Dear Future Roadmaker

It’s still April, still Autism Awareness month. I’m thinking, as I so often do, of all the people I have met on my journey of raising a daughter with special needs.

There have been some wonderful teachers and some exceptional therapists (physical, occupational, speech and language, to name a few). There have been good hearted caregivers, van drivers, and medical professionals of all kinds that have made a huge difference in her life, and mine. There were, and are, folks from various agencies providing information about and access to services and assistance. There has been an unfortunate number of people from each of those categories that were not helpful, supportive or kind as well, and a few who brought great distress to Bink and to those who love her.

And then there are the other parents. I am a woman of many words, but I cannot adequately find the right ones to describe the love, support and comfort I have found in a tribe of others who are parenting an individual (or two) with special challenges. Most, but not all, are mothers. I’ve known some for over 20 years, and some less than a year. I am certain there will be many more I’ll come to know along the way. Some have children with multiple or well defined diagnoses. Some are parenting in the grey zone, struggling to find their children of all ages the help that might coax them to leave the house, or find a little job––a foothold in a world that has little patience for those who look “normal” but struggle to function on their own.

We lift each other up. We listen deeply, hearing the unsaid words beneath and between the audible ones. We try to check in on each other. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a ” How is _____ doing?” And a sigh or a quiet ” Just OK.” can speak volumes. If one of us learns of a new way to get help or a new service, program or activity, we want to make sure we share that information. We also understand how very possible it is to have no time or energy to communicate for many months at a time.

So many parents have helped me along the way. It’s important for me to try to do the same, especially for those with younger and/or more recently identified children. The following poem came from this place of deep appreciation and desire to be there for others who are walking the same road.

Dear Future Road Maker

I promise
this will pass.
Not the diagnosis, of course,
not your cellular memories
of initial shock, sadness, despair.

But this crisis,
the one that’s shredded
your equanimity,
kept you up some nights
for months,

the one that involves biting
and teachers,
veiled threats from
Those Who Decide
that Johnny may not be appropriate
for their coveted program,

the lauded school
that took
five meetings,
twelve months,
most of your energy
and an attorney
to finally welcome him
into their fold,

It will pass.

Toilet training:
Above all
don’t despair,
I can tell he’s going to get it,
nine is not too late
in our world.
Give it time.

Your current devastations;
Johnny rides the short bus
and there’ll be
no prom,
no diploma,
no college or
wedding or
career—
this will pass,
give it time,
these things will fade
into insignificance,

and besides
short bus=fewer students,
fewer stops,
less sensory overload,
and sometimes,
a kinder driver.

There are special proms,
if he is so inclined,
and nice certificates
of completion, now.

Take a breath,
safeguard your energy,
for you will need
every precious bit.

Choose your battles,
don’t try to war
in many places
at once,

and know this:
I am here,
and there are many of us,
veterans who faced
that forest,
stepped into the dark
growth and
trod the faint
paths left
by those who came before us,
and we are
making roads of them.

Don’t underestimate yourself
or your son.

You will both grow callouses,
you’ll know such triumphs,
and despairs you fear
will wreck you.

They will not.
You will emerge tougher,
a warrior advocate,
and we’ll be there,
all the road makers,
cheering,

and someday
that documented
list of deficits,
all his Johnny-can’ts
and Johnny-won’ts
will cease to faze you.

Mama lion,
future road maker,
mark my fervent words:

Your child,
son of your heart,
will surprise you
and amaze you
and make you
very,
very
proud.

–Melinda Coppola

Inch by Inch

Dear small band of loyal readers,

I’m pleased to share that my poem, Reset, has placed second in the Light of the Stars poetry contest sponsored by Lone Stars magazine, and appears in the Spring 2019 issue. Printed literary journals are becoming less common. More and more of them publish exclusively online, which is, of course, much less expensive. Lone Stars is a paper poetry journal, published in Texas thrice yearly as an offshoot of another paper journal called Conceit, which publishes monthly.  Neither of those has an website, which is why it was an especially nice surprise to receive a check in the mail for my second place win! A modest check, to be sure, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been paid for a poem.  Publishing poetry is a many splendored thing, but financial gain is not usually recognized among the glories.

A nice boost for a dreary Monday morning!

 

With gratitude to you for reading,

Melinda

 

 

 

 

April is…

I’m truly grateful to be here to greet another April. It’s such a hopeful month, with spring springing up everywhere. This month is also known as Autism Awareness Month. To those who love someone who lives with autism, every month, week, and day is a new chance to be aware. Insert my face with a pleasantly wry smile here.

Bink appears younger than her twenty six years. She could easily pass for sixteen. When we are out in the world doing the things we do, people will sometimes ask me,” How old is she?”  If I’m reasonably well rested and have my patience and understanding handy, (the extra stuff I save for strangers) I’ll smile and turn to Bink. “ Would you like to tell him/her how old you are?” If I’m running low on all that, I might just assuage their curiosity by telling them Bink’s age. Occasionally, if I’m really worn thin I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear the question. The alternative would be to answer their question with my own, and I might not smile at all when I say, ” Ummm, she’s right here. Why don’t you ask her?”  I rarely go there, because I truly believe that most people mean well. We’ve all just amassed a bunch of suppositions, based on our lived experience.

