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

The Meaning of Compassion

The Kuan Yin

She keeps watch in the warm corner of my bedroom, her bearing almost more regal for the rivers of cracks and generous chips that mark her faded turquoise. Her right hand, the deliverer of action, folds into Gyan Mudra, the gesture of consciousness. Preparing to take her picture, I haul myself into the present moment as an honoring of what she is and what she represents.

This statue doesn’t move. Her eyes don’t shift to follow my movements. She is alive nonetheless, imbued with a love deep and rare, a love that springs from her most famed attribute, compassion.

My father gave this Goddess to my mother sometime in the mid seventies. I imagine he was making an effort to support her blooming love of Yoga and meditation. The statue moved out when my mother and I did, after the divorce, and took up residence in the corner of the small apartment. When my mum moved to a different building, Kuan Yin settled into another corner without complaint. This is where my daughter, Bink, first met her.

Bink, my mother’s first granddaughter, was delayed in nearly every aspect of development. She never crawled, and didn’t manage to pull herself up to standing until she was over two years old. During each visit to Grandma’s place, the turquoise Goddess of Compassion was witness to Bink’s ongoing challenges and triumphs. At three feet high and graced with numerous curves that made excellent grab bars, Kuan was a natural assistant during the pull-up -to-stand phase. As the relationship between my mother and my daughter deepened, so did the one between child and Goddess.

Part of the way autism presents in my daughter is her unrelenting adherence to self-made rules and rituals. Each time Bink visited Grandma’s place, she lurched or toddled or otherwise found her way to Kuan Yin in the corner. Bink developed a real attachment to Kuan Yin. She loved to touch the smooth blue-green skin and garments. Perhaps the coolness felt good to her frazzled nervous system. My mum photographed these encounters several times, inadvertently documenting Bink’s physical growth. Though I can’t find any of those old photos now, the memory of them is clear in my mind.

I loved it when my daughter spent time with her grandmother. It gave me a much needed break from a child who didn’t sleep through the night and often wore me out with her intense and unusual needs for…well, almost everything, except perhaps socialization. My mum grew to understand Bink in a way that few others did. She understood the bizarre food preferences, the need for space and the simultaneous obsessive-compulsive need to touch people’s noses. She celebrated my daughter’s triumphs and her quirks almost as much as I did ( and do). Kuan Yin was there to witness much of this.

During one of Bink’s Grandma visits, She grabbed Kuan Yin overzealously and the turquoise wonder toppled to the floor and broke into a multitude of pieces. The statuesque Goddess had the grace to land in a way that caused no injury to my daughter, but there was some devastation nonetheless. What would visits to Grandma be like without the reassuring presence of the dear clay lady in the corner? Luckily, we didn’t have to suffer long enough to find out!

Enter my brother S. He loved model cars and planes when he was a kid, and he still excelled in his ability to visualize solutions to problems and then manifest them. S glued back every little piece of Kuan Yin, and though she bears scars that tell this tale, she stood once again tall and strong in Grandma’s corner.

When my mum had to vacate her apartment to live in an assisted living facility, Kuan Yin came home with me. At twenty five years old, Bink no longer shows an attachment to her. That doesn’t diminish her power one bit in my eyes. The one who symbolizes my favorite attribute will always have a place in my corner, wherever that may be. She is a testament to a deep love that springs from a compassionate heart, the bond between my mother and my daughter.

–Melinda Coppola

 

Little Things

It was, in my home, an ordinary weekend morning. I rose before him, he before her, the felines were fed. I made three different kinds of tea, two prepared with stevia and soymilk, one with honey.

It was the latter that sparked it. She who has such challenges, she who’s made such gains, she whom we encourage towards greater independence, (which is such a big word for a collection of rather little things), she rose from the table for more sweetness, and he, who loves her like a daughter, was making his own breakfast, standing right in front of the lazy susan, home to the nectars—clover and wildflower, and the raw, local blend that boosts immunity.

“Excuse me.” she said, and lest you think nothing of those words coming from that young woman, I tell you manners are a milestone in this autism infused home.

He stepped aside, she went for the good stuff, picked up an unopened jar when there was an open one there too. He, who can be less patient than I, told her to put it back and find the open jar instead. From across the kitchen, I saw the signs. Her face tightened. Her hunch grew hunchier. Her hands began to flap. “ I need a break!” she said. Such advocacy! And often, those words are enough. Girl gets her space, and life goes on.

