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

Natura Illustratio

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

Fat on Silence

 

I need to write it down. I should do this before true memory fades and is replaced, as it so often is, by a recall that looks like The way I wanted it to be, or The way I think it should have been. This is what we do, being humans of great imagination and great fear. We twist and rearrange the past to suit our current longing or passion or outrage or collection of beliefs.

Here, then, is what’s left of it, the details in no order of significance. If you read it and relate, that is le cerise sur le gateau, French cherry atop French cake. I should tell you, since truth is being honored here, that writers write what first and foremost will save their sanity, which means they write for themselves, whether they tell you so, or not.

For the record, it was surgery on my dominant foot. Neither the largest reconfiguration of bone and cartilage ever, nor a mere removal of some tiny irritant. The Podiatrist called it a Big One, and said the recovery would be the hardest part. A slice was made, and ten years of free floating stuff was vacuumed out, and tattered cartilage was cut away. Bone, grown spurred and convoluted, was planed down, made smooth and then holey, ready to receive adopted titanium parts. A plate and seven screws married foot’s old bone in a ceremony of bright lights and shiny, sterile tools, officiated by a surgeon seasoned in the ways of the human foot.

It was December, and I planned as much as I could for the extended period of no weight bearing. Yes, it hurt. It was hard in all the ways you might expect, and a few you might not consider. While I was able to schedule a break of several months in my Yoga and Yogabilities™ teaching, the rest of the  process was quite complicated by my role as primary caregiver to Bink, my adult daughter with special needs. But it’s the afterwards I concern myself with here.

After the first week or so, I got used to needing assistance with many activities of daily living. Superguy began to adapt to doing the chores and errands and caregiving that typically make up a good chunk of my days. As I stabilized, he felt freer to leave the house for longer periods of time. I had some visitors, but there were lots and lots of spaces in my days, stretches with no people, or very few of them.

I’m an introvert by nature, and the intensity of my care giving experience tends to add extra appreciation for solitude and quiet. I’ve never been one to shy away from being alone. That said, I’d also never had weeks of enforced couch time in a very quiet house. When Bink was at her day program and Superguy was off at work, I had hours and hours of time and space.

I read. I watched the collection of home shows I record on a regular basis. House Hunters International is my only mode of world travel, after all! I did some art, and wrote a bit. After some time I was also able to wheel myself clumsily around the house on my nifty knee scooter, but most of my time was spent sitting.

I resisted it at first, and spent a little time feeling sorry for myself. The magic—and I can’t call it anything less— began to manifest slowly, and only when I allowed myself to surrender into this lifestyle. I required the acceptance that my primary vocation for a while would be healing.

It’s taken me many months to write about this, and I am still struggling for the best words to convey the transcendent experience I had while I was confined to my house for those few months last winter.

In Yoga tradition, we all contain five bodies of life force that nest inside each other. The layers are made of increasingly finer grades of energy. During my couch sitting weeks, it was as if the edges of my energy bodies spread and became more porous. All that activity I was so used to, had been keeping my energy confined to a certain size and shape. When the structure of my life fell away, the collection of energies known as me began to expand, and in the process, I welcomed a deep peace to trickle into my being. It became flood, the landscape altering kind, unlike anything I’ve ever known.

This was a peace that needs a new name, like superpeace or hypercalm. It settled over me like the softest blanket, lightweight but warm enough to melt the frozen places in my heart and soul that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. The hours of silence and solitude were nourishing some bits of my insides that I didn’t even know existed. In circumstances that I thought would drive me nuts, I found a state of deeply serene acceptance, a wild form of being present that went beyond meditation. I didn’t realize the extent of the effect until I was exposed to the outside world again.

After weeks of confinement, the only exception being follow up visits to the foot doctor, my Superguy and I decided I could go out of the house on a little field trip. He helped me into a portable wheelchair we’d acquired to get me to and from the house for said appointments. We went down the street to Panera bread for a cup of tea.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you my senses were bombarded with haphazard grenades of color, light and noise. It was jarring, to put it mildly. I’d lost touch with how loud and chaotic and abrasive the sights and sounds, textures and energies of the cars and clerks and crowds are. I remember actually recoiling at the store signs and the speed with which all those tires on the roads kicked out snow and gravel. And the pace! Frenetic, dizzying. I was exhausted after that first outing.

Subsequent outings had similar but very gradually more muted effects on me. When I was finally able to drive again and I began doing all the things I’d been relieved of for so long, I vowed I would hold on to the peaceful state I’d been gifted through my convalescence. It faded, though. The figurative leap back into the busy swirl of my life demanded my focus and energy. I’m sad to say that I felt myself contract again, fitting back in to the expectations that my life before the big surgery was modeled upon.

I’ve not forgotten my experience, though. I’ll call this somewhat inadequate attempt to convey it to you a victory, because I’ve resisted even trying to explain this for so long.

