Harmonious Discord

This morning I walked early,
mismatched garments
layered to repel a cold, spitting rain.

I’d pushed his baseball cap
down hard
over the knitted ear band
I bought to share
with her, which she
most emphatically rejected
for not being soft enough,
or pink.

Featherweight Bean jacket—
the one that lifts me to frequent
if silent praise
for its tireless rebuff
of even the most bitter winds—
warmed me companionably,
its soft arms moving along with mine.

This walking time—
tucked carefully into the space
between my early rising
and her wake up song,
before the gentle time to get up
directive I save for him—
has become sacred
in my other-centered life.

Rounding the first corner
of the favored route,
I looked down
and had to laugh
at mismatched gloves,
one pink and hers,
one turquoise, mine
by default,

and the shoes, laced oddly,
partially, with big gaps
between eyelets three and six

to nurture the well worn feet
whose dorsal surfaces
are temperamental, and
wavy as the sea.

The thought
and the smile
bubbled up together:
I am a walking exhibition
of my pieced together life.

This quilt of a family:
The daughter
with all her needs hanging out,
her talents slowly
coming to light
in explosions of art
and word
and song.

The man who adapted
to both of us,
stepping in, a little
closer every year,
to father her.

The felines,
who sleep tirelessly,
rising long enough
to eat and coat us
with their fur
of many colors.

Middle aging me,
holding it all together,
multi-hued patches of love,
bits of colorful string,
a plush batting of hope.

An ode
to harmonious discord
is not such a bad thing to be,

Said I to self
out walking.

–Melinda Coppola

BEGIN AGAIN


BEGIN AGAIN

“Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning, and under every deep a lower deep opens.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Begin again is the dry brush dipped into water. The soft tip touching dark blue, then medium green. The hand holds it steady over the welcoming canvas for a moment, then escorts it down to the wide, white surface.

She knows this first brush is delighted to be employed in this way. She is certain that each tool and supply she will be guided towards will co-create the picture that wants to bless the canvas with form and color.
—————————————————————

Begin again is the woman opening her purple 2020 calendar book with excitement. She is looking at the weekdays, the squares and numbers and day names that make up those blocks of time. She does the math, deducts the hours she will spend giving care, the appointments and commitments she has already made. She subtracts an approximation of the many miles of driving she will do, transferring loved bodies from place to place. What is left? What is possible? She begins to block out the writing time. Four minimum hours a week, six even better.

Whispers of worry float into her mind and cloud her vision. The scribbles already residing in the blocks on her calendar pages seem to expand as she gazes down at them. Will she be able to keep sacred those chunks of time she will set aside? Will she stay focused, or will she allow everyone else’s needs to usurp that free-ish time?

Those are the old patterns, she tells herself. In 2020, she must allow the writing to become one of the priorities. Set the minimum hours and let the pen form the word WORK in the possible spaces her calendar provides. Honor the time for writing as she would her other must-dos. The books inside her need to gestate and be born.
—————————————————————
Begin again is pink and lavender, with streaks of pleasing gray. Begin again is sweet and just a little spicy. It feels good in the mouth. Begin again wants to marry All is Well and settle happily inside her chest.

–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

Brown Girl Hair Has Left the Building

Bink loves girl hair. For the uninitiated, this translates to long straight hair hanging down, on a female of any age. Preferably, the hair should be visible equally on the right and left sides of her head.

I’ve had long brown hair for 25 of my daughter’s 27 years. At one point, it grazed the small of my back. Bink loves reaching for a lock of my hair, especially when she gets up in the morning, when we part and reconnect during the day, when she is feeling anxious, and before she goes to sleep. Brown Girl Hair has even become my sometime moniker. Superguy has been known to refer to me as BGH (for short) in his texted or emailed communications with Bink, or when he addresses me in a birthday card.

In addition to being Brown Girl Hair, I’ve also been identified as Gooey Oyster. That means soft, smooth, silky hair in Bink’s world. Through no fault of mine, she loves raw oysters. And, to her sensibilities they are smooth and silky soft, like my hair. So she’s used the Gooey Oyster identifier along with Brown Girl Hair for some time.

Bink would prefer my hair down all the time, but my life is rather active. When I am cooking, cleaning, exercising, teaching (or doing) Yoga, caring for the cats and many of my other miscellaneous occupations, it is much easier and more practical to tuck it all up into a quick bun. This has led Bink to write, “You are not bread.” on napkins and leave them around the house for me to see, or to record into her tape player, ”Mom should not have a bun because she is not bread.”