This particular morning, he-who-loves-her-so felt the honey task was within her abilities. He was also maybe tired, a little cranky. And so he pushed back. “ Bink, take a deep breath. Look for the open honey and use that instead.”

It was too much. Her hand darted out, her fingernails clawed his forearm and she grasped the muscle, skin, and hair there. “ OWWWWW!” he yelped. “ That HURT me!”  Bink was off the rails. Superguy, who is usually calmer, wasn’t far behind her. I intervened with soothing tones and smoothed it, smoothed it, as I am prone to do.

To his credit, he settled well before she did. After an intermission, we had a meeting to rehash the events. “ It was too many instructions,” she said. “ But still….,” he replied. We talked about ways to avoid a situation like this in the future. Bink’s outbursts and aggressions have lessened dramatically over the years, so when they occur now we try to address them head on, after the storm. We meet, we identify triggers. We strategize and together we come up with rules that make sense to her. I am, generally, the one who remains even tempered and toned. I am her safe harbor, and also his. It’s a balancing I’ve grown proficient at finding and demonstrating.

It was what happened later that sparked something wild inside me.

Mid-morning, I was at the table in the dining area that is open to the kitchen. That table is a multi use surface for us. We eat there, and fold laundry there. Writing is done, art is made, bills are paid. I heard something unusual, and looked over to find Bink opening the lazy susan and turning it, finding the honey. She looked at all the jars, selected the open one, and put it on the counter. Then she picked it up, put it back in its place, and maneuvered the awkward folding door into the closed position.

“ Bink,” I asked, “what are you doing?” “I fixed it!” she said triumphantly.

She had, on her own, done a do-over. She recreated the scenario as best she could and practiced finding the open honey, taking it out, and then putting it away again!! This was, and is, a totally new thing. A small thing that was beautifully important and large in its meaning.

Did I praise her? You bet. In fact, I called Superguy in and explained what had occurred, and he was blown away as well.

I have a decorative painted sign that sits over one of my favorite framed art prints in my kitchen. It’s the little things, it says. There are tiny lovely potted plants painted on either side of the words, and the whole small rectangular piece is bordered in gold. It’s one of my favorite things to look at in my home.

It’s the little things, indeed.

–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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deliverance

Remembering my father

1.

The night your own
difficult breath awakened you, your lungs
spent from trying, and you sensed your heart,
that grieving well, slowing almost imperceptibly,
and your legs and arms refused command or
even suggestion to rise or sway
or go into the spasms you’d become
accustomed to, and your eyes opened only
slightly and your vision went grainy                                                                                                                                                                         like the silent films you remembered in some
distant part
of your collection of impressions, and the pain,
your pain which had become such a familiar presence,
first a nemesis that kept you riveted on the joints,
the muscle fibers, the mechanics of inhalation and
bladder control, then a graduate course that taught you
the location of your liver, your spleen, taught you the
intimate ways of the dying body, the ways of dying
with cancers; one, two, three kinds of cancers and kept
you faithful to your medicines;
two every four hours of the blue
one pink in the morning, the small white which accompanied every meal
when you could eat, the large ones, difficult to
swallow, that you could never remember
the why for…

2.

Did the pain lift and the light blur as you finally
let go the idea you’d ever, in that sad old body, heal?
As the resistance dropped, did you see them all at once,
the welcoming angelic beings as they opened
their ethereal arms to claim you? Did they come
together, in a circle, or did they grace you one
by one, enfolding your brittle bones as they reached
inside to help you glide out? Did you,
I ask, feel that peace as golden light flood
your dimmed perceptions, did you
groan before you let that last, stale breath escape
your windpipe, did it feel, as you left
like sweetest relief from a too-tight shoe?

3.

On your deathday, as we grieved, did you scan
the paths your travels had worn, did you revisit some
moments longer than others, did you regret?
Did you send comfort in each
sympathetic call, touch, hug, did you
make sure the children still laughed and
did you lift us up and sweep
away any traces of old
anger, unfinished business, that we might
remember you pure and silver, the flash of humor
in your Albanian eyes, the sage advice, the
bad jokes you carried in your well-worn pockets?

4.

We are all assigned an entrance and an exit,
or maybe we choose the exact moment and
the circumstances of our stay.
I waited out long nights and in between
the ordinary moments of days full
of toil and pleasure, greeted you at long
last in my own quiet heart finally echoing
all the questions, the answers glowing
in the dark, having been there all along,
like stars.

