7 AM, Redux

Dear Reader,

I’m so pleased to share my first of three finalist poems from the Songs of Eretz poetry contest. Though I didn’t win first place this year, each finalist poem is eligible for the Reader’s Choice Award.

Steve Wittenburg Gordon, the Editor of Songs of Eretz, published the poem and the following commentary on the site today:

Readers Choice Award Contest Poem: “7 a.m.” by Melinda Coppola

Editor’s Note:  Nominees for the Songs of Eretz Readers Choice Award have been or will be published/reprinted in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review every weekday from February 19 to February 27.  Vote for your favorite in March by sending an email to Editor@SongsOfEretz.com.  The winner will be announced in April and receive a one hundred dollar honorarium.

7 a.m.

I entered your room quietly,
with loving stealth,
stood inches from where you slept
curled into the warmth of your sleep nest,
pausing one round moment
to take in the sight of you, just
to hug you with my eyes
before we began
the ritual we’d perfected over
two decades of mornings.

There we were
in our assigned places,
me leaning gently above,
you just beginning to stir
as I sang you awake.
There were your hands
reaching for my hair,
first right side then left,
like always, like a touchstone
to remind you it’s safe
to be awake and alive.

Pink walls and ceiling, pastel rug,
whispered, made-up song,
you under soft
layers of things;
assorted spreads, a quilt, some blankets,
one embroidered with your name
and the date you debuted,
a gift at birth from a relative
on your absent
dad’s side that met you
once maybe, whose name
I’ve quite forgotten,
who is surely long dead.

I flash-mused on what she’d feel,
this nameless giver of named blankets,
if she could ghost unseen
into your bedroom, this morning
to see what you’ve become.

Would it be grief
for all the ways you’ll never be,
the way you arrived
with unseen challenges,
diagnoses not yet named,
a baby who would remain,
in many ways, a child?

Would it be curiosity,
your differences intriguing,
offering perspectives
she’d never considered
while alive,
tapping on the doors
of her phantom compassion,
awakening a deep patience,
a human reunion with her own
estranged otherness,
the selves she, while living, shunned?

I hope she would be filled
with the color of pure delight
as she saw you still loving
her decades old gift,
for its essential pinkness,
its enduring softness,
its well-named comfort
in the place you call safe,
in the place you dream,
in the place you are perfect
with no one there
to tell you otherwise,
in the place you dream.

 

Poet’s Notes:  My young adult daughter lives with Autism, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a great deal of anxiety. She is a stranger to the ways most of us learn to survive and thrive in a confusing world. Her vulnerability is a big concern for me, yet she is finding her own ways to cope and to calm the sensory storms any given day can present.

E’s pink room, and her bed layered with soft blankets that echo the colors of the walls is a place of refuge for her. The rituals that we’ve created give her structure and comfort.

In this poem I tried to capture the tenderness of a morning moment before I sang her awake, when my eyes went to the monogrammed blanket on her bed. I imagined the giver joining us in spirit in that pink room, seeing that baby blanket. What would she understand from this scene?

About the Poet:  Melinda Coppola has been writing in some form for nearly five decades.  Her work has been published in several magazines, books, and periodicals including I Come from the World, Harpur Palate, Kaleidoscope, The Autism Perspective, Spirit First, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Welcome Home, and Celebrations.  She is an artist, yoga teacher, and mother to an amazing daughter with special needs and enjoys infusing the work of her heart with her voice as a poet.

Coppola nourishes her creative spirit with singing, early morning walks, collecting and making art with beach stones, cooking, spending quiet time with her husband and daughter, and communing with her cats.  This poem was first published on her personal blog twenty four may on April 20, 2017.

Putting My Foot Down

Putting my Foot Down

I’m no stranger to disability. I’ve been Bink’s mom for 25 years. I know lots of individuals with varied special needs, some of them my Yogabilities™ students. I count a few of these folks and their families among my dearest friends. That said, I’ve been experiencing a temporary kind of disability as I continue to heal from foot surgery, and it has been so eye opening.

Forty nine days an invalid, and not before this post-surgical stretch of days and nights, chunks of hours so similar their names became blurred, Janu-monday and Satuesday, not once before this did I ever take notice of the way the word invalid is a devious thing, a means to invalidate, as if the millions of couch sitters and chair wheelers and bed warmers and leg elevating folks everywhere are less than whole. As if those whose full status as owners of walking, driving, autonomous bodies that move well through the world makes them more valuable or relevant.

Mine has not been a long sentence by most means. Having just recently received the invitation to commence a slow reunion of foot and floor, with crutches sprouting from my tender armpits, my limbs are stiff and recalcitrant, and yet they still remember full mobility.

There is the variant pain in my titanium-enforced right foot, the weakness in the calf, the instability of a body not used to normal biped motion. There is knee pain in the left leg that faithfully supported me throughout and in the right leg that was forced to rest. There is general hip malaise, and my neck constricts despite the Yogic stretches and rolls. Hands ache for mysterious reasons. Still, driving, or even emerging from my home on two sturdy, unaided legs, is surely on the horizon. Not close, but I can see it out there.

