Arrivals

I’m posting this a day before my daughter’s 26th birthday. I’ve always felt, with certainty, that we were meant to incarnate this way, as mother and daughter, at this particular time in the life of this planet. I don’t need to know why, because I know it’s true.  Happy birthday, Bink. You are the best gift ever.

The Room Where Light Meets

Perhaps it began in a vast,
cloud filled room,
backlit with stars
and random flashes
of lightening,

or

the distilled bright
of a hundred
thousand dawns
that traveled,
speed-of-light style,
to their meeting place

to coalesce
perfectly and
right on time,
to kneel as pure light
before
the Beginner
of All That Is

where we
each received
our assignments,
and that

ethereal datebook,
days marked
in celestial
purple ink

to mark your conception,
and your birth,
full enspiritment,
yours as child,
mine as mother.

Perhaps there is no
random,
no haphazard,

perhaps we are all
always
right on time.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Natura Illustratio

Nature is a picture book
of wisdom and example,
an illustrated guide
to how we could
arrive, and live,
and die.

Take, for example,
a leaf in spring.
It draws from mother tree
the energy it needs
and not a drop more,
grows to the edges
of its vibrant
green potential
without once demanding
bigger, more, better.

The leaf in summer, deep
green and selfless,
offering shade and sustenance
without complaint
to the winged
and the crawlies,
the scamperers and
the two leggeds.

Leaf in autumn
clings until
the time comes
to let go,

and then it drops
without struggle,
allows itself
to be ushered downward
in gravity’s tender care,
right on time,

content to rest under snow,
yield to dank invitation
to become fertile carpet
warming earth,
no misgivings,
no regrets.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

Thalassophile’s Lament, August

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That place I left
my last glass of calm,
tabled and shimmering
like the Sun himself had reached
down and swished his mighty
steamy hand in its
vitalizing quell,

the place I leave
against my will,
bits of devotion
and enthusiasm dripping
from my fingers
onto sand which absorbs,

absorbs so nobody
except I would know
I was there, ever

and always resisting,
resisting the pull
towards fall,
responsibilities,
the reckoning
that bruises my hands

as I grasp, try, hold,
lose grip,
the salt air
and the light
which illuminates my delight

like nothing, no place
ever has,

 is always by the sea,
by the sea.

 —Melinda Coppola

 

The art that blesses my listening hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making Art with Beach Stones

My home hums with them–—
the smooth and rough,
pale and dark,
striped, speckled,
some with lines,
or bits of mica
mesmerizing the light.

They number
in the thousands by now,
populating table
and bins and buckets,
lining mantels and
perched on shelves,
all holding the sea,

having chosen to be plucked,
over years,
from their temporary,
sandy homes on beaches,
Massachusetts mostly,
with a Rhode Island minority,
a Florida few.

They called to me as I strolled,
or else I spied them first—
glimmering with sea water

having just rolled in
with latest tide,

or perhaps half buried
among their brethren,
co-habitating peacefully
in their transient villages

along a shore dotted
with shells broken and whole;
scallop and clam, oyster
and the thin,
pale yellow jingle shells,
the occasional smooth sea glass,

strewn with the crunchy brown or
slippery green salty seaweeds,

among seagull leavings
and the remnants
of humans at rest and at play—

and I asked the stones permission,
waited for yes,
cradled them
with my work worn hands,

guided them
into my cloth bag or
scratched bucket.

My home hums, perhaps
three thousand stones,
alive
as you or I,
just vibrating slower,

and they answer
as I approach, as I
hold, inquire
with loving intention,

as I invite them into art forms,
cairns,
ancient and new,
stacks and lean-tos,
bridges and
little families
all supporting one another.

We try one side, then another,
collaborate to find
balance

and then,
then we pause
breathe
feel,
and I wait for their final yes
or not this one, not now.

Together we make magic,
my humble hands
aligning each stone,

knowing
with all my six senses,
when I hear

yes. Right there.
We are perfection now.

 

-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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Praise at the end, for beginning there

A Prayer, Fertile

For all the beginnings
we cultivate from seeds,
lay to cradle in the richest earth,
give moisture with our tears,
our sweat and
handfuls of rainwater
like offerings to the deities
we name Hope,
or Light, or Fire of Creation,

I fall from standing
into some posture
that might be praise.