-Melinda Coppola

It’s a Good Thing

The View from Here

Hello from my couch, where I’ve been planted for the majority of my waking hours for the past twenty five days. Who’s counting? I sure am. I’ve been following doctor’s orders post-surgery and elevating my right foot anytime I am sitting down. This is an improvement, since last week I was gifted with permission to stop elevating it while in bed. This can only be a good thing.

I left my most recent post-operative doctor visit with another gift, though I’m hesitant to label it as such. I said goodbye to the big awkward cast that had covered my right leg from just beneath my first two toes up to about an inch below the knee. In its place I am sporting ( Ha! Tongue so in cheek) a heavier and even more awkward black boot-like thing. It has noisy and strong Velcro strips that multitask beautifully, keeping the boot in place while playing catch-and-hold with large quantities of cat hair.

When I tell people I have a boot now, most assume I am doing what people do in boots: walking. Nope, I’m still diligently keeping any weight off that right foot, awaiting my next X-ray in fifteen days ( but hey, who’s counting!). I think that next picture will determine whether I’ve grown enough bone underneath the plate and screws to allow me to begin walking a bit in the boot with crutches. If things aren’t looking optimal, it could be two more weeks after that before the floor shall know the whole two-footed weight of me. When that time arrives, it will be a very, very good thing.

This has been such an interesting journey so far. I guessed there would be lots of rest, time to read and catch up on the House Hunters type shows I enjoy, and time to create art and poems and essays. I supposed it would be hard for my daughter who is so used to having me as her primary caregiver. Some of that has happened, but there have also been some interesting emotional day trips.

Chunks of memories have risen from the depths, some painful, others pleasant and enlightening, but all inviting me to re-examine the stories I’ve told myself about people and events from the past. As a Yogi and an introvert I’m no stranger to self-examination, but my hours of couch sitting invite a deeper dive. It seems my advancing years have allowed a kinder, broader perspective, and this, too, is a good thing.

Another side effect of this experience: I’m finding a deeper understanding of what it feels like to be dependent on others for basic self-care. I’m becoming acquainted with how isolating it can be to spend day after day indoors, at home, with no ability to get up and take myself somewhere.

I’m remembering all the friends and acquaintances and family who have had long recuperations from accidents and joint replacements and serious illnesses. And those who never did recuperate. I wonder about their experiences, and I see and feel the ways I could have been more loving, more present, more helpful. It’s not regret that fills me, but rather gratitude for the lessons and for the chance to do it differently in the future. This, then, is a good thing.

I’m not trying to bum you out, dear reader. This is not grim, not at all. I know I’m really lucky to be so temporarily disabled. I know I‘m among the privileged few world residents who have access to great medical care and procedures that can and will improve my quality of life. I’m not depressed, I’m not particularly bored, and I’m not spending much time at all feeling sorry for myself.

What’s clear to me: this forced period of limitation comes with gifts. The greatest of these may be a deepening compassion for others in similar and often worse circumstances. And this is a very good thing indeed.

-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

5/24/17

Today I celebrate my incarnation

Fifty six trips around the sun,
carrying a moniker
that took decades to like,
and I continue,
residing more,
or sometimes less,
inside this soft tent of skin
held up by strong bones
that shape this form
we keep agreeing to call me.

So much to marvel at,
a couple tens of thousands
of sleeps, of sunrises,
so many chances
to shake it off and begin again.

If I could line you up–
the ones who noticed,
and the ones who never did,
the ones who took me in,
or under a wing,

and those who laughed at me,
and those who laughed with me,
and those I loved but never told,
and those I didn’t love enough,

and those who knew I could
when I thought I could not,

and those who spoke truth
even when it shattered me,
and those who lied to me,
and those who betrayed me,

and those who were afraid of me,
and those who were afraid with me,
and those who lost hope,
and those who gave faith,
and those who questioned,
and those who accepted,
those who showed up
those who left without leaving a note,

those who explained themselves,
those who never tried,
and those who encouraged,
and those who could not,

if I could gather you all together
I’d go bowing through the crowd,
hands in loving mudra
thanking each of you
with my sentient heart,
for all of it.

As it is,
I ruminate
on how you helped me grow,
and how I hope
perhaps I helped you, too.

I kneel and praise a universe
that does this,
that keeps us
offering ourselves to each other
over and over,
as rough stones,

each encounter smoothing a jagged edge
through pleasure or pain,
returning us as pearls
to a larger sphere in need
of our perpetual adornment.

Melinda Coppola