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 to hide.

The market rule
in the time of virus:
No touching anything, honey,
except yourself or Mom.

We’ve gotten good at this one,
practicing since mid-March,
and so we go,
in service to our shopping list,
following the one way arrows
like breadcrumbs,

and her singing beams
a Disney-flavored sunshine
up and down the aisles
even through her mask.

She pauses in front of the dairy section,
(which means I pause, too)
halts her sunbeaming mid-song,
and announces to the floor,
” Mommy it looks like I have to pee.”

No beats to skip,
for we are well prepared,
the purple handled pee jug
bagged and ready
in the backpack,

nestling up against
the toilet paper,
flanked by two packs
of antiseptic wipes,

and into the bathroom we go,
my shoulder managing doors,
finding a stall, hooking
pack to hang,

pulling out
that magnificent portable
receiver of pee
that makes all outings
seem possible,
conquerable.

We navigate this
like so many other things,
my thought out plan
for safety and practicality

backlit by the simplicity
of her needs,
which aren’t so much special
as they are honest,

the whole thing shined up
by my gratitude, in recent years,
that she can name the feelings,
usually in time to stay dry.

We are each engaged
in familiar activities:
she is peeing
and I am musing,

wondering
and marveling
at what the world could be
if we were all more like her:

free of innuendo,
honest to a fault,
unable to fathom
marching to any beat
but our own.

–Melinda Coppola

LATELY

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,
but I feel your heart
even as we give each other
wide berth, passing
in the park and on the streets.

I can see your eyes
above your mask,
watch you avert them
long before I’m near.

If I turn on the news these days
it’s to study faces,
listen hard
for all that isn’t being said.

I can avoid the headlines
but still I feel your heart,
see your eyes looking left
or looking right

even as we all dwell
in the center of things.

Can’t we stand still
and see each other eye to eye?

Can’t we soften
just a little,
abstain for an hour or a day,
make a Sabbath, a Shabbat
of not doing the things we do,

not lowering the blinds and turning away from the street where life is happening,

not doing the things that almost seem required of late, that almost seem normal,

not heaving our personal pain onto the steaming pile of angst, then grabbing handfuls of it without looking, with our noses blocked, and throwing it at each other?

As if that helps.

As if that does anything
except maybe keep us distracted
for a moment or a year,
keeps us from breathing
into our common humanity,
allowing movement inside,

letting things rise and break free,
rise and dissipate.
rise and come into the sun to be named
and nourished, or released.

–Melinda Coppola

Medicament

Medicament

This morning’s waking,
tight and tender to the touch,
felt like neck ache,

and all along
the spine of this day
my heart climbed and slid,

ridge-riding
the grief and uncertainty
of these past months,

pushing up towards
bone-like pinnacles,
vertebraic protrusions
of more bad news—
illness and violence,
economic cancer,
people hating their neighbors—

and then
the intentional slide
over cushiony discs
hydrated with hope,

into valleys lush with
stories of great kindness,
dotted with golden gifts,
small sweet buds of peace
that can only bloom
with softened expectations.

Now at the tailbone
of a long sixteen hours,
no Downward Facing Dog
or Bridge Pose can save me
from this hunched pecking
at the keyboard,
almost desperate
to whiplash out a poem
or some semblance thereof.

How many ways
can we find
to harm each other?

and

Aren’t there an equal
number of ways
we can lift and hold,

tilt a hurting person
towards the light,
say

Look—
the way your cheek curves
towards your chin
is poetry.

And

You, over there—
talking to your cats
with your eyes alone,
see how they respond
by blinking back, slowly?

And

Old man, I’ve seen you
water your plants
with deep, unquestioned faith
that they’ll leaf and angle
towards the sun—

and isn’t that grace,

and aren’t we all,
every one of us,
a cure
for someone’s
unease?