My first tentative pushes of sole against solid ground have been uncomfortable, to say the least. I’ll take the pain, though, and thank it as a bridge to full recovery. My calendar has been oddly blank these past few months, but February feels like hope. I know in a few years time these homebound winter months will be my mere memory. What will remain: an aversion to that word — invalid— and a far larger room in my consciousness for those that stay in for reasons not of their choosing. There are those that are recovering and those that never will, those for whom in is all there is.

Thank you, God/Goddess/Source of all, for continually offering me ways to expand my awareness. May I use the lessons to make differences, however small, in a few lives along the way.

–Melinda Coppola

 

Inappropriate THIS

Inappropriate this

I love Caillou. For those who are unacquainted, this is a cartoon show about a little boy by this name, geared to toddlers. “Yes,and….” you might say. Well, my twenty-five year old daughter loves Caillou, too.

That statement might seem unusual in the world of “typicals,” those whose wiring is neurologically consistent with what is called normal. It is NOT unusual in in the world of Autism and other special needs. Many, many people with Autism and/or Intellectual Disability have a deep affinity for toys, music, TV shows, books that are geared to younger kids. While this may be common, it’s often discouraged.

My daughter, whom I call Bink when I write about her, is a young adult who lives with Autism as well as Obsessive-Compulsion and a good deal of anxiety. Bink has long loved kid’s music, and stuffed bunnies and ducks. Dolls didn’t really pique her interest until she was about twelve, but since then she is enamored with them, as long as they have pigtails. She is fiercely attached to her bed dollies (always two) and her car dollies (one in my husband, Super Guy’s car, one in mine). She also loves shows geared for toddlers, like Caillou, Peppa Pig, Dora the Explorer and Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. For those proclivities alone, she has probably heard the word inappropriate twenty times more than your typical 25 year old. Her behaviors have elicited many dozens more, but that is another chapter, for another time.

Stamp it out?

Where has all that aforementioned discouragement come from? Well, in Bink’s case it was teachers, Occupational Therapists, Physical Therapists, Speech Therapists. A few caregivers, and a significant family member. Sometimes, the disapproval even came from me, her mother, Chief Advocate and Interpreter.

Parenting a child with special needs is a process, a lifelong journey. I, like most of my special parent peers, started out overwhelmed, impressionable, uncertain and scared. It was easy, then, to fall into believing the “experts” and overriding my instincts. I was desperate to do anything possible to help my child. And all these authoritative Others made it clear; it is NOT OK for a 10, 16, or 20 year old to love toddler songs, rubber duckies, dollies and TV shows made for ages 2-4.

While I tried, at times, to curtail some of this love for all things toddlerish, I never totally embraced the notion that Bink shouldn’t have anything geared to much younger children.  She’s always had access to some of her very favorite toys and shows, though I did try to broaden her horizons, to expose her to books and activities and diversions that typical children her age tended to like. And she did and does enjoy some of these things. She likes Pavarotti, and Frank Sinatra, cookbooks and cooking shows. But she loves her comforts; dollies, rubber ducks, and, well, Caillou.

Truth is, many adults like toys and books and movies geared for children. I enjoy stuffed animals. Some are wild about Disney movies, or Matchbox cars, or model trains, Why should we hold our kids with special needs to a different standard? Why are we so hell-bent on trying to make them so different than who they really are, by making them more like us?

So, my gentle attempts to limit her time with child-like things didn’t last too long. The past five or eight years or so, in particular, I have encouraged Bink to be in charge of what she watches and plays with and listens to. She works hard to get by in a world that is fairly hostile to her kind. I want her to have as much of what she loves in her life as possible. But I digress. Let me tell you about the initial inspiration for this writing, which is…

Loving Caillou

Bink records things on her old-fashioned tape recorder. Things people have said to her, bits of her scrawled journal notes written in her own creative language. It’s not, then, unusual to hear her pouring forth streams of words from the living room where she watches TV. One day, though, I noticed something different. I heard the characters on TV say something, and she seemed to be saying something back to them. There were verbal volleys, two or three or even four sometimes, going back and forth. Over the next several days, I paid closer attention when I heard these exchanges, and also casually wandered into the living room to check this out. Caillou. Bink was talking back to him!

TV Caillou Mom: ” Come on, Caillou, it’s time for bed.”

Caillou: “ Oh, Mommy, I want to read my book!”

Bink: “ It’s OK, honey, you can read it tomorrow.”

Or

Caillou’s friend: ” Let’s climb this big tree!”

Caillou: “ OK”, as he begins to climb and then to lose his footing.

Bink: “Be careful, Caillou.”

Much of this is language lifted from the show. But it’s appropriate, it’s in context, and it is teaching Bink new words and the ways of voice inflection. And she loves these shows! A win-win, for sure.

