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

 

 

Receiving the darkness

The word solstice was born from the Latin sol ( sun) and sistere ( to stand still). 

 

Solstice, winter

This darker interlude
could be a meditation,
a reckoning with the deceptive
nature of time.

The exacting practice
of being present

is to show up
for each round moment
as if it were everything.

This is what might save
me, or us—
the stilling to receive
each bundled particle of time,

and if we get really quiet,
and keep the flame behind
our closed lids
fixed on the darkness
before us,

we notice it is leaving
at the instant it arrives.

In truth
there is none such transition,
no arriving, no departure.

It is all a single stroke
of paint
on the mortarboard
of existence.

 

“ It’s all the same f—-ing day, man.” —Janis Joplin, sage disguised as an addict with a glorious set of vocal chords.

As a child, I noticed the shortened daylight only well after the length was returning to the days. Think late January in the northeast US, when the sun slips away almost a full hour later than it did when winter knocks proper on the door. Once I recognized this pattern in myself, it became metaphor for oh so many things.  If it’s mostly always getting lighter just when I notice the dark, then surely I can and will sing right through.

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

Morning is mostly a prayer

It’s been over a month since I last posted here. The reasons are many, but I guess it all whittles down to this: not blogging begets not blogging. I’m here now, though, offering this poem I wrote last month. It was a rainy November, indeed.

Undone

Honestly, it was the morning sky.

November sun, rare this year,
knocking at the edges of the earth,
sending up flares—
pink, yellow,
that soft peach tone
peculiar to pre-winter,

and my dawn-clear eyes
drew to the window
and beyond
and then I wasn’t really there
in the kitchen, not quite,

like some long bony hand
reached in and through glass,
pulled me through
and I slipped from carpet to deck
without shattering,

or maybe I did stumble to the door
and unlock, and step down,
and feel the leaf-lined decking
against my calloused soles.

No matter how,
I got there,
was there,
right there
with a grace that is
the invitation to stop.

And stare.

And occupy a moment,
allow my edges
to soften

and begin to expand
and take up space
so there is only moment,
not me
or sunrise
or window
or cold,

and that was my detangling,
my daily decision
to keep tender hold
to this life
as if it were orphan
and I, some great full breast,
was made to receive this
tiny bawling thing

delivered new
each break of morning,

and shape it with my hands,
and be all things nourishing,
and love it well, as it was made,
before releasing it
to its own
destined wind.

 

-Melinda Coppola

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