Sometimes, I imagine my daughter as one of a million special messengers from the great beyond. Perhaps her given mission is to offer a pause button, to give observers an opportunity to alter their assumptions. Her perceptions are so very different than what is considered mainstream. They have the power to shake interested minds in a gentle way, like a breeze shakes the leaves on the trees.

I offer my directive with the very best intention: Presume competence, people. Please.

 

—Melinda Coppola

Our small eyes

Perchance

Perhaps nothing begins
or ends,
not exactly.

The field mouse knows
the tall grass
to be her world.

We say
morning comes,
and yet
it is always
somewhere,

just not in the very front
of our small eyes.

The trees are wise.
They know everything cycles,
seed to sapling,
strong trunk reaches skyward,,
and wind-felled trunk
becomes home for owl
and mushroom,
then fertilizer for forest floor.

Last night
something gentle
grasped my hand,
and I turned towards my partner
who wasn’t there.

Perhaps death
is neither end
nor beginning,
and that
which we name loss
is just a shift
beyond our modest
range of vision.

I want to think
my father came to visit,
or one of my grandmothers.
just to reassure,
just to say,
in Albanian—
which they wanted me to know—
just to say
It’s all going to be alright.

 

_Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

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To Sleep, Perchance to Wake and See the Stars

Bink does not sleep solidly through the night, ever. When she was younger it was especially challenging, because she’d wake up and need me to be right there with her, and she’d often be up for hours. Sometimes, after waking at 1 or 2 am, she’d stay up the rest of the night and all through the next day. I was really tired so much of the time. Even so, there was a certain kind of mystery and grace in every aspect of my mothering journey with Bink. Still is.

Years ago I wrote this poem about the night waking. I submitted it to a few journals, and received the customary rejections that are familiar to all writers, maybe especially poets. I decided to try once more to find this poem a home. And, yay! it has just been published in the online literary journal Vitamin ZZZ. The whole journal is quite beautiful and I hope you’ll check it out. You can see it by clicking here. 

The poem:

Night Graces

Each sleep cycle you wake happy, chirping
psalm-songs into the darkness, small
warm circles of air rising from your
curled body,

and you tumble toward my bed,
proclaim morning
whether it is midnight or three or,
more thankfully, five, and I

surface from moondreams
and embrace you,
little Talitha of Ursa Major,
Gemma of Corona Borealis,
insistent beacon,
nudging my fatigue aside so
this perfect view

of the stars,
those glorious jewels of the night,

reveals itself
as the gift it is

and I,
your student, humbly bring
a glass of water.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Love is a Rendering

Love is a Rendering

 

Telling you how I love you
is like trying to find things
that haven’t been said
about the ocean.

My hands prefer to paint it—
affection, water—
sweeping, striped backgrounds,
turquoise and deep
salient greens,
silvery whites frosting
every liquid peak,

and there’s the sky
hovering above the seas
like a mother,
cooing and cajoling
smoother, smoother now.
You mustn’t tip the boats,
or dunk the sailors.

On the shore, wild
coastly rocks, and
the dark of cast-off
tree limbs
adding interest and balance
to the composition.

Further inland,
I love you like new snow
frosts the grass,
like blue melds with ebony
to make the nocturnal sky
sing midnight,

like the way those
ensuing wee hours test
the nerves of first time
campers
in their thin tents
along random pieces
of the Appalachian trail,

but fear doesn’t win,
dawn always triumphs,
breaking their sleepless faces
into chapped grins
as they whisper
I made it through I made it through
nothing will get to me or you.

 I love you like that.

Our word is song,
lilt, flow.
Our word is comfort,
as in I knew you
before you were born,

before you were separate
from the great meld
of souls waiting to enter
their chosen bodies,

and someday,
when I need to go,
please don’t say
you lost me.

Know, instead,
that I live on,
around you
and beside you,

in your first
waking thought
as you chide the cats
for meowing before dawn,

and as you rotate the dishes
just the way
you know
they told me to do

and as you bless your gums
by flossing frequently,
and gratefully,

as you pull
all the way over,
leaving the phone
in the car
so you can stand and stretch
and take in the sunset.

That little rustle
you’ll barely hear
could be autumn leaves
swept along the dry ground
by the wind,

or it could be me
whispering
be present,
be present.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daisy Bell

I’m showing my age, and proudly, when I ask this—do you remember the sweet old song called Daisy Bell?

“Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do/ I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”

Those lyrics and that tune lodged itself in my memory when I was nine or ten years old. I can clearly visualize my Aunt Gloria—a professional singer in her day—leaning over the metal cage in my living room and singing that song to Daisy, my little blond guinea pig.

I’ve always loved the simple flower with the unassuming face and the heavy Latin name of Bellis Perennis.  A recent prompt about flowers in a writing group brought forth this little poem:

DAISY

I invited a Daisy to sit with me
under the shadow of a splendid green tree.

The flower politely declined my invite
to rest and converse in the cool filtered light.

Shade, she said, is not my friend.
I’ll lose my petals, my stem will bend.

