Light it up blue?

 

Autism Awareness month is April,
World Autism Awareness Day, April 2
and, in case the day lacks color,
(as if any day with Autism in it could be dull),
the mysterious Namers-of-Days-and-months
have painted it a medium sort of blue.

I wonder who decided this;
and how it was chosen,
this perfectly ordinary second day,
and weighted with a long middle
moniker, like a fish
plucked out of the ocean,
tagged and thrown back
into what used to be
a perfectly ordinary fourth month.
And why a color? Why this one?
Does Autism look like blue
to outsiders?

Pondering this, I roll up my sleeves,
prep the tub for her,
the one who turned my life on its ear,
she who makes me laugh,
she who wears me out,
she who is a master of repetition,
she who defies reduction,
who is multi-colored, many-hued.

She who is unaware of your awareness,
who, if asked, would mutter “ Not interesting”,
she who needs help with a bath
but can take a thing
and spell it backwards,
report to the air/no one in particular
how many redundant vowels it contains,
and how her lunch reminds her
of Home on the Range.

She who hears songs in color,
who does not stay in her bed all night,
who is frightened of beads with holes,
she who knows if there’s a day to be aware of
it’s the fourth Friday in February,
which is called Ate Baby Kate, and that means bad,
and therefore must be worried about
many months in advance,
she who can sing whole CDs in order,
she who tells me thirty times a day
that I’m a girl ( in case I forget)

She who needs more than I have
who gives more than I need
who has more than you think,
who is more, so much more,
than you give her credit for.

And so, dear you-who-aren’t-aware,
please allow me to set the record straight.
Autism is multi-colored,
and awareness is every single day,
and no blue second day of any fourth month
will ever matter more
than your interest, your kindness, your respect,
your willingness to help us challenge
a world that would reduce anyone
to an assumption
or a label
in one color
on one day
within one month.

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

I’m just the messenger

Lurleen Lumpkin, from The Simpsons

 

Sometimes, it’s a struggle to write. Lots of sometimes. There’s so much inside that wants to come out! So, picture this: I’m at my desk, all serious-like, trying to hone words into pictures, to allow the pen to move and accept what comes without judgement, and then to be brave and put it out there for you to (hopefully) read. I’m kind of hunched over in a very un-Yogic way. My brow is probably furrowed. And then this, …this stream of country western song lyrics comes pouring forth! I mean, I’ve always wanted to learn to play guitar, but this??  So, after my laughter died down a bit, I sat up straight, took a deep breath, and put it into this blog post. The Muse may have called the wrong number, but who am I to hang up the phone?

 

LAST NIGHT THE WIND

It was blowing and moaning and
(I imagine)
Singing and lowing and
( I believe)
weaving it’s way into and through
any old regrets I’ve had about you
What’s a grown woman to do?
Last night the wind
had me singing along, stringing along
my old Pollyanna-ly ways
Last night the wind
had me winging and winging
til my arms felt they’d burst
with me bringing and bringing
the news of some positive positive shift
the news of some mighty big changes.

When all’s said and done,
life rearranges and don’t we adapt or
we die? Sometimes
we adapt and that means something ends
as a means to an end, so
can’t we allow
The wind to go blowing and moaning
singing and lowing and
weaving it’s way into and into and through
Removing old regrets I once had about you
Goodbye old regrets about you

 

Melinda Coppola

Alone, I am island

Photographer unknown.

I am an unpopulated island
in a teeming quicksilver sea.
I am a sturdy outcropping,
raw, rocky, ravaged
by two thousand years of volcanoes,
seismic shifts.
I am a testimony to the chaos
from which all life begins.

“We’ll smooth, says the ocean, it’s what we do—
soothe and smooth and
flatten your sharp edges, make nice
with all your singular points of upheaval.

Together we’ll make sand.
It will be soft between the toes
and the claws and the webs
of the two and four footed ones
that will someday want to walk your beaches.”

I am an island of resistance
in a placating sea. I will not crumble
under ocean’s incessant coax
towards making more of less,
or less of more.

I am an unpopulated island
in a sea of we-will-change-you.
I live, not to please or appease
a greening
groaning planet,

but to touch the very heavens
with my rocky peaks!
To push the clouds aside,
write my story, cursive
but not cursory,
in pointed stone
across the smooth blue sky.

–Melinda Coppola

Poet’s notes:  I am truly captivated by stories of people like Charles Baird, who lived for a year alone on an essentially unpopulated island off Alaska. I am introvert and dreamer enough to imagine a current of deep and wild joy that could fuel such an endeavor.

