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

Mother


Today I honor the universal quality of benevolent mothering.  Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who exemplify mama energy, whether they have their own children or not.  You….we…make the world go ’round!

 

Mother

You wake in the middle of the night.
This is not new. I move
dreamlike to your bed, empty my pockets,
open my arms, offer water and all
that which is music for you—soothing words,
the moon time sway of murmured
song and dance, our odd routine.

Someone lost her only child tonight,
tightened her grasp around
small bones, soft skin still warm,
closing those tiny eyes
in a final gesture of care-taking,
shielding her baby
from her own wracking grief
or a last view
of their world of
famine, war, desperate pain.

Two continents away we feel the shudder,|
and I squeeze you a bit too hard,
almost knowing why,
and millions of us everywhere
do this dance night after night,
reaching and holding and rocking,
wiping the same tears.

We are all one mother,
loving and nursing
and mourning
the same beloved child.

 

–Melinda Coppola

My sweet girl circa 1993

Read More Blog Posts

April is….on Autism, Art, and Friendly Commerce

APRIL IS… As you may know, April is Autism Awareness Month. It’s also National Card and Letter Writing Month. Please allow me to make things more interesting by combining the two! Bink paints once a week, usually working on two canvases at a time. I also dabble in paints and

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What’s in a name? More pub cred, musings

Mid-April already?  Time is such a liquid concept. Today, my  already may be your finally. It is already April?  Finally, it is spring.  In February, my finally was louder than my already. Finally, Winter has lifted the frayed ends of her long gray coat and begun her drawn-out egress. I’ve

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AUTISM AWARENESS DAY Redux

I’m re-posting this poem in recognition of “World Autism Awareness Day.”   As D, a sister mom from my autism tribe, has said, ” We are aware. We are very aware.”   Autism Awareness month is April, World Autism Awareness Day, April 2 and, in case the day lacks color, (as

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All This Joy, All This Sorrow

Monday, March 28, morning. It’s snowing as I write this.  Big, fluffy flakes that arrive past the date of our northern hemisphere Spring equinox.  I wonder if they know they won’t accumulate. If they did know, would their especially short lifespan would matter to them?  I suspect not.  Nature cycles

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A Little Flower

“I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince Hello, First, here’s a sweet daffodil that blossomed outside my door yesterday. A little yellow beacon of hope.

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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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