–Melinda Coppola

Dragonflies

Image by Rona Kline

Image by Rona Kline

As I write this, my dear friend Marina lies dying in a lovely room inside the oldest house in an historic and pretty New Hampshire town. A wonderful woman who worked with her in the local general store has taken her into her home. Hospice has set her up well with a hospital bed that adjusts in many ways and keeps moving different parts of her body to prevent some of the pain associated with not being able to get out of bed.

A mere six months ago, Marina was celebrating the purchase of a little house in New Mexico, old stomping grounds for her. She envisioned growing old there while making her art and reconnecting with the culture in an area of the country she has long loved for its people and its wide, open skies. She planned to move there this month, just after celebrating her solo art show at The Newton Free Library the first week of June.

Covid 19 would likely have postponed the show, as it slowed or halted so many things. The pandemic burst into dominance at the same time that my friend had a scan that looked very suspect.

Her journey has been fraught with suffering and pain as the diagnoses and prognoses grew increasingly dark through the weeks. She has had deep sorrow, and also joy and gratitude and acceptance. I’ve written a bit about this already, and it isn’t actually what I’ve come here to the page to say.

We humans can be so apathetic about being incarnated. We act as if we have unlimited time, as if each day isn’t positively bursting with beauty and grace and opportunities to bring meaning and comfort to at least one other being.

Many of us are quite good at identifying what we don’t want and don’t like. We tend to focus on those things, and it can feel easier to blame the ensuing feelings on outside circumstances. We seem to expend enormous energy tearing each other down.

Though I am a great advocate of the practices of presence and loving kindness, I’m far from immune to the easy drop into anxiety and despair. I can make an impressive list of Everything That Sucks as fast as the next person. I can bemoan the ways in which Other People are directly contributing to the pain and suffering of the larger world and to my own little sphere as well. I can list twenty ways the shutdown has created enormous distress and anxiety for families like ours that include an individual with special needs.

The pandemic and cancer diagnoses are among the teachers that remind us how little control we actually have over many of the circumstances of our lives. Those same professorial forces can illustrate our superpowers. We all have them. Most days, I think, we can choose to do and to be in ways that can make an enormous difference to all living things—people and animals and trees and flowers. We can choose to be present with each other, to listen deeply and hold each being with respect and regard and learn great things that can alter the ways we treat each other and our earth.

Each life is precious. Life itself is an exquisite gift. Everyone has a story, everyone carries pain and joy. We are all works in progress, weaving tapestries of our memories and experiences. No two will look the same, and we have so much to teach each other.

My friend has stopped eating and drinking, and she is mostly nonresponsive now. I know that she’ll graduate into the great love that surrounds us and created us. She knows this, too. “Look for the dragonflies,” she told me a few weeks ago. A few days after that, “Look for dragonflies. Especially the unusual ones.”

Dragonflies represent transformation and adaptability and wisdom. They are associated with water, that magical, life-giving, shape shifter element that adapts to every container and circumstance. My friend has had one tattooed on her left arm for quite a long time, now. I didn’t tell her that I’ve never felt a strong pull towards them. I know that is about to change.

–Melinda Coppola
Post Script: Marina Powdermaker passed away in the first hour of Sunday, June 28, 2020. She was two months shy of her 59th birthday.

Time, Place, Classroom

WHEN

The world gets so noisy. Too many voices
straining, pushing past their natural limits to be heard. Our small ears can’t discern provenance or factuality. Reactions quicken, turning knee-jerk, protective.

WHERE

There is the place where trees thicken into extended families, root systems entwined beneath the earth. Look for the leafy canopy that forms an arch. You’ll know it when you arrive. There are plenty of seats to be had, and no prior coursework is required.

WHEN

Class begins just after the tree frogs cease their urgent croaking. If you prefer to tell time mechanically, it’s around 3am. The instructor will sweep in on a dark, cool breeze. Plan to sit awhile. Class ends at chorus call, when the winged ones stir and lift their beaks to sing the dawn into being.

