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

It Goes Like This

You smile down on me from a slightly precarious perch on the shelf above my messy desk. It’s my favorite photo of you—young and exuberantly happy, arms flung wide, dressed in colorful layers that reflect your signature style. I’d never seen this picture until your Memorial Service, but I loved it immediately.

My second favorite image of you exists only in my mind, yet it’s as clear as it was when you visited me— the day after you died. I was sitting on the couch in my living room. Superguy was next to me. The empty space in front us filled with palpable energy. The air seemed to shimmer as your face burst into view, larger than life and filling the upper two thirds of the room. Your long, wild, gray-blond hair floated around you as if you were underwater, some kind of angel-mermaid treading in a sea of air.

To say you looked and felt angelic is a gross understatement. You were positively radiant, with a joy that penetrated my skin and raised the hairs on my arms. Warmth flooded my chest, my eyes filled.

Superguy didn’t feel it, but I’m used to this—for as long as I can remember I’ve been seeing and feeling and hearing things others don’t.

Anyway, I digress. You were there in full spirit then, and you’ve come to me a few dozen times since.

In the beginning, you would come as a silent, joy-filled, deeply reassuring vision. After a few months this shifted—you became quite verbal, sometimes loud, and your language was, ummm…. earthier.  This was—is—so like the you I knew when we were both embodied. And so we talk.

The writing has come hard, I tell you. This after multiple friendly hauntings, your F-word laced admonishments from behind a veil that is too thin sometimes, even for my highly tolerant sixth sense.

You manage to convey it all in a human nanosecond:

Don’t f-ing fritter time away on worry, or planning, or mindless scroll. Honor the art, sister. Whether you perceive it as gift or imposition, those words and images are apparitions that must become real. If you ignore them, they will haunt you more than I ever will. They f-ing need to be born. Be a midwife, help them slide out into the earthly world. Then you can let them go and do what they will do. Then you’ll be free.

I know, I know. We all arrive with Things To Share. And, like it or not, we are tasked with getting those pieces of ourselves out of our heads, hearts and hands. No matter how loud our insecurities are, how tenacious our fears, we are here to share what we’ve been given.  That’s it. Get empty before we die. Though our allotment of years is a well-designed mystery, we ought to trust there will be time enough to complete our mission. Even though you left so soon.

Sometimes, dear one, we can be deeply aware of our given work. Maybe we have been for decades. Finding the impetus to push outward and onward while living within the drum of skin and sinew—making song after unfinished song while brittling bones hold the patient shape of the soul’s longing —that is the hardest work of all.

Don’t leave me, dear sisterly ghosting soul. I need you blowing chilly breezes into my complacency. But could you maybe be a little gentler? And Marina, do you really need to swear so much? I would’ve guessed that wouldn’t be necessary in the afterlife.

Miss your earthbound form.

Love always,




Read More Blog Posts

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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  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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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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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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Look up! The world is out there.

Reckoning Inside, just shy of sunrise, all over the land people awakened, reached for their small screens, hungry for the tiny words and pictures, memes and videos designed to amuse, entrance, distract from stress and angst of bad news streaming 24/7. The people found ways to laugh, or groan, and

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