A few years back, I wrote the following on one of my Yoga Facebook pages:

“There is a quality of fullness in silence, in emptiness, in spaces. Spaces nourish and soothe and spaces can heal. The space between sentences, between breaths. Space between footsteps and activities and thoughts. The space to be, the space to be with, the space to do small things well.”

Today I kneel before the transformational power of experiences we may dread and avoid. I bow to the possibilities that exist within the fullness of emptiness, and I testify to the immense importance of spaces between things.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

SHE and DOE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a few years ago that I found myself meandering in a quaint little town in western Massachusetts, about two hours east of home. I saw the sign, which read, simply, THRIFT. As a a fervent fan of space and simplicity, I practice de-cluttering my home and head regularly. I’m quite aware of not accumulating more things. Even so, I turned towards the door of the shop, reminding myself that it can be a very good thing to be free of an agenda.  Like many of you, wandering with an unhurried pace is a novelty in my daily life.

I was on a personal retreat for a few days, a very welcome respite from my 24/7 role of caregiver to Bink, my adult daughter with special needs. This big chunk of alone time was (and is) rare and precious in my life circumstances.

The shop was crammed full of everything I could imagine a thrift shop can hold; quilts and vases, books and jewelry, furniture and tools and clothing. Toys, rugs, artwork, decorative tchotchkes, lamps CDs, and vinyl records all vied for space on the haphazardly placed shelves and tables. I made several loops around the store, noticing new things each time. It was on my last lap that I spotted her, spotted them, half hidden behind some dirty old pots and a breadbox.

I was immediately drawn to the creamy ivory color, the smooth texture, and the way the woman was kneeling and offering her hands to the doe with the chipped ear. My heart flooded with peace, and I felt this sculpture to be the perfect symbol of the life I long to embody. The kneeling woman radiated serenity and compassion as she connected to the female deer, who is herself a symbol of gentleness and heart energy. I clearly had to adopt them, the she and the deer, no matter the cost.

I slowly moved the objects that kept this beautiful duo half hidden, and lifted them to my chest and into the light. To my surprise, the price on the bottom of the sculpture read $22.95 I bought it and wrapped it carefully in the blanket which stays in my car for Bink, who uses it for comfort in the passenger seat.

I returned home after my few days away, feeling replenished and calm despite a number of daily phone calls and text messages while I was away. Bink was quite anxious with me gone, despite the competent, loving care of Superguy, her rather amazing stepdad.

I carried the sculpture around the house, trying a few different locations, asking the newly adopted ones where they might feel most comfortable. They ended up on a shelf in my home office, where woman and doe continue to radiate a deep and perfect peace. Each time I look at them,  I am convinced they were sent to me as reminders from Source that all will be well, and I take a wild and hearty comfort there.

What about you, dear reader? Are there a few special items that hold great meaning for you? If you were moving and had to select just a few non essentials, what would they be? I welcome your response here in the comments section of this blog, or via email.

-Melinda Coppola

 

Thalassophile’s Lament, August

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

like nothing, no place
ever has,

 is always by the sea,
by the sea.

 —Melinda Coppola

 

The art that blesses my listening hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making Art with Beach Stones

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

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

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

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

having just rolled in
with latest tide,

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

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

strewn with the crunchy brown or
slippery green salty seaweeds,

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

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

guided them
into my cloth bag or
scratched bucket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

knowing
with all my six senses,
when I hear

yes. Right there.
We are perfection now.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

Mothering Outside the Lines

The Bus Stop Moms

From my morning window
I would watch
as they huddled casually,
tossed light conversation
back and forth,

an occasional
eye towards their kids
who played and laughed
together, finding sticks,
tracing shapes and letters
in the dirt.

After the big
yellow bus swallowed
their chattering children,
the moms would often stay
and talk a bit
in the easy way
women do
when they have things-in-common,

like an intact marriage,
and Pilates class,
and typically developing children.

I’d watch them wave to each other
as they’d part,
good-bye, see you later,
the bus stop moms turning
each towards her own
well manicured lawn,
highlighted hair shining in the sun.

I’d guess at market lists,
soccer schedules,
Girl Scouts tomorrow,
Johnny needs new sneakers,
such busy mommy thoughts
dancing in their heads.

From behind a fraying lace curtain
I’d imagine being one of them.
How carefree they must feel,
sending their kids off
without concern
for their obsessions,
compulsions, anxiety,
lack of toileting skills,
inability to communicate.

Without gnawing worry
that today might be the day
she bites the teacher again,
(who tells her to wait for the bathroom),

or rips at her clothes at recess,
(because it’s just too loud),
or has a meltdown during snack time,
(because the juice was the wrong color,
and nobody noticed signs
of the impending storm).

Almost two decades later,
the bus stop moms
are all grown up,
and so am I.

