On Technology, Mobility, and Relinquishing Control

Techno Turbulence, with Mobility Hiatus Ahead

The daylight came,
an everyday miracle
and I rose to it
with pure intentions.

My poet’s heart drummed
insistent rhythm,
and I sang along
with equanimity.

Thing one:
A stack of forms to be filled
and filed on behalf of a dear one.
Make it yesterday, please,
An email implored.
Do it now do it now do it now.

Missing information,
more forms, phone calls,
passwords unknown,
log-ins shunned,
more than an hour of this,
and still my heart tapped,
and I could imagine poems
conceiving themselves in the space
between the beats.

Thing two:
An email announcing
Warning: Make this change.
Current system will become obsolete,
do it now do it now do it now.

There was a snag, and then
another, as snags often inbreed,
multiplying with unreasonable speed.
Four phone calls, information relay,
You’ll need to use your mobile now
and your debit card.
Give us the numbers.

I don’t want to give you my cell phone.
I don’t use debit cards.

No, Ma’am, you are not allowed
to be living without one. A mobile device,
and a card that sucks at your bank account
with no paper in between. No,
it is not possible to make this essential upgrade
without those conduits.

It was a weak song dribbling
from the flower in my chest, my lotus,
my center, my home.
It was a song nonetheless.

Thing three:
The upcoming surgery
will render you housebound,
one-legged, near useless
in the Ways of the Running of Things,
and well and truly deficient
in the Caregiving Department.

That’s just my primary occupation,
ensuring the health, safety, happiness,
comfort and continuity
for the two-leggeds,
one with special needs, one without,
and for the five furry four-legged ones.

It’ll only be some weeks,
six or seven or eight,
and then you’ll be among the mobile again,
walking on two feet ,
showering and trotting up and down stairs,
driving, even.

Beneath my ribs I sensed a hum,
weak yet audible,
and if it were a worded thing,
lyrical, elucidating,
it may have sung

Long night ahead, love.
Tuck yourself in tight,
prepare to lose control.
Dream deep and know:
daylight will come again.

-Melinda Coppola

From the First of November, 2017

Because sometimes it takes a whole month to write it down.

I type with hands that are redolent with garlic, onion, and freshly grated ginger. Today contains a chunk of time for cooking, with hearty stew for him, and Indian spinach rice, spicy, for her.

I walk and sit and rest and work with a heavy heart, weighted near equally with sadness over my cousin Philip’s sudden passing and with the aftermath of a terror attack in NYC. From both those stews, I pull the same saturated question: Is this the new normal, then? Will my peers, other cousins, friends, siblings, begin the dying times now? Is terror on the streets a new given in these not-so-united States?

This is not the self-portrait I want to create. This is the real and Wednesday me, though, as I slosh through to-dos with a heart that is stretched out from carrying big sacks of sad.

And yet, and yet. Perhaps my jiggly, overstretched atriums and ventricles have ever more room for loving, and accepting. Compassion for all beings, or as many as I can find my way towards/ forgiving and embracing and

that Voice, the one that doesn’t belong to me, the one I know I am a part of, soothes low and smooth with notes of

It will be OK. This, too, shall pass.

There is much work to be done here. Tikkun Olam, heal the world you got, baby, and it is good and honest work of heart to hands, heart to words

written
and spoken
and sung.

–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

Autographing Autumn

I was walking, first field–
verdant, moist , glorious
carpet of greens,

and the woods edged closer,
with a beckoning trail,
and then the floor was pine needles,
punctuated with wily
old roots in no
pattern whatsoever.

Sky was rarified blue, bluer,
an artist’s glad canvas,
background perfection to

the leaves! Yellow and orange,
rusty brown, green,
pure gold, shimmering
against that ocean of sky.

A gradual descent
along the acceptably
man-made path ,
and then a turn revealed
more signs of us:

piles of stones and bits
of writing paper, a charm,
all left like an offering
atop a stump.

How interesting, humankind.

That we feel a need to sign everything,
as if
he, she, they, we
were in any way contributing artists,

as if we are desperate
to make ourselves known,
to say, in some small or grander way,
I am here.
I was here.

How is it that the leaves of oak and maple,
the chipmunks, the needles of pine,
are so willing to be here and then go,
in their time,

but we
who fancy ourselves smarter, more capable,
have so much difficulty
letting go?

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

BRIDGES

We are pausing on a bridge
over the dwindling stream
that crawls through our large,
local dollop of green, Bird Park,

because we always pause, she and I,
on every little bridge
that spans any river anywhere,

so she can look down
from first one side,
then the other,
at that liquid light
which is water in the daytime,

one of many rituals
that string our days and months
together
like a prayer flag.

I watch her watching water,
wondering if she notices
how much thinner the stream
than just last week,

and my ear goes towards the toddler
just arrived and
tumbling in the grass nearby,
which calls my gaze there, too.

The child laughs and spins
as her female loving presence-
Mother, Nanny—tosses a little pink ball.

Too quickly to stop,
ball is rolling into stream.
Just as fast,
the child’s laughter turns to wails,
improbably huge, garish sounds
from such a small body,

and my gaze shifts back to daughter,
who is now squinting,
now covering her ears,
turning away from bridge and water
and back towards the safety of the path
leading away from wailing child.