WHAT

The velvet hour, the lull between cacophonies. Your professor is the apparent silence. You’ll be asked to get very still. Open all your senses, and train them towards the slightest movement or sound or scent. Your assignment: to glean the evidence of life happening all around you. It is in the soil beneath and the trees above. It’s in the air that hangs or wafts or hurries by. It hums steadily in the space you thought was filled with quiet.

Listening is sacred. Listening is a practice.

Listening is a sacred practice.

I marvel at the way it is possible to hear what we already know in someone’s else’s words, when we get quiet enough for long enough. When that happens, things can suddenly sound new and full of meaning and promise, and this is what we do for each other, when we show up and open our ears and hearts, the ears of our hearts. When we
press ourselves into the present exactly as we are, wounds and all, open to a new way of being and seeing.

Consider the way we can make a gift of our listening when we give our earnest attention to others, especially those whose lives are quite unlike our own. By truly receiving their words, we can be a mirror through which they can see their own humanity and beauty reflected. We can give each other new vision and energy and this, too, is what we’re here for, to show each other, again and again, what might be possible.

Listening is a sacred practice.

–Melinda Coppola

.

When all this is over…

WHEN THIS IS OVER

Bring bread,
chewy and warm,
wrapped in that red
checkered tablecloth
that always sings
picnic,

which is short for
happy family,
easy friendships,
peace and plenty
in our town
state
country
planet.

We never went on one,
a picnic,
not once in all our
together years

even though we had that red
checkered cloth,
and enough love
and hope
and time.

Bring bread, baby,
while we can still bake
and chew,
while we can still be
alive together,

while earth still
hosts the wheat, the rye,
the farmer, so trusting,
sowing seeds.

–Melinda Coppola

Prospecting for Grace

Praise

The faithful sun,
generously stirring
energies of Earth
and atmosphere,
coaxing every green thing
towards the rising
song of spring.

Parents
walking with their children
outside, smiling
and laughing, nodding
at neighbors
out washing their cars.

Quieted streets
yielding their usual
ruthless noise
to melodious birdsong,
squirrels rustling in the brush,
the wind whistling
in the still bare branches.

Moon, conducting
the rise and fall
of seas everywhere,
the call and response,
organic and lyrical,
in all bodies of water,
even ours.

Every incremental sign
that goodness and hope
are alive and well,
seeding us with patience
through this reckoning time—

There I’ll set my gaze,
invite my pen to praise
all that.
Praise all that.

–Melinda Coppola

The Uninvited Guests

What a time! We are seeing and hearing wide ranging effects of the Covid-19 pandemic on, it seems, every populated part of our planet.

In our corner of the world, Bink’s autism and accompanying dependence on schedules has collided headfirst with current realities. Every activity in her life, from her weekday program to her favored leisure activities, has been cancelled. Much of the structure she counts on has fallen away. Anxiety and perseveration, already frequent visitors in our home, have announced their return. They brought lots of luggage, too, apparently planning to stay awhile.

Will we get through it? Of course. Many have far worse situations. This is, however, a particular kind of challenge for Bink and others like her. She asks many questions, and fully expects me to have the answers.

Longing

to help you know
in your bones, child,
in your bones,
this will pass.

This will pass and
I’m longing
to have you know
we will again be free
to dip in and out
of those beloved scrawls
on your wall calendar—

horse riding,
and art class,
the candy and craft stores,
restaurants,
swimming at the Y,
and your weekly volunteer job
neatening the bins
at the toy store,
pricing stuffed animals.

You will
once again
return to your day program
where you may even welcome
those groups
you do not love.

I know in my bones,
which are just older versions
of your own,
that this will pass by,

all things do,
and we will re-rise,
rise again,
grateful and eager
to push forth into the
too-loud world,

carrying earplugs
and fidget toys,
your soft pink ball
of yarn.

Until then,
my frightened
full grown child,

I will be here,
right here,
to answer your questions,
daily, hourly,

No,
this won’t for last 100 days.
No,
this won’t be for your whole life.