Of Names and Noses

Spirit Essence Portrait of Bink, done in watercolor by artist Melissa Harris

Of Names and Noses

I gave my daughter a blog name first and foremost to respect her privacy. Oh, I’ve told her that I write about her sometimes, because she is so awesome and amazing and interesting and people need to hear about things like that. I’ve asked her permission as well, and she has, in her way, given it. Her understanding of the implications of having her name “out there” along with some of the stories of our life…well, it’s limited. So I prefer to provide an extra little cushion between her life and my tellings about it, and thus the pseudonym.

Why Bink?

Some years ago on a pretty blue and green star in a galaxy near you, a child was born. No ordinary child, this! She came with the requisite parts, but her mind was put together ever so differently, woven in complicated abstract designs. There was no instruction manual.

This child was given a beautiful name, and she was loved very, very much. As she grew, it was pretty clear she was not a mainstream sort of child, and the collection of anxieties and oddities, interests and delays and symptoms she embodied came to be called autism. She grew some more, and some words came, but she was not able to tell the world what she felt and what she needed, at least not in the regular way.

Her anxieties were growing, too, and they were super-sized and showed up in myriad ways. One of those ways had a lot to do with touching people. Not your standard hug or shake-a- hand kind of touch, but rather little fingers ( hers) darting out to bop a baby on the head, or touch a nearby nose. That kind of touch became something like compulsion, and that need got bigger and stronger when she was anxious, and that in turn made her more anxious. So there was the urge to touch, and then the anxiety about the urge to touch, and that made the urge even bigger, and round and round it went. She passed through the bopping babies on the head phase, but the urge to touch noses never did fade.

The child’s Chief Interpreter and bodyguard ( that would be me) was always looking for ways to make lemonade of the bumper crop of lemons that grew up in and around the autism, and the anxiety, compulsions and fears. Somewhere along the way, the child and the Chief Interpreter began to assign sounds to certain touches. It was a collaborative effort, and one day the fingers touching noses elicited a “Bink!” from the child, and CI laughed and smiled and this became a good thing, a fun thing. It was also a teaching tool about whom to touch, and where, and when, and so the child began to touch noses of family members and caregivers with a definitive “Bink!”, and that was OK or even good.

The next learning was about permission, a challenging concept for a person who had little sense of others having their own preferences and feelings and thoughts. The child learned that strangers and other non-caregiving types did not make that bink sound, and in fact made scowly faces and sometimes got upset and had what she came to call a ‘dangerous” voice. She also learned when and where the binks were not OK. In the car, for example, not OK to touch the driver’s nose unless stopped at a red light. Super Guy, my husband and Bink’s stepdad, and I had the whos, whats, and whens covered.

And so, the unified gesture and sound that is a bink moved right into the child’s life and became a permanent part of the lexicon. Sometimes the touching noses came when the child was anxious. This happened especially when she was in school and with people whose nose did not make a bink sound. When she was with her Chief Interpreter, though, and other assorted family members and understanding types, the child began to seek out binks for reassurance.

There even evolved a nose-to-nose bink, whereby she would touch the tip of her nose to another understanding sort of person, and a bink would come. This happened most especially with her CI, yours truly, though she sometimes would approach a select few with a request, “ Nose to nose?” Her CI hastened to assure the chosen few that this was indeed an honor, and they’d best partake.

Next came a variation where her nose would meet CI’s cheek or vice versa, and thus a cheek bink was born. This bink is and was reserved for CI alone. There is also a specific sound that precedes a cheek bink. It sounds like an awwww one might coo at a baby human or sweet little animal that embodies cuteness.

When Super Guy and Chief Interpreter had a talk about a blog name for this child ( who is now 24), no one or two words instantly arose in their minds. As they considered, over days, this young woman’s utterly unique ways of being, her quirks and her rituals, the bink thing began to rise from the mist. It just seemed so right, especially because it has evolved into a happy, loving thing.

So there, in a nutshell, is the background of the bink. It’s grown more nuanced over time; it now sometimes paired with a need to touch CI’s hair. For the record, the hair should be symmetrical, an equal amount of the left and the right. This is known as “two sides.” and in fact the day cannot begin without this sweet ritual. But that, my friend, is a story for another time.

–Melinda Coppola

 

Cat Calls

 

for Super Guy

4 am, the favored time for felines in this house;
to dance a catty jig across my soft belly,
scale the cliff your side-sleeping body makes
as it juts, dark and warm, one shoulder
reaching towards the ceiling which,
if I squint my sleep-eyes just so, looks
quite like a February sky.