Now daughter is tense,
and each person, each dog we pass
might be a reason to become undone,
an insult to the tightly wound
system of nerves and cellular memories
ticking in linear, illogical time

and I think of all of us,
everywhere,
living with and without Autism,
carrying years of triggers,
a hundred reasons to become undone,

and how we are each,
at any given hour, maybe
a few breaths away from meltdown,

and the marvel is
how we hold it together,
or pretend to,
in a time when mass shootings
are just a few more storms
punctuating the news cycle,
and everything seems cracked,
precarious.

We find the safety of the car,
she and I,
and an hour later she is
singing in the market,
luscious bluesy notes
in perfect pitch,

and my own triggers recede,
and I think yes,
yes, this is how we go on.

This is how we’ll go on.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

The Art of Being Present

art by my friend Marina Powdermaker. Find more of her work at https://www.etsy.com/shop/MarinaPowdermaker

PAST

where I am rereading the same testimonies from the same perspective: accused, accuser, over and over the details wearing deep grooves into the ledger in my mind. It must be truth, Mind says then, because I can’t erase the lines.

FUTURE

has to be better than the here and now. I can make it better. I must! Ghosts from presents past are riding my shoulders, clinging to my beltless loops as I try to be light, unencumbered, different than before. Not just different, but better! It must be, I must be.

PRESENT

is like painting with my hands, in watercolors. Moments melt into hours into whole days like huge blank walls with no rules allowed. Some lovely velvet jazz meanders through my consciousness. Here I learn to stop discerning boundaries, all that versus of mind/ body/ spirit settling into patterns, now shifting again and again, the leveling sand between layers. It’s like finally falling awake this day to the bright understanding that life is papier mache, layers of transparent color cleaving to a whole. We gotta be in it to see it.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

Perhaps you’re an island, but you’re still in the world.

Mass Deception

There’s no wonder here.
No wonder we are so
tight tense irritable. Sick more often.
No surprise, no wonderful
to see you,
no more
pleasantries masking indifference
or contempt.

We have been stripped,
no more luxury of pretty
gauzy layers.
Gone are the rote
smiles and murmurings of
sorry I’m sorry excuse me
if we brush against
each other in line,
at work, on the sidewalk.

We are laid almost bare,
our held hates and assorted isms
sloganing en masse
across the country, red
rivers and blue, across
T-shirts and hats
being made in China or the Philippines
by seven year old girls,

and lest we claim
Not I, Not us,
as we proudly flaunt our own
anti-slogans, anti-isms,
sprawled across those same
sweatshop shirts and hats
and on our Facebook pages,
and plumping up our poems and podcasts,
lest we even try to hold
an innocence,

the omnipotent voice,
that which cannot be controlled,
hums beneath the surface
like a million bees in the hive,
whispers and shouts

“We are all one.”
And
“What you do to the other
you do twicefold to yourself.”

Make no mistake.
The Voice will, eventually,
keep us up at night and
beat us down in the light of day,
refusing to leave us alone,
because we aren’t, after all,
alone, and we never were.

What will you
or I
or we
perpetrate, perpetuate,
manifest and instigate
on this day?

Love isn’t love,
if it’s splintered, factional,
and the sun doesn’t shine brighter
for one country, one race, one belief system.

It seems to me we are like pearls
on an endless looping necklace,
having been hidden in a muted shell,
born of irritation and a need for protection,
our beauty is kept from the larger world.

Such a lustre when, emancipated,
soothed and smoothed by mutual respect,
which is a kind of love, after all,

we come together
to sway and jostle and shine,
and oh! How we shine.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Times Like These: Silver Linings of Caregiving

THANK YOU, TEDIUM

 

In the midst of the interminable news;
all-bad-all-the-time,
chaos and tragedy,
aftermath and predictions,
close ups and sound bites
that feed worry
and starve hope,
invite helplessness,

inside this swirl,
this modern quotidian,
there is something else,
not exactly calm, but steadier ground,

and I, who have recently
allowed my own heart to rent space
to darkness and fear,
I’ve watched myself mistrust
this solid ground,
guessing it to be the eye
of the larger storm
which I’ve been naming
How Things Are Now.

This morning, my daughter’s needs
rose strong and clear,
as they often do,
and I turned my intention
towards her, and them,
felt cool, hard floor beneath my feet,
and there it all was before me
spread out like a map
for my frayed, lost senses:

The morning tea and
the reading of her dream,

the string of reassurances
against her fears of the day,

the mechanics of a smoothie,
first juice then fruit,
now let’s shield our faces from the splash
of berries into liquid,
now earplugs before blender,

morning pills and
pink shirt, yes,
let’s try the pants again,
this time with the tag in the back,
and oops! Your shoes found the wrong feet,
and can we make those laces nice and tight?

