Gifts and Visitations

It’s been just over a month since my dear friend and soul sister Marina died, after a quick and nasty tussle with appendiceal cancer. She visits my consciousness daily, in ways both fleeting and substantial. We talked a lot about the afterlife in her last months. She told me clearly that, when she visits me after her death, she’d make herself known in a way that looks like dragonflies.

The first sighting occurred less than twelve hours after she passed. I was with Bink, walking at one of our favorite Audubon sites. There, a trail unrolls through a little forest before splitting itself in two. To the right, a lovely treed path eventually leads to a small bridged dam, pausing before heading into more woods and on beside a waterfall.

Choice two runs straight ahead at the fork to a wee bridge that cinches a pond on either side. This beckons onto a boardwalk over more water, with an option to follow a path into an almost wildly overgrown bit of land.

It’s a magical place, one that my little family appreciates tremendously. That final Sunday in June was the first time Bink and I had been back since Covid-19 had closed most Audubon trails in mid March. We were delighted to learn of the re-opening, in time to greet the summer growth gracing the land. Across the water, a thick blanket of lily pads hosted frogs napping in the sun. Turtles rested atop rocks protruding from the pond. The air buzzed with insect life.

It was on the boardwalk that the first dragonfly came into my vision. She hung in the air in front of me, sunlight shimmering off her blue-green body. I tried to capture a picture of her, but each time I positioned my iphone she flitted out of the screen.

Soon, I noticed more dragonflies. Different colors and sizes, all dancing and hovering around me and Bink and above the water. Well, I told myself, this is dragonfly heaven! Of course they are here. Doesn’t mean that it’s Marina.

At home a few days later, Superguy pointed wordlessly out the window over our kitchen sink. We have planter boxes and a large pot or two on the deck out there. A lone dragonfly hovered in the thick air between a raised box and the plants thriving in the pot next to it. Thirty seconds, one minute. Maybe two. There she is, I thought. She’s here, he may have said.

Earlier this month, we stayed at a small rental on the Cape for a week. It was a hasty decision we made back in February, pre-Covid. The house we’d rented and loved for years had sold recently, and we were mourning the loss of that sweet yearly week. We’d driven down to the area to look for another option, hoping for something, anything, that would be within a short walk to the beach we love.

We found a cottage and were able to view the inside. It was much smaller than the previous one, paneled in pine that was darkened by age. It was also available for a week this summer! We put a deposit down on the spot.

Marina, whom I’d seen the month before, had not yet been diagnosed with the cancer that would take her life. She’d been tired when I saw her, and only vaguely aware of some indigestion.

When my little family arrived for our July week at the cottage, we went around to the back door to retrieve the hidden key the owner had told us about. There was a metal sculpture on the backside of the house. Hmmm, I thought. Dragonfly? No, it looked more like a butterfly.

We went inside. The small kitchen opened out into an equally compact dining area and living room. There, on a shelf looking out towards the front window, was a colorful square canvas with—you guessed it—a beautiful dragonfly on it. Tears welled up in my eyes.

In the bedroom off the kitchen, the same dark wood covered the walls. Superguy was the one who spotted it first: the sole decoration in that room was a colorful cohort of dragonflies, rendered in metal and nailed to the wall.

A few days after we arrived, my love said,” Hey, did you notice the dragonfly art by the back door?” “Oh, yes,” said I. But I think it’s actually a butterfly. Noooo, he mouthed soundlessly, his silver hair catching the scant light from the back door as he shook his head. We went out to examine it more closely. “See this elongated body? That’s not a butterfly. It’s a dragonfly.” And so it was.

Bink loves to swim. Recently, as she swam in a local lake, her head bowed as she dipped her curious, goggled eyes beneath the surface, M landed lightly on her back. She stayed there for several minutes, not moving.

Another day, a dragonfly appeared on the inside wall of our garage. She just sat there, watching and being watched, for a long time.

I’ve made online connections with others who knew and loved Marina. There have been strings of messages between us, and a tender Zoom memorial service this past weekend. We’re scattered around the globe, yet many of us have had dragonfly sightings in recent weeks.

Sometimes, I hear Marina talking to me. It’s reassurance that all is well, that she is indeed in bliss. There’s more, though.

Marina was an artist. Like many creatives, it took her a long time to truly and firmly believe in her art. It was only in the last two years she was financially able to cut her “real world” work to a minimum and give her deep attention to the gestation and birth of her evolving artwork.

She first knew me as a young poet. At twenty, I was untamed and bohemian. Poetry poured through my fingers when I sat with a journal. Through the years, my visiting time with Marina was often spent making art, with hours of talking and laughing punctuated by periods of absolute, easy silence.

One of the gifts my friend tried to give me over the last few years was what she called the YES, AND. Marina understood the constraints of my life circumstances over the past few decades. Through my descriptions, and the perpetual need to do careful advance planning for our scant visits or even our phone calls, she had a good sense of what is involved with parenting a child who has significant special needs.

She knew that I love my daughter without limits and beyond comprehension, that my commitment to her wellness and growth is lifelong and unwavering.