She slides—the cat who loves you most,
the one-eared gray
with a face like Mona Lisa—she slides
gracelessly into the valley where your neck
and shoulder meet, landing
with a small thump, and you half sigh,
breath paused as if considering,
in your dream state, the wisdom of rousing
to shoo away the one
who has attached herself to your heart,
whose paws and claws have daily
and nightly worn a path
through your resistance,
laying claim to the continent of your body,
staking out the exact place
where she anchors her nose to your neck.

This is the muted drama of our lives,
a home whose floors and walls have been
downright humbled by five
felicitous four-leggeds,
a house that swirls with fur,
No matter how hard I try,
I say to guests, but truly
I have given myself up to it—the wee hour wails
and squeaks and the sure way the littlest one
dashes under the bed at the slightest
nearing footstep, and the uninvited
company in the bathroom,
where sets of big eyes
green, golden, brown,
watch my ablutions
with what feels like bemused
tolerance with –perhaps – a side of love,
thought it might be anticipation too,
‘cuz it’s always
almost dinner.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

Seeing Through

I am so pleased to share that the poem below was published on the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review yesterday!  If  you want to see the actual page with the Editor’s choice of photo, and check out Song of Eretz Poetry Review in  general, click here:

 

Seeing Through

Melinda Coppola

In the summer, after rain,
over mint iced tea this time her weary
eyes, careless gray hair fell, heavy,
onto drooped shoulders. The blouse
so inappropriate, I thought, seeing
right through it. A woman should
wear a nice bra at least, I thought, seeing
right through.

I hadn’t wanted it, this awkward date.
She’d caught me off guard with her call.
These days I loathed forced smiles,
cheeriness that smothered the bare
truth of my life. Avoided Let’s have coffee
at all costs. Off guard.
I tried not to look again at her
tasteless I thought again bra
that wisp of a blouse on one her age
seeing through it. Right through.

Focused now on her thin lips, feeling
downright mean
I made to-do lists in my head
as she went on and on trying
to reach a point, perhaps, or find words
…died….I heard her say
murdered in his apartment. They think
my heart skipped a beat
it was a random burglary he
shame crept crimson into my selfish
was to be twenty the next day.
Her eyes bore holes into my skin, words
peeled away my feeble layers. Seeing right through.

-Melinda Coppola

Poets Notes: This piece sprung up from the surprisingly rich ground of mild depression, fertilized with distraction and the human tendency to make assumptions about others without actually entering their story.

In the old country

Albert Tromara,
my father
1926-2001

 

 

“In the old country….”, he began
and she thought,
he’s confused again, he wasn’t there…
and she remembered all
the stories he told of growing up in Roxbury,
only son of Albanian immigrants who worked hard
in the bakery, and he as a boy
worked alongside them.

On a rare afternoon off,
he’d join the others, first generation kids
from assorted old countries,
and they’d make do,
roll balls of twine
to play softball in the Boston streets.

“We worked hard, but life was simpler”…..
and she thought about how the contrasts were starker,
juxtapositions hard-angled and that now
the greatest discipline was to keep
from having too much, too many things,
to have just enough
in this land of cheap goods,
such irresistable colors
and ads all imploring
buy me! I alone shall
make your life complete!

And then her heart began to ache
and she was missing him, missing him,
and then she looked up
realized she was talking to her husband’s father,
not her own at all
for he was dead fifteen years now
and this one, this sweet
old man speaking in a thick accent
did hail from the old country,
or one of them, and
she took a deep breath,
fixed her eyes upon him
and began to listen.

 

Melinda Coppola

 

The Feather and the Leaf

 

Picture this: it was cold, and I stood among trees. Many, many trees. I looked up, and there they were. A feather and a leaf, floating through the air, not quite up or down but sideways, lifted along by some gusts of coldish wind. Could they be friends, and traveling together? I ruminated on this while formulating interview questions to ask them about their roots and their journeys, specifically this one.

Before I continue, true confession: I know the language of forks and plates and furniture and random other things considered to be not-alive. These so-called inanimates communicate clearly, and I happen to hear them and usually endeavor to fulfill their simple requests, like placement in drawers and cupboards and being allowed a good slant of afternoon sun. It’s the least I can do, given all they do for us. There are many stories there, but they must wait for another time. Stories are good at that, have you noticed?

Anyway….