I kneel sinking
into seasoned earth,
fold my face
into the minerals,
offer my nose as home
for decayed corpses of beetles
and trees, musk
of the short lived creatures,
the remains of wildfires,

ashes of loves that didn’t last,
marriages that turned
their flowering heads away
from sun and plunged
broken stemmed
into that great brown blanket
to which all things return,
sacrificing their seeded
and petaled orbs
to the wombs of future loves,

making one with the source
of creation and destruction,
opening my mouth at last
to welcome fertile earth
and all I shielded myself
from and against,

and out come muffled songs
of dying love, their
notes traveling deep into the earth
and echoing back
as push for infant seeds
now traveling
up and up
towards the surface,
towards the light.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

Rocking the cosmic swirl

Rocking

It comforts me to know the old
couple across the street
just celebrated fifty years

in the same house. Fifty together years
with the home they perhaps chose
to be new in together,
a threesome of sorts,
their bodies joining brick
and hardened earth
settling and cracking
and pressing together,

adding more spackle
and grout
and laughter

with a child, then three more,
adding rooms
to contain the growing
and the mirth
and the tears
of those who were
fledged,
now gone.

When my soul grows weary
traversing tightropes—
such fast-paced, overloaded,
know-too-much times—
I look across the street,

to the wise and wizened pair
who are ever so busy
slowly rocking, in their old chairs,
on the porch,

and it consoles me to witness them,
soothes me to consider
the old ways of houses
and their people,
and the history of aged dwellings anywhere,
the ways these wood and stone
talismans seem to lean into
a wind or two that can elicit creaks,
groans even,

and their occupants
maybe know
they are being held up
by sagging floorboards
and crumbling plaster,
and the roof is losing shingles
fast as hairs on their heads,

yet they rock, and nod,
and smile
as if to say

where are you rushing to,
and don’t you know
all things fall apart.
We do, too,

so why not sit awhile,
give the swirling
sediment of your ancestors,
and the greening pollen
that falls from the trees
like stardust in the daytime,
a place to land.

See how the wind marries the light,
begets little particles of evidence
that you’re alive,
that others have been, too,
and ragweed and dander,
detritus of the whole cosmic swirl,

touch down on your arms,
have little dances
before they settle there.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

So many ways to say it. Be Here Now.

 

 

 

 

 

Between

Opening the red door to a new spring day.
my feet greet crumbs of last year’s leaves,
dotted with recent, light green pollen
all swirled into the little cove, entry
that guides me into and from
this place, this home,

and they rattle a brittle kind of music
together, new and old,
crunchy and soft,
before I even lift a sneakered foot
across the threshold.

There it is—a word, a season, a sound;
threshold, May, music,
and my mind goes to all the beginnings;
friends welcoming grandchildren,
my niece with a new Master’s degree,
and last eve, baby bunnies
shaped like promise
against the lovely, later dusk
in the front yard.

A poem, a sign,
seasons bumping up against
each other, and my mind
goes to all the endings;
one woman struggling with reason
in the wake of her husband’s suicide,
another, across the world, daily grieving
her young daughter,
who would be nearly eight now,
taken by a disease deemed too rare
to fund research for a cure.

Endings, beginnings, the seasons
tireless with their lesson plans,
and somewhere between
the celebrants
and mourners,
the rest of us keep forgetting
to be alive while we live,

and the wind keeps
reminding us—
breathe, breathe,
this too shall pass,
you too,

so be urgent with this
moment, press your face
into the grass,
let the musky earth
fill your senses,

get dirty
get wet,
leave the laundry
for another day.

 

-Melinda Coppola

Today’s Truth

We all have challenges, right? Bink has rocky periods, when her anxiety rises and OCD rears its particularly ugly head. There is no easy or quick fix for these times, though we try many things. When she hurts, I do, too, with my whole heart.  I know things will change, because they always do, but today this how things look from my window.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s Truth

I could write all sorts of words,
poems, songs, I could
take pictures and post
on Facebook, showing
the world
(or the twenty who’d read it )
my strongest doing fine face

and maybe share
that one of me in the Florida sun,
beach behind, smiling into the iphone
all shiny teeth and Aren’t I lucky
and
See how lovely it is here.

Truth is,
this morning
my daughter awoke
navigating a battlefield
familiar and grim.

Her foes—
anxiety, obsessions,
compulsions—
filling her head
with demands and
little terrors,

and I can only
pierce my skin,
pull my heart through the hole,
weave my love into a soft armor
and toss it around her shoulders,

and from the periphery,
shoot blind bullets
into the invisibles
she wrestles with,
use words
more powerful
than theirs,
hope to gain ground
through repetition.

