Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

About My Blog

I started this blog to quiet the voices in my head and heart that have been whispering and cajoling and sometimes yelling at me to write more.

This is a space where all the parts of me—mother, poet, wife, lover of beach stones and furry creatures and frequent toe-dipper in the river of song, Yoga practitioner, and teacher and she-who-cooks and she-who-makes-art and she-who-loves-silence, where all the parts of me can come out to play.

I started this blog to keep myself engaged in dialogue with my soul. If what I write interests you, educates you, moves you, …well, that’s a beautiful bonus.

Most Recent Blog Post

A Little Bullish

I know, I know. Much is not right here in the world. We conjure and raise up hatreds and fears born of misconceptions. We bow down to profit and convention instead of the goodness in each other. We make wars, first with ourselves, and then with those we call other.

We perpetrate unspeakable violence against the creatures that also claim this land and air and water as their home.

Still, I am lifted and hopeful. It’s not all (or even most) of the time, but I can still find the little red flower growing out of the trash heap. If I get down close to the earth and press my ear to the dry ground I can still hear the stirrings of worms and scuttling bugs. I can still feel the wee, sigh-like stretch of seedlings getting close to breaking through the dirt. I can keep loving their new green hopefulness and joy. So grateful I am, for this.

My default is introversion. Truth is, I am very comfortable in here. But being out and about, not just with the grasses and trees, but also among people, can be life-giving, too.  Shopping for food becomes therapy, when I remember to put PAY ATTENTION on my list, and then take notes.

Notes:

In the subterranean levels of my being, I have a faith/in you, kindly looking woman with two kids in your grocery cart, one of whom is screaming/ in you, silver haired twosome who might be sisters, or friends, or lovers, combing through the bananas to find the perfect combination of yellow and green/in you, ever cheerful cashier who almost always speaks to my daughter as she stands, rocking and scripting, beside me in your line/and/in you, young man with the profane political bumper sticker on the truck you drove here, which may not be yours/truck or sentiment/I have faith in you.

 

—Melinda Coppola

Read More Blog Posts

I Wish You Knew

In the Garden   Imagine if you will, dear one, dear one and all, that you are sent to manifest something unique and quite vital to the world.  You arrive as rich seeded earth, landing in just the right geographic location to support your eventual yield. The trees and the

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Folliculi, Follicula

TEND and SAVOR “Why the hair is attached to the head it will not come out please respond to me in a video.” These were the first words Bink communicated to me today, shortly after she got up.  I’ve answered this question—one of about six in the current sequence that

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Saved

  It is a blessing to find those things that save us in small ways. At the checkout counter a teenaged boy offered to carry groceries for an old couple. They said yes, and I was quietly saved. Last Tuesday, late morning, a brief shaft of early winter sun reached

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Everything is a Sign

Of all the offerings, a thousand possible signs, the Spirit Messengers chose poop. A pile of it, excrement of vague animal origins, arranged in a circle too perfect for random, dead center on my front step. And I, lover of beauty, faithful to poetry and all that sings cannot make

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Integration

It has been almost a month since my mother passed. It wasn’t unexpected. She was old and ill and tired. She wanted to go, was impatient with the way those final months seemed to drag and throw more miseries her way. I was able to mark 60 of my birthdays

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Headway Happening Here

Smile Last time it was Tuesday, six months and four days ago. The incredible Dr. S managed a first— pedaling the chair back just a bit, your face more accessible, sunglasses shielding your eyes from too-bright light. He touched twenty dulled pearls with his counter, probing slyly, quickly, distracting with

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WALKING HER HOME

Adrift. That’s the word that floated into my teary vision as I sat in my car outside the facility my mother has resided in for the past seven years. These after-visit pauses have become part of my ritual in the past few months. There is always someplace else I need

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What Do You Know?

What do we know for sure? I find myself wondering, lately, if we mostly hold the beliefs that suit our ease. For some, self-contempt can provide a kind of familiarity which becomes belief. For others, there is ease in what’s left after all the anger—which is really a mutation of

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Conversations with a Ghost

A Dead Friend Speaks Almost a year into my exit from flesh, what we call, when embodied, death, You talk to me, wonder if I help when you struggle and worry, soothe when you rage and grieve. You ask if I’ve retained shape and color, if my long and wild

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