I was thinking, that day among the trees, that the language of feathers and flying leaves might be beyond my reach. Oh, I feel pretty sure that if I’d studied their languages when I was young, I’d be able to bridge any communication gap now. Like so many things, though, I put away my forest fancies and my birdy songs when I was oh, so young. The bigs told me other things were more. More important, more acceptable, more real. And so, like littles everywhere, I abandoned my whimsy and denied my fairy genes.

There I go again, with the digression thing. It happens all the time; words arise that just must be written and as I honor them I lose sight of—well, in this case, I lost sight of the feather and the leaf. They disappeared around a corner, between a few big trees. Which got me to wondering if I could ask the trees if they’d seen them. Which got me to wondering if I could learn the language of trees. Which brings me here, to this writing, and gets me wondering if the Grammar Police will ticket me for starting multiple sentences with Which.

So much of life is attitude, and so much of attitude is belief, and so, so much of belief is faith. And so I, mid-life and of the flesh, stood rooted in my sturdy shoes that day in the damp woods, feeling just a tickle of breeze tingling my scapula in just those places my wings tried to sprout so long ago. There are scars, I’m pretty sure, on the spots where I ground my little back against the walls of my room, rubbing out the tips of feathers that came once, thrice, six times before they gave up. My thoracic spine is a graveyard, I realized then, and a longing arose to unearth those feathery thwarted things, to sing them back to life and learn finally and just in time how to fly. And (sorry Grammar Police), I chose right then and there to follow this desire as it leads me down a path or up a hill. I decided to let myself rise and feel a gust of coldish wind carry me and my new old wings along to the place where feathers and leaves might be friends, where we would and will play in the wind and commune a bit, and talk of many, many things.

–Melinda Coppola

My Calling

gifted cairn

From an Inky Path writing prompt “ Writers Manifesto for Hard Times”, about finding your own unique contribution to addressing the challenges of our times.

As I was finishing this, I received a call from my daughters day program informing me that a planned trip to swim at the JCC
( Jewish Community Center, for those who are unfamiliar) was aborted due to a bomb threat.

—————————————————————

My Calling

My revolution is a quiet one.
It stems from seeds planted by spirit
before I was born. It leafs
only with the good rain of compassion
that sometimes tastes like tears. It blooms
only in the rich, common human soil,
the ground trodden and tilled by millions of sisters
and brothers who have one heart that beats
in its own time, just like mine.
Just like me.

My struggle is one tiny flexed muscle,
so small and slow it is easy not to see it.
My fight is not a fight,
rather it is a realized intention
to shut up and listen,
listen with the ears of my heart,–
that waiting garden, — so
I might then sing and chant and poem
exhortations,
urge others to quiet and still
that they may hear
that they may hear
they may hear
truth.

Listen, listen”,
truth hums in time with heartbeats,
we are one we are one we are one
and what we do to each other,
we do to ourselves.
What we visit upon ourselves
we foist on others. Let it be worthy.”

And when I am all used up and
my bag of gifts is empty,
when my body gives itself
to the fire or to the earth,
when my small voice becomes
an integral part of the great OM
which is the song the Earth
hums as she spins through space,
my piece of the great revolution–
(which I hear from my heart is all of life)–
my peace will be revolutionary.
Post script let them say
let them say
She did what she came here to do,
she shut up and heard
what it was she was called to,
what she was called for,
what she was called to be,
and though it was tiny
it was her own kind of mighty,
it was her own kind of fierce.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

CAThartic

Leroy and Olive, Ruby looking on

Leroy and Olive, Ruby looking on

 

“Comes a time, “ said the first cat, when you can decide to be different than you were. You can stop scratching at the window, scheming to find a way to get back OUT THERE. You can stop re-living , over and over in your head, the pleasures and perils of running free, looking for cover, trying to keep warm, prizing yourself with baby rabbits and chipmunks and mice and voles.

“You can decide. You can settle into sleeping all day in a sun patch on a soft carpet. You can spend the eve stalking the four corners of each room and pouncing on bugs and worms and little bits of leaf that found its way in from the garden. You can learn to love the predictable plate of food, half crunch and half fish-smelling soft mash. You can decide to trust the big clumsy humans who demand little, really, except a small patience and tolerance of a head scratch, a lap pat.”

The other felines looked, half-listened, began licking their paws in preparation for a preen.

“Point is,” the first cat said, “the big bright light comes every morning, and the big soft dark pushes it away every eve, and you can be new if you want to, because the old bright is over. You can decide how to be. “

 

carly-12-16-12

Carly

carly-girl

-Melinda Coppola