She also knew how I longed, long to have great expanses of unfettered time to write and paint and make art with beach stones and fully explore the wellspring of creativity that has always been part of my bone structure.

“Don’t starve your soul,” she’d say. “YES, you are an amazing mother. YES, your daughter needs you. AND—make time for the art. You have books inside you and your painting is full of Goddess energy and whimsy and you need to let it out. Don’t let it die.”

Sometimes, I accepted the gift of her words graciously, gave them a nod, then dove right back into the thick stew of my life. A few times, I let her words really penetrate. Paintings would come to life in snatches of time. Poems would press themselves out in pieces on my Mac, waiting patiently to be shepherded into something complete and satisfying.

When Marina extends her energy into my moments now, she knows I feel her offering gifts again. If she were in the flesh, she’d say YES. It’s a full plate. Covid has magnified it all. Bink will always need. AND you need to tend your whole garden, sweetie. The whole damned thing.”

–Melinda Coppola

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 mantels and
perched on shelves,
all holding the sea,

having chosen to be plucked,
over years,
from their temporary,
sandy homes on beaches,
Massachusetts mostly,
with a Rhode Island minority,
a Florida few.

They called to me as I strolled,
or else I spied them first—
glimmering with sea water

having just rolled in
with latest tide,

or perhaps half buried
among their brethren,
co-habitating peacefully
in their transient villages

along a shore dotted
with shells broken and whole;
scallop and clam, oyster
and the thin,
pale yellow jingle shells,
the occasional smooth sea glass,

strewn with the crunchy brown or
slippery green salty seaweeds,

among seagull leavings
and the remnants
of humans at rest and at play—

and I asked the stones permission,
waited for yes,
cradled them
with my work worn hands,

guided them
into my cloth bag or
scratched bucket.

My home hums, perhaps
three thousand stones,
alive
as you or I,
just vibrating slower,

and they answer
as I approach, as I
hold, inquire
with loving intention,

as I invite them into art forms,
cairns,
ancient and new,
stacks and lean-tos,
bridges and
little families
all supporting one another.

We try one side, then another,
collaborate to find
balance

and then,
then we pause
breathe
feel,
and I wait for their final yes
or not this one, not now.

Together we make magic,
my humble hands
aligning each stone,

knowing
with all my six senses,
when I hear

yes. Right there.
We are perfection now.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

Per Annum

Every year, now, around my birthday, I feel a tug to write something, employing words to mark the privilege of completing another ride around the sun. This year’s efforts came in the form of a love letter to my life. Here, below, is an edited version, and though it’s all between me and me, I wonder if you can relate to this need or desire to mark the years somehow, to catalog your journey. Do you write a song, or journal? Do you collect things; a feather, cards, ticket stubs, remnants of days you rushed through, moments you think you’ll never forget, yet know you might?

Dear one,

Last Thursday, we woke to the beginning of our 57th year together. It feels like some things need to be said. Probably nothing I haven’t said before, but I find that I tend to forget things more frequently these days. You, too?

Look, we’ve had our challenges. We rarely seemed to measure up to what the world expected of us. I know that’s just a perspective, but then, so is everything else in life. Conjecture, presumption, supposition….call it what you will, but the truth as I know it is that there isn’t one single way to describe the truth. Everyone sees things their own way, depending on their circumstances, culture, upbringing, It’s the simultaneous bane and beauty of being human , I suppose. But there I go again, digressing. It’s something I’m really good at, at least on paper.

There were times I wished we weren’t together. I’m not proud of this, but I am really, really grateful that you didn’t give up on me.

There were times I belittled you, comparing you to other lives. I know this is a common thing people do, but I also know now it is extremely unhelpful. We get what we get, don’t we? It’s how we look at it, what we do with it, how we react to it, that matters.

There were times, too many to count, that I was blind to our abundance, our cup spilling over with blessings. Now we live in a world that has perfected the art of showing and telling the endless and collected horrors and incivilities and the ways we harm each other, the ways in which we hoard while others starve. Now, it is impossible to ignore the inequity, and it feels criminal to imagine we lack a single thing, you and I, or that we should not be grateful and share generously. Perspective.

At nineteen, I knew my life would be one grand adventure. I’d travel, and give birth to poems and stories, and mother them with a loose and loving abandon. If you’d been clairvoyant, and told me I’d all but neglect my writing, for years and years, throwing it just enough scraps of food to keep it hanging on and hopeful, I’d have been horrified. I’d have told you, in no uncertain terms, how confused you were, and how unfaithful.

I could go on, dear Life, and on some more. I’m good at that, remember? But here’s the gist, here’s the heart of it: I love you. I love the way we’ve unfolded together, warts and scabs and miseries included. I loved our adventurous young adult years, and I’ve grown to love these plodding middle years, too. I love the way I’ve evolved; once a fearful, quirky teenager who knew she didn’t want children, and now a mid-life woman, quirky still, whose days are saturated with mothering, and it’s nothing like I imagined. Things so rarely are.