Packed lunch, yes,
the soup is salty,
the pickles tart, yes, yes

yes there will be late sleep on Saturday,
yes, Mom is a girl,
yes we will go out this afternoon,
yes you will have a snack,

and in the thick of this,
our rituals,
a slow, slow dance of repetition,
naming all the parts
of the day,

I almost fell to my knees,
silently thanking
God/Goddess/ That-Which-Makes-Stuff-Happen,
for the ordinary work of caregiving,
sweet tedium
tethering me to the here and now,
almost sacred in its simplicity.

Eyes on task at hand,
heart humming
with the love that fuels
this tending,
binding me to that which is real,
and necessary,
and lifesaving
and true.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

CONSORTIUM

Superguy is a very private sort. I am too, in my way. There are times, though, when things need to be said, out loud and in public.
In a time when stress and fear seem like national pastimes, love ought to be celebrated, and shared. Happy Anniversary, Superguy. You make my heart sing.

Consortium

Up before you,
I hear your shuffle
down the morning hall,
the clearing of your throat,

and my head turns
of it’s own accord, trained
by years of practice,

and I’m looking for your face
turned towards mine,
your ruffled silver hair
catching the morning sun,

and that slight nod of your chin,
the quiet grunt
which I know is your
Good morning,
I love you,
you mean the world to me.

You’ll head towards the kitchen,
seeking hot tea, which I
will have made for you,

and on the way you’ll
greet a cat
or two, or three,

and then there will be music:
your spoon in the green mug,
the refrigerator creaking open,
the muted pop of the soy milk carton
perhaps the crinkle of wax paper,
the bowl chiming a welcome
to the shredded wheat,

and I may or may not rise
from the couch or the Yoga mat
to hug you,

and I may or may not
give voice to that
which blooms inside my heart
when you enter the day in my sight,

that which, even now,
after years, after miles,
after challenges we couldn’t have foreseen,

sings the sweetest song,
Good morning,
I love you,
You mean the world to me.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

WHO WILL SING? Autism, Adulthood, and Home

Bink and the big, wide sea

 

WHO WILL SING?

She gets older, this daughter of mine,
as do I, and the heavy question behind
each day, and woven now into each year:
what about when I’m gone?

She can’t live with you forever
I’m told, and I know this to be true.
Some of her peers, twenty-ish,
thirty-ish, middle aged,
have gone to group homes,
happily or not so,

and still the world spins,
and more questions arise,
for the options aren’t
pretty or plentiful,
and my imaginings vacillate
between dark and bleak.

Who will sing to her, mornings,
and guard the rituals
that define her boundaries?

There are the questions she asks
of songs, or objects, or days,
or other people, some of them dead,
some she has no contact with,
and I am to answer them
as if I am that person, that thing,
ten a week, typed up by Friday at 3pm.

There is the morning question or statement, often cryptic,
and she anxiously awaits my videotaped response,
though I am in the same room.

There is the crucial, long enough pause
between activities,
the deciphering of scrawled dreams,
decoding her language
in time to understand
she means This
and not That,

planning the next day’s snack,
next week’s lunch,
offering the hair,
two sided and girl shaped,

reminding and re-answering
a hundred times a day,
why him and not her,
why people say this,
do that,

what it means to advocate
in front of people,
in real time,
rather than to the air,
in a corner, hours later?

You say
she will adjust.
You say
she will deal,
must learn to cope,

and if I weren’t so damned appropriate
I’d ask you what it would be like
if someone took control of your every activity
because it’s easier that way,
(for them),
because they don’t understand
what you need,
because there are four or five others
living with you
who need things too,

what if the notes, the records,
the story of your life,
were left in a drawer somewhere,
unread, or read only once
by a supervisor
in an office somewhere,
and

what would it be like
if your clothes were too
rough against your skin,
and you didn’t have the words,
or, if you did,
they came out a month, a year later,
and so you had to wear these garments
that sandpapered your tender flesh

and then when you scratched your arms
til you bled,
what if you were given
a behavioral plan to curb
that thing you were doing to cope?

I’d ask you what it would be like
if the proverbial walls of your house ,
the very things you count on
to be there, day after day,
your schedule, your calendar,
your To-Do list,
were erased one day,
and the people you count on,
let’s call them staff,
changed every few months,
and didn’t read the notes about you,
or forgot what was in them,

and you were expected to be compliant,
do as you’re told,
and deal with it,
even if you didn’t like
the food you were given,
the activities you were driven to,
the staff who you relied on
for food, for a bath,
the others who shared the place
you are now supposed to call home?

Too attached, you say?
Am I melodramatic, or just well read?

You do the research,
ask around,
go check out the houses
you say she should live in,
be the fly on the wall,
and the report back to me, please.

I distract myself
with the gifts, the burdens,
the details of her life.
Tea too hot,
song too rough,,
packed lunch was uninteresting,
everything needs more salt.

In the land of Autism
the tiniest thing
can make or break a day,

and when it breaks—
the day, or my heart—
when it breaks
the healing is slow, uneven,
and the memory of every assault
on the nervous system,
hers or mine,
seems imprinted on the walls
of her cells, of this place
she calls her home,

but here we incorporate it into the décor,
write poems about it,
scratch an itch against the rough
patch in the plaster.

We make it all right.

All right then,
Tell me true—
Who will sing to her
When I’m gone,
Who will sing?

 

-Melinda Coppola