I can only
turn my whole self
inside out,
reach into my center
and grab steaming handfuls
of my fortitude and
my perspective

and fling them towards her,
tell her this is medicine,
this is salvation.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

Poetry, Autism, and Statistics, Oh My!

Hello!

I’m happy to share that  my poem, Autismville, won the Songs of Eretz Readers Choice Award Contest, and another of my poems, 7 AM, came in second!  If you’d like to see the official announcement, you can click HERE   If you voted in the contest, thank you, thank you!

This is an international contest, so it can’t be just my little ol’ cheering section of friends and family that helped this particular poem to win. Maybe the results reflect a growing interest in learning about autism, but I think it’s as likely that it mirrors the increasing numbers of people receiving the diagnosis.  More and more people know someone who is on the autism spectrum, and perhaps that means that lots of folks can relate to my poem. The latest National Health Center for Health Statistics data puts the autism stats at 1 in 36. Yep, that means that, of every 36 children alive today, there is one who fits somewhere on the autism spectrum. There are many arguments, many opinions about the true prevalence of autism in the US and worldwide, but there is no doubt that the numbers have risen dramatically in the last few decades. Bink was diagnosed in 1994, and my early, frantic research at that time placed autism at 1 in 10,000 people. I think the stats were actually more like 5 or 6 in 10,000 then, but my first information resources were library books and her first pediatrician, and neither of those sources was quite up to date.

Sometimes, people ask me why I think the prevalence rate has increased. My answer has been the same for the last decade or so: I believe it’s a combination of factors. This thing called autism is an umbrella term for  a collection of symptoms, and I believe there are multiple influencers. More children are being diagnosed, and at earlier ages, but that only accounts for a part of the increased numbers. I count vaccination schedules, genetics, environmental toxins, in utero exposure to certain maternal illnesses, medications administered to moms during pregnancy and/or birth, and lots more in varied combinations. Too, because I am a spiritual person and I believe we are all here to learn certain essential individual lessons and to share our unique gifts, I sense there is an element of fate involved. Note: in some corners, them’s fightin’ words!  I am not here to argue with your opinions or defend my beliefs, so if that’s your impulse, take it elsewhere, please and thank you.

Look, it is critical that research is funded and continues. I really, really hope science can at least find a way to ease or eliminate the most difficult manifestations of autism, like self-injurious behaviors, seizure disorders, inability to communicate, and utter lack of safety skills and self-protective impulses. But my beautiful daughter is here now, and that’s where the bulk of my attention and energy flow. As her mother, there is much I can do to make her life easier and better. As a writer, there is a little bit I can do about raising awareness and perhaps helping people understand the magnitude of the challenges Bink and so many others face. As founder and teacher of Yogabilities™, I can help people with autism and other disabilities in my community feel a little stronger, more balanced, and more flexible, and I can help them learn some basic and portable stress reduction techniques.

You’ve probably heard a few different quotes from some really interesting people like Voltaire, Confucius, and Shakespeare, suggesting that we not let perfect get in the way of progress.  Our allotted time is short , and doing nothing will change nothing. When Bink is struggling with something, we go over (and over, and over) her strategies. I’m trying to teach her that there is always something she can do to help herself.  Expanding on that, there is always something each of us can do to help others, including people with autism and their families. What seems like a little can feel like a lot.

It begins with acceptance, and a desire to understand a very different way of being. When people are curious about Bink, I don’t interpret it as rudeness. I’m glad to answer questions, or suggest ways they can engage with her.  It continues with respect for all people, including those that don’t talk, and those that flap their hands, and those that spin, and those that don’t make eye contact. That means the Neurologist in that top rated hospital could’ve handed me his written assessment, rather than reading aloud his list of her supposed deficits and offering a bleak prognosis, while she stood at my side, taking it in. That means the waitress in the restaurant could ask Bink what she wants to order instead of asking me what she’ll be having, as if she isn’t there. If Bink can’t answer, I’ll step in, but please, waitress, treat her like the adult she is.  That means the dad in the CVS could reassure his little girl that she can tell Bink her name when she asks, rather than averting his eyes and turning away, which teaches his daughter to do the same in the future.

When in doubt, assume competence, do unto others, and be kind. Little things, big impact.

Stepping off the soapbox now, and signing off.

-Melinda Coppola