I love the patience and tenacity you’ve modeled for me, helping me grow my own. Also, Life, I am so grateful for the way you’ve pointed quietly to the journal, the keypad, over and over again without lecturing, allowing me to find my Poet’s voice again. I respect the way you just know we are going through the landscapes we must, with the company we need, at the times we should.

I will never abandon you, dear Life. I know we are in this together, for we are nothing without each other. And here I am , down on my sometimes achy knee, asking you for your hand. Here I am, promising, promising to make all kinds of love to you, with my whole self. Here I am promising to be true to you, which means being true to me, for all the days we may be gifted in this flesh, this venue.

Let’s be what you’ve always known we could be—a helper, a blessing, a teacher….and do what you’ve always known we can do—make poems, and art, and stories, and keep guiding a special young woman towards her own life, which will someday be untangled from mine. Let’s take the raw, rough dough we are offered and throw in yeast and punch it down and let it rise, punch it down again and trust it will rise, be transformed by the heat of all the fires and become something that will nurture, and nourish, and sustain.

Happy Birthday to us.

 

–Melinda Coppola

STONE LOVIN’

Dear reader, is there something in the natural world that you are really drawn to? Birds, clouds, pine trees? Lightening storms? Is there something for which you have an unrelenting affection? For, me, it’s stones. Specifically, I’m drawn to stones that hail from the edges of the sea.

I feel so very alive and content when I am walking on a stone strewn beach, or when I am crouching over them, admiring their myriad patterns and shapes, colors and textures. When I’m in communion with these rounded beauties, I have no age, no name, no agenda. I am not weighed down with layers of labels and hurry-ups and I’d-better-nots. The stones­­­­­­­—all colors, sizes, and shapes of them– touch a place deep inside me that feels like it’s been alive forever.  My relationship with them is simple and straightforward. I adore them, I respect them, I’m in awe of them. I also delight deeply and earnestly in my time with them, and…. I know them to be alive. They vibrate at a much slower rate than humans do, but they have life nonetheless.

I collect them, but only if they tell me they want to be gathered. My hands and eyes move towards the stones I am drawn to, and sometimes the vibration coming from a stone feels like a definitive NO, don’t take me. Not today. And so I don’t pick that one up, or if I already have I’ll place it gently back down with a silent thank you. Sometimes they are happy to be put into my bag or bucket, and other times it seems they are entirely neutral.

When I am on a beach that is home to stones, preferably in the early morning or late afternoon, I feel like I am surrounded by the most exquisite jewels the Earth has to offer. Who needs diamonds, when there are such gems as these, smoothed by time and water and wind and imbued with a wisdom I cannot adequately describe.

I have thousands of stones in my home and yard. When I have the time and feel the calling, I make art with them. Cairns, specifically—intentional stacks. Here again, the stones guide me in the process. Some want to go together, some are neutral. Some will make it quite clear they do not want to be placed on top of that rock, or in that cairn.

I used to just balance the stones, and I do have some cairns that live that way for a long time. About ten years ago, the thought of gluing them together came to me. I felt my way through that idea, and then brought it to the stones, not knowing how they would feel about being glued. Their radiated answer? Yes, glue is OK. A decade of our time seems to be like a few moments of theirs, and their languid vibrations do not react the way ours might. My deeper sense is that, if they are glued in a cairn and the time comes for them to be free again, the cairn will simply break apart.

My stone love brings me peace.  I’m grateful for their steady reminder that true strength and real balance can coexist in unlimited combinations of color, size and shape.

So, reader dear, what calls you out of doors, what helps you stay grounded when the ways of the peopled world feel oppressive or overwhelming? You can email me privately by replying to this blog, or you can leave a comment below or on Facebook. I do so love to hear from you.

Melinda Coppola

5/24/17

Today I celebrate my incarnation

Fifty six trips around the sun,
carrying a moniker
that took decades to like,
and I continue,
residing more,
or sometimes less,
inside this soft tent of skin
held up by strong bones
that shape this form
we keep agreeing to call me.

So much to marvel at,
a couple tens of thousands
of sleeps, of sunrises,
so many chances
to shake it off and begin again.

If I could line you up–
the ones who noticed,
and the ones who never did,
the ones who took me in,
or under a wing,

and those who laughed at me,
and those who laughed with me,
and those I loved but never told,
and those I didn’t love enough,

and those who knew I could
when I thought I could not,

and those who spoke truth
even when it shattered me,
and those who lied to me,
and those who betrayed me,

and those who were afraid of me,
and those who were afraid with me,
and those who lost hope,
and those who gave faith,
and those who questioned,
and those who accepted,
those who showed up
those who left without leaving a note,

those who explained themselves,
those who never tried,
and those who encouraged,
and those who could not,

if I could gather you all together
I’d go bowing through the crowd,
hands in loving mudra
thanking each of you
with my sentient heart,
for all of it.

As it is,
I ruminate
on how you helped me grow,
and how I hope
perhaps I helped you, too.

I kneel and praise a universe
that does this,
that keeps us
offering ourselves to each other
over and over,
as rough stones,

each encounter smoothing a jagged edge
through pleasure or pain,
returning us as pearls
to a larger sphere in need
of our perpetual adornment.

Melinda Coppola