the deep mysterious smells of it, and the way it grew crayfish and little minnow things, and rotting leaves and mosses hugging stones.

There was the dreaming of horses, seeing myself riding them bareback and poised and strong.

Inner Child also remembers

watching poems write themselves, my hand dancing as the words flowed onto a notebook at my desk at the window.

There were the family trips to Cape Cod beaches in summer. My three siblings, my parents and I would cram into the wood-sided station wagon along with coolers and fishing poles, towels and beach toys. I rode in the way back, no such thing as seat belts then. At the end of the day, returning home, the tail lights of the other cars were Martian space ships. In fact, I was inevitably kidnapped by them, and they were forever whisking me away to an even better life.
—Melinda Coppola

SORRY

A woman and her young daughter
walked by me, heading opposite,

img_7491-3

Art by Bink. Looks like a girl flying to me!

on the narrow sidewalk
outside the Y this morning.

I’m sorry, Older She said
in passing
as women often do,
and though my mouth was silent
I wanted with all my heart to say

Please don’t apologize for taking up space.
If you want to regret anything,
be sorry for shrinking away,
making yourself small.
Anytime. Ever. You most of all,

a mother
to a daughter, will you please
lengthen, and widen. Stand up

and show your big glorious self

Spread your arms wide so
your daughter will see

how to fly.

My mouth stayed shut, though,
conscious as it was
about taking up room on my face.
and I thought, for the hundredth time,
the thousandth;
Those daily speaking engagements
Internally – thought,
Externally, conversation, —
are we not
often, or always,
speaking mostly, actually,
to ourselves?

– Melinda Coppola

 

On growing and knowing | Wisdom

wisdom tree

wisdom tree

The older I get the less I know. I woke with these words in my mouth, and they taste both new and true.

My birthday has arrived and this one is significant somehow in a way no others have been. Fifty five, as in 55! The exclamation point is genuine, because I am rather mystified at the speed with which time passes. Those numbers look so solid and substantial on the page. Time is one of the things I used to think I knew something about.

When I was young I thought I’d always know more as I got older, but I think I was confusing knowledge with wisdom. Knowledge says,” I know why the sky appears blue and when the tide will rise. I know which suspected carcinogens reside in that food and this shampoo. I know who the first ten US presidents were and where Albania is and how to say spring in Hebrew.” Knowledge knows from the head.

Wisdom does not concern itself with facts and figures. It doesn’t believe, it just knows. Wisdom is married, in a long-coupled and deeply familiar way, to an abiding trust in the ways of the universe. That loving marriage can bear many fruits, not the least of which is compassion. Wisdom knows from the heart.

Wisdom is humble, while knowledge can sometimes be arrogant. It seems to me, too, that knowledge is about acquiring, about taking things on, absorbing information. And knowledge can be incredibly useful for living in the world and getting by. Wisdom is about peeling stuff away, letting go of appearances and allowing the light and the darkness to complement each other. Letting go and allowing.

Part of my decision to start a blog relates to my relationship with wisdom. I’m moving closer to living authentically more of the time. This includes noticing and even embracing the fact that my head knows less than I thought it did. For example, I no longer know what path is right for you, why you act the way you do and why or how you can do what you do and say what you say. Wisdom means noticing and embracing that my heart knows more than I knew it did. For example, I know that when I trust my intuition I can flow with the river of life rather than try to swim against it. The blog? Intuition made me do it.

I look forward to a year of letting go and allowing, of knowing less and being more. And you know what, 55? That exclamation point looks good on you!