The sports thing

Bink does not like group sports, or crowds, or lots of noise, and so she avoids them when she can. So when her day program let us know about an upcoming trip to Rhode Island to see the Pawsox play, a veritable trifecta of sensory sandpaper, she quickly opted out. No surprise, and this was fine with us.

Superguy and I walk a line these days, between encouraging her to try new things and respecting her right to choose. We talk to her about how things change, we change, and something we didn’t like in the past might feel quite different to her now. We also appreciate her slow growing self-awareness and ability to express herself, and honor that as much as possible. So I informed the staff at her program that she’d be sitting that trip out. A few weeks later, Bink spontaneously said ” I will try Pawsox.” !!!!

After I picked my lower jaw up off the floor, I praised Bink for trying something new. My assumption was that the staff at her program had been working to convince her to change her mind. In fact, they had not even mentioned this to her. Why the change, then? In our world this stuff just doesn’t happen much. I gently probed for clues, told Bink how great it was that she decided to be flexible, asked in a few different ways why she’d changed her mind. No answers came forth. I stopped wondering and decided to just enjoy the surprise.

Several days later…

Bink was sitting at the table eating. She’s serious about her food, folks, rarely wants to talk or listen when she is welcoming meals or snacks into her body. I was doing one of the hundred things I do in the kitchen, and I heard the words, addressed to no one in particular: “ I decided to try Pawsox because I saw it on Dora.” Insert! more ! exclamation! points! here!

Me:” You saw Dora playing baseball?”

Bink:” Yes.”

Me:” That’s great! Did it look like fun?”

Bink:” I didn’t know if play it or watch it.”

Me: “Oh. And you learned that you would be watching it, and that it could be fun to watch?”

Bink: ” Yes. There is popcorn and music.”

After telling her there may not be popcorn at Pawsox, and there may or may not be music at times, I decided to just let it be. And so did she. Thank you, Dora! Thank you, Caillou!

To those who want to tell me about how inappropriate it is to let my adult daughter watch her toddler shows, I have some advice. It’s pretty much the same words I’ll offer anyone who sees fit to tell me how my daughter ought to be, and how I ought to be parenting her: Inappropriate THIS!

–Melinda

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

STONE LOVIN’

Dear reader, is there something in the natural world that you are really drawn to? Birds, clouds, pine trees? Lightening storms? Is there something for which you have an unrelenting affection? For, me, it’s stones. Specifically, I’m drawn to stones that hail from the edges of the sea.

I feel so very alive and content when I am walking on a stone strewn beach, or when I am crouching over them, admiring their myriad patterns and shapes, colors and textures. When I’m in communion with these rounded beauties, I have no age, no name, no agenda. I am not weighed down with layers of labels and hurry-ups and I’d-better-nots. The stones­­­­­­­—all colors, sizes, and shapes of them– touch a place deep inside me that feels like it’s been alive forever.  My relationship with them is simple and straightforward. I adore them, I respect them, I’m in awe of them. I also delight deeply and earnestly in my time with them, and…. I know them to be alive. They vibrate at a much slower rate than humans do, but they have life nonetheless.

I collect them, but only if they tell me they want to be gathered. My hands and eyes move towards the stones I am drawn to, and sometimes the vibration coming from a stone feels like a definitive NO, don’t take me. Not today. And so I don’t pick that one up, or if I already have I’ll place it gently back down with a silent thank you. Sometimes they are happy to be put into my bag or bucket, and other times it seems they are entirely neutral.

When I am on a beach that is home to stones, preferably in the early morning or late afternoon, I feel like I am surrounded by the most exquisite jewels the Earth has to offer. Who needs diamonds, when there are such gems as these, smoothed by time and water and wind and imbued with a wisdom I cannot adequately describe.

I have thousands of stones in my home and yard. When I have the time and feel the calling, I make art with them. Cairns, specifically—intentional stacks. Here again, the stones guide me in the process. Some want to go together, some are neutral. Some will make it quite clear they do not want to be placed on top of that rock, or in that cairn.

I used to just balance the stones, and I do have some cairns that live that way for a long time. About ten years ago, the thought of gluing them together came to me. I felt my way through that idea, and then brought it to the stones, not knowing how they would feel about being glued. Their radiated answer? Yes, glue is OK. A decade of our time seems to be like a few moments of theirs, and their languid vibrations do not react the way ours might. My deeper sense is that, if they are glued in a cairn and the time comes for them to be free again, the cairn will simply break apart.

My stone love brings me peace.  I’m grateful for their steady reminder that true strength and real balance can coexist in unlimited combinations of color, size and shape.

So, reader dear, what calls you out of doors, what helps you stay grounded when the ways of the peopled world feel oppressive or overwhelming? You can email me privately by replying to this blog, or you can leave a comment below or on Facebook. I do so love to hear from you.

Melinda Coppola