Yes, we’ll go out walking
today
and tomorrow,
and every day.

No
this won’t be forever,
No
I don’t know the day,
the hour
it will end.

Yes,
the power will stay on,

this will pass.
I’m longing
to help you know
this will end.

—Melinda Coppola

Communicable


PROPAGATION

I’ve taken to humming
in the produce section
while caressing the plums,
sneaking sniffs
of the cilantro,
eyeing the lemons,
audacious in their yellowry.

It’s a low, soothing thing,
the thrum of air
over vocal chords,
nearly a buzz,

and I am almost
a bumblebee,
hovering over color,
circling the end caps

as I admire
the mottled plantains,
the papery shallots
with their secret,
chambered cloves.

Outside the store
there are doomsayers
on every sharp corner,
the shattered remains
of a national normalcy
cutting feet,
drawing blood,
speculation,
and despair.

Even the sunlight
serves only to magnify
the sparkle of
all that broken glass.

The lines in the parking lot
seem repainted every night,
with more space
between the spaces,
to keep the usses
from door-dinging
the thems,

but inside
the flamboyant vegetables
nestle up to their neighbors,
fragrant fruits
and bags of nuts
coexisting,

and there I’ll go
humming and hovering,
covertly cross pollinating,
to propagate
a kinder world.

–Melinda Coppola

FISHING

Perched on the frost hardened bank
of the wide, cold river,
eyes intent on the rushing water,
dark and high,

I notice the greenish
brown river grasses,
rooted hopefully in their muddy beds,
in a permanent lean
as the current pulls them forward,

and my eyes train between the reeds,
strain towards that bottom
where I might glimpse gray,
or mottled brown,
perhaps a shape
unlike rock or branch,
something undeniably fish.

It’s late,
and wearily, determined,
I step into the freshet,
tossing pail and net aside,
boots sinking into the thick
organic carpet
lining the raging stream.

Now bent-kneed, hunched,
all my senses joining
with the forceful rush of water,
I feel things pressing, jostling,
knocking on my rubber clad calves,

and I’m shivering, such a
cold day for fall, wondering
if I’m delirious or
if perhaps the catfish,
the crappies,
the brown river trout
have finally
come to call,
and

are they taunting,
or urging me to name them,
call them forth,
lift them from the frenetic fray
into the bright relief
of their afterlife?

I plunge my hands
into the frigid waters,
grabbing at any shape
I think I see,
pulling out stones loosened
by the swollen rush,
and hunks of half-composed leaves
still attached to their rotting branch,
and,

gloves now soaked,
I am tossing handfuls
of dubious treasure
up onto the hard earth

when,
hands numbing
from the icy wet,
my eyes go to an odd form
amid the shiny tangle
of cast off debris
trembling on the bank.

It’s a little crayfish
on his back, caught in the clog
of dirt and stone,
tail flipping uselessly
towards the white underbelly,
claws open,
the bright sun
turning tiny, stunned eyes
to shiny marbles
and

my purpose becomes tenderness,
compassionate curiosity
as I reach my wet gloved hands
under his small dark back,
scoop him from the tangle,
and right him
to meet the earth.

He pauses, stance wide,
lifts his impressive little claws
up and out
as if to say
come no closer,

and then he’s off, eyes
still fast on my foreign face,
tail flipping to scoot him
backwards into the river.

Peeling off those soggy gloves,
warming my freed and icy hands
with steamy exhalations,
I sense the little crustacean
returned to his wild waters,
watching from the depths,

and I want to
imagine him grateful
for the wake up call,
full of new appreciation
for his river, his claws,
his small, powerful tail.

I suppose I’m projecting,
because that’s what we
humans do,
dripping our fears and
hypotheses all over
the plants and animals
around us,

pulling poems from their hunt,
their flower,
stories from their mating rituals,
always seeking ourselves
in their purposeful, focused lives.

I am sated, spent, complete,
gathering my empty pail,
my soaking gloves,
heading for home.

–Melinda Coppola