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

The Sings

Someone posed the question: What is it that brings you untethered delight, especially when nobody is watching? I’ve a bouquet of such things in my heart, but the biggest flower right now would have to be the sings. May I explain? There are some tells. She needn’t speak. Autism tends

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Natura Illustratio

Nature is a picture book of wisdom and example, an illustrated guide to how we could arrive, and live, and die. Take, for example, a leaf in spring. It draws from mother tree the energy it needs and not a drop more, grows to the edges of its vibrant green

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Fat on Silence

  I need to write it down. I should do this before true memory fades and is replaced, as it so often is, by a recall that looks like The way I wanted it to be, or The way I think it should have been. This is what we do,

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SHE and DOE

              It was a few years ago that I found myself meandering in a quaint little town in western Massachusetts, about two hours east of home. I saw the sign, which read, simply, THRIFT. As a a fervent fan of space and simplicity, I

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Thalassophile’s Lament, August

              That place I left my last glass of calm, tabled and shimmering like the Sun himself had reached down and swished his mighty steamy hand in its vitalizing quell, the place I leave against my will, bits of devotion and enthusiasm dripping from

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The art that blesses my listening hands

              Making Art with Beach Stones My home hums with them–— the smooth and rough, pale and dark, striped, speckled, some with lines, or bits of mica mesmerizing the light. They number in the thousands by now, populating table and bins and buckets, lining

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Mothering Outside the Lines

The Bus Stop Moms From my morning window I would watch as they huddled casually, tossed light conversation back and forth, an occasional eye towards their kids who played and laughed together, finding sticks, tracing shapes and letters in the dirt. After the big yellow bus swallowed their chattering children,

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Praise at the end, for beginning there

A Prayer, Fertile For all the beginnings we cultivate from seeds, lay to cradle in the richest earth, give moisture with our tears, our sweat and handfuls of rainwater like offerings to the deities we name Hope, or Light, or Fire of Creation, I fall from standing into some posture

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I Write You, I Write You Not

I was thinking about not-writing, which is a special collection of behaviors called Really Uncomfortable Avoidance To Silence The Singing Muse, or RUTS for short. It is practiced by word gatherers of all kinds; novelists, playwrights, essayists, poets. Correction: actually, it’s the creative writers who engage in this behavior. Journalists

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