We still live in parallel universes,
they in their emptying nests, kids
off to college,
getting engaged,
traveling the world,

and I rarely compare
my apple to their oranges
these days,
having found the appetite
for what I have been served,

which is another way of saying
we can learn to love
what we’ve been given.

I’m busy slow dancing
a day, a week at a time,
having found my own
special mom circles,

and a different carefree
that doesn’t demand
grades, degrees, weddings,

having found a partner who
loves being her dad.

Different house,
the lawn still unkempt,
the curtain perpetually
in need of replacement,

these days I only peek out
to see the bunnies
so at home
in our untended landscape,
as am I,
as am I.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Praise at the end, for beginning there

A Prayer, Fertile

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

I Write You, I Write You Not

I was thinking about not-writing, which is a special collection of behaviors called Really Uncomfortable Avoidance To Silence The Singing Muse, or RUTS for short. It is practiced by word gatherers of all kinds; novelists, playwrights, essayists, poets. Correction: actually, it’s the creative writers who engage in this behavior. Journalists and reporters have such a direct relationship with the words they use. Their cupboards are all organized and clean, with appropriate words just sitting there obediently on the shelves, waiting to be pulled down and used.

I was earnestly practicing not-writing behaviors, and when Poetry came around with her seductions, wearing her best evening wear and very unsensible shoes, I rebuffed her. “ Come out to play,” she purred, and I could smell her flowery breath, feel the temperature of her neck, her hair. “No,” I replied, “I’m much too busy doing laundry and running errands, answering emails and cleaning the tiny spots on the long striped carpet in front of the kitchen sink.” RUTS type stuff. “But you know this is The Way for you,” she said, “The path through the haze and towards the place where intentions meet commitment, where water flows clean and equanimity rides in on cool breezes to clarify the mental muck.”

“ Poetry,” I sighed, “ I am busy worrying about my daughter, who has had a very rough four months. I am researching novel ways to help her, calling and Internetting and looking at books. She is my heart, and when her rhythm is off, I forget how to dance.”

Poetry leaned against the wall and just watched, listened. Her benign expression irked me. My defenses threw another brick or two onto the wall I imagined between us.

“ Besides, Po, I’ve begun my summer Yoga and Yogabilities™ classes, the latter in a new space on a new day. This takes planning, you know. I don’t have huge chunks of time lying around just waiting to be poemed upon.” I pushed out the last few lines in a gently accusatory manner. Poetry seemed impervious, letting my words bounce off her shimmery gown, which I then noticed was purple. My words got confused right out of their sentences. Some fell to the floor a few feet away from her, other made for the window and smacked into the glass, hard. Stunned, they joined their sad sentence family on the floor.

Poetry shifted a little and kicked off her fantastical shoes, which were just the sort of thing I never wear. She wiggled her toes and arched her back away from the wall and did a few gentle half-neck rolls. (I taught her to do those in lieu of the full rolls, which are simply not good for most people.) Her eyes met mine, and she waited. I knew this game. She’d stand there, or sometimes sit, eyes full of compassionate, irrefutable truth. And she’d wait. And I’d avoid her. And she’d wait some more.

Eventually, if I practice my RUTS hard enough, she leaves. It used to upset me greatly when she finally spun on her heels and left, often slamming the door behind her. (Poetry can be so damn dramatic.) I used to worry that she’d never return, she’d give up on me for good. I know better now. My blood type is Poet, and I can only deny it to a point before it becomes, well, unhealthy for my soul.

So, I was thinking about not-writing, which I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. There have been Very Good Reasons. (See above.) I was sitting and making To Do lists, doing my RUTS exercises and creatively coming up with Even More Reasons.

Poetry came, she spoke, she went silent and waited. This time, she refused to leave. She sat in the corner in her purple, sparkly gown and watched me not-write. She followed me from room to room and even out to the car. She lay down in the backseat as I drove around, took Bink here and there and filled the gas tank. I ignored her, knowing nobody else in my immediate sphere can see her. At one point, after I dropped Bink at her day program, I turned around and addressed her as she lounged across the back seat, seemingly oblivious to the bags of Savers donations and Yoga straps and Bink’s soft pink car blanket. . “Po, don’t you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“Nope,” she said.“ I’ve cleared my calendar. I’m not going to leave until you pick up a pen and write something that isn’t a To Do list or a birthday card. I’m going to follow you like your shadow until you start a poem and nurture it ‘til its natural end. Until you let the words that need to be joined, come together and fly freely through the Earth’s atmosphere. I know you know the world needs poetry more than ever right now and I can’t do it on my own. Rejoin the brave ones who are making their art and writing their songs and poems and reminding people that there is more, much more than Fox and CNN and Facebook and endless division, anger, and greed.”

She said all that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Poetry say so much at one time. You gotta respect that kind of speech, so full of passion and care and certainty.

I consider my ass gently kicked.

 

-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