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

Categorically Speaking

Dubbed One name for a collection of can’ts, of never wills and less-thans, a singular bucket into which they dump the myriad ways she comes up short. Autism. The rusty scuttle whose name expands to encompass the collected others— Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Severe anxiety disorder. Chronic polyuria. Lordosis, Kyphosis. Intellectual

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For some who left

STAY I want to dematerialize and put myself back together between his reedy young body and the gun he stole from his Uncle’s desk drawer the night they invited him for dinner. I want to land hard between her hands— the same hands that had just held an acceptance letter

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Accepting Autism

Ten years ago, April was designated Autism Awareness month. April 2 is World Autism Awareness day. There has been a movement towards renaming both of these, replacing awareness with acceptance . Robert Frost wrote,” Always fall in love with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make

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I suppose all parents have those first moments of recognition; the sudden realization that the world has pushed itself inside your child’s innocence, the bittersweet rush of comprehension that s/he will never be quite the same again. Having a child with disabilities creates a different trajectory. Timelines are unpredictable. Those

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A little more “Pub Cred”.

One of my goals as a creative person is to put more of my work out into the world. If writing and art-making gets short shrift in the bigger picture of my life as Bink’s mom and chief advocate—and it does—the amount of time I spend on submissions is barely

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Little Altars Everywhere

My home is host to little altars everywhere honoring lives lived, seasons arriving and leaving, the hundred sparks of grace and wonder, sorrow and understanding that pock and foliate hours and years squeezed into the dance of this body, my particular, grand, unbearably blessed and gratefully transient human experience. On

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Notes from a Parallel Universe

I’ve written a fair amount about life with my adult child. As I plod ever so slowly towards creating a book about the journey, it occurs to me that the pace at which I’m working on that is in sync with the overall pace and rhythm of our life together.

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Me and My Shadow Go to Market

It is May 2020, still early in The Covid Times. We take ourselves to the market, by which I mean our whole selves, me in my layers of self-consciousness— the run of the mill kind that most of us don without thought— she baring all, as usual: no pretense, nothing

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The ground seems foreign, new roots and stones anchored in the middle of familiar paths, and my feet stumble more, much more. Are you stumbling too? Such heavy air, a downward press on the shoulders makes it hard to look up, check out the sky. I can’t speak for you,

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