Give me the sun on my upturned face
and I’ll blossom and multiply all over the place.

Daisy, said I, it’s clearly true
you are my favorite, my favorite is you.

No deception, no thorns, could possibly hide
in your bright yellow head, or your petals so wide

Your beauty is honest, and simple, and true
as flowers go, Daisy, my favorite is you.

 

–Melinda

 

 

There’s no write time

 

BLOCKED

This morning the mirror
caught my eyes,
and I locked gaze
with the creature staring 
back at me, wondering, 
as I sometimes do,
what would happen
if I opted not to claim her.

If I chose a different identity
would the mirror recognize 
my sovereignty
or would it keep reflecting back
this worn face,
these lips closed
tight against all the words
knocking up against 
my clenched teeth,

the half formed stories,
shards of poems 
pushing hard
to get out

as living things do
when imprisoned.

Instinct favors survival.

It’s a wonder we write at all,
any of us,
with the hundred 
duties and the 
thousand doubts
almost conspiring against
our hands, 
which, 
reaching for a pen,

find a text, 
a child’s needs,
three missed calls, 
a basket of laundry,
a long to-do list
instead.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Dreamed some dreams

“A DREAM NOT INTERPRETED IS LIKE A LETTER NOT READ.”
— The Talmud

Last was a night of serial dreams, each building on the tangled mysteries of the one before. There was big sky, and journeying. There was an impossibly tiny stream and a dusty, broad road that earns the title of a trespass, as it forced a run alongside it. Yes, I said force. If that gives you pause, you may be unaware of the personality traits of waterways, that some welcome the paths that trace their every liquid curve, becoming roads. Some are flattered by such close attention, and others want no companion, no ardent fan to copy their every fork and dip and turn.

I know my boots kicked up dust along said trespassing wanderway, and judging by my sore soles on awakening, I walked miles and miles. One dream had me singing to the glinting snake of a river, cajoling and encouraging it to flow bigger, stronger, to make itself known against the green grasses that stretched away on either side.

The next dream, much more detailed, had me tiny as the river, a miniature woman in clothing that was elfin, or medieval, or some odd mixture of the two. The mini me was weaving blades of grass that were long and wide and heavy to my tiny hands. I remember the aches in the little dream hands mirrored the particular complaints that have settled in my hands in recent wide-awake life. I remember asking my dream self if perhaps this was the real life, and the other one—with its hours of daylight and driving and washing tea mugs— was, in fact, a dream. Ever industrious on some level, elfishly clothed me was weaving a wee canoe from the grasses. I think both dream me and awake me must’ve laughed at that. Miniscule woman, she of the teeny tiny shoes and the pointed hat, constructs transport from a weave and weft of grasses. She makes outsized plan to embark on an epic journey down dust speck river. As soon as she finishes her grass boat she hops in, tosses her plans into the breeze and allows herself to be flowed, because even little Who* sized people know Truth when they see it; we don’t push the river, we don’t freeze the wind.

There were other dreams surrounding these two. I know because I awoke with a mystery of dirt on one elbow, and some scent of lavender in my nose, and my first quick glance out the window caught a tendril of green, a curling thing, hanging from the just-dawn sky. Second glance showed no such thing, but that is The Way of it, after all. We only see what we are ready to take in, and even then it hangs around only as long as we Believe.

–Melinda Coppola

*Dr. Suess wrote a marvelous tale about Horton the Elephant and his startling realization that he was the only thing standing between the destruction of an entire colony of speck-sized people and the continuation of their peaceful way of life.  https://www.teachingchildrenphilosophy.org/BookModule/HortonHearsAWho

In praise of song

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SONG STORIES

You open
your mouth
and out pours
a river
carrying the rhythms
of fluids—
blood and lymph,
tears, synovial.

It is current, and source,

keeper of memories
and the stories
of your ancestors,
and mine.

Song is the lilting thing
passed down
from breast to infant lips,
from old warrior
to young hunter,

and passed on
lover to loved,
cricket to cricket,
across the fields
and through forests.

It is the play of wind
between mountains,
the Earth’s drumroll
pre volcano.

Song is the ancient
chants of the native peoples,
sacred contract
between the land
and the beings She
once welcomed,
and now strains to support.

Song is the chasm,
the lightening, the divide
between keepers of light
and keepers of darkness,
and those being born,
and those who are dying.

There isn’t a breaking dawn
without the heartbeat of earth,
the symphony
of wings rubbing together,
of claws scampering
up and down the trunks
of trees whose leaves
make whistle

out of breeze.

There isn’t a dusk that settles
without the howl of coyote,
the barking of prairie dogs,
rattle of snakes,

and the sea
with her incessant breaking
and pulling back,
giving rhyme
to the arrivals
and departures
of tides, and storms,
and stones.

Song is the hum
of all life,
natural and now
created—the talking
screens and the bots,
the drones
and the buzzing wires
that link us
and divide us.

Space,
that ultimate infinity,
was once thought silent,

but now we know
it’s out there, too—
the Song, wild and
roiling in the
gravitational waves,

bouncing
between howling
planets
and whistling
gasses,
celebrating the spaces
between things.

 

-Melinda Coppola