We have been known to negotiate. “Hair down?” she’ll ask. “I’m cooking,” I’ll respond, perhaps for the fifth time. “Hair down at 4:40?” she’ll say, with an edge of faint hysteria in her voice. “I’ll put my hair down at 5 o’clock.” And so on.

I’ve loved hosting long hair at many points in my life, and other times I’ve tolerated it. Snarls happen easily, and the high-quality conditioner and combing in the shower precedes the two hour drying process. No hair dryer, except for the bangs. I’ve no time or patience for the tedium of all that hand-held noise, and it’s not good for the hair, either. There’s also the impracticality of having my long—albeit soft and shiny, gooey oysteresque—locks hang down and hinder my free vision or motion. Worse yet, it can inadvertently get dipped into a pool of mystery goo on a counter, or catch some errant cat food as I bend to clean up after our messy felines. Sometimes, I’ve found myself feeling tired of the process required to maintain all that girl hair.

I’ve broached the topic of Cutting It many times with Bink, who has reacted with a variety of expressions of displeasure, anxiety, and horror. When asked what she loves about her Mom, Bink will inevitably say, ”Her brown girl hair/gooey oyster.” I’ve often joked that, if I cut my hair short, my daughter would be in the market for a new mom.

She grows older, though, as do I. Signs of flexibility and maturity have been showing themselves in the past few years, particularly as Superguy and I push the envelope more. We are, after all, in the service of helping her become more independent, given that there will come a day when she will have to live without us. (Deep, heavy sigh inserted here. Topic of another blog post, or another fifty of them.)

I’ll be fifty-nine in a few months. I’m keen on decluttering my calendar and my environment. I have never been more aware of the need to make room for the things that really matter, like good health, and quality time with beings I love, and for the book that needs to gestate inside me. A new yen to Cut It Off began to make itself known in the past month or so.

Cue new consult with Superguy and Bink. “No,” she said. “Not above the shoulders,” said he. I reminded them gently that, despite evidence to the contrary, my hair belongs to me. And I was ready to cut it.

“It won’t be super short,” I assure them. “But I am getting it cut. I will let you know when it is going to happen, and everything will be OK.” And, you know what? It was.

A few days later, just before Christmas, I walked into a hair salon I’d never been to and plopped down my 25% off coupon. I told the lovely lady wielding the scary looking scissors that I was ready for a change. “But, not too short. And, I’m not a high maintenance type. I’m not going to put products into my hair and spend time in front of the mirror blow drying my mane into submission. And, I still need to be able to put it back, or up.” And then I let go. Kind of.

That afternoon, I picked up Bink from her day program wearing my new ‘do. She’d been warned, and after her name was called she peeked anxiously around the corner to assess the damage. Then she trundled towards me and put her hand up to touch my shiny, freshly-blown-out hair that would probably not look that stylish again until or unless I visited a salon.

“It’s still Gooey Oyster,” she said, and my heart got all melt-y and began to drip big blobs of love and appreciation all over the Pergo floor. My girl was doing her best to find a positive in this situation that she’d been dreading for years. Though Superguy and a few select others would have some sense of what a big deal this was and is, only I knew the true magnitude of that moment in the lobby of her day program. It could so easily have gone a different way; and it didn’t, because she is amazing and wonderful and she is growing and changing and she defies expectations more often than I probably give her credit for.

Bink is used to it now. She informs me at least daily, ”You’re not girl hair but you’re still gooey oyster!” Only twice has she wondered aloud if I’ll ever have girl hair again.

I do feel inclined to tell you, reader, that my hair is not actually short in anyone’s estimation except Bink’s. I had about six inches cut off, which leaves me with layers that end below shoulder level. It’s easier to manage this length, for sure, but I also feel benefits beyond shorter drying time and fewer tangles.

Bink’s willingness to bend and her ability to adjust to this big modification of one of her major comfort items leaves me feeling hopeful and proud, and lighter in more ways than one.

–Melinda Coppola

My Bread and Butter

Hello, dear blog. Hello, faithful tribe of readers. My neglect this past month stems not from writers block, but from posting block. Yes, it’s a thing, one which might even merit capitalization. Posting Block.

I have spent mornings and nights in awe of the earth’s revolutions, the comings and goings of light and darkness. I’ve slipped outside my own skin and watched my ego, heart and soul dance around each other. Occasionally, one or the other of them has pulled a sword and declared battle.

I have written. I have made rough essays, and poems, and heavy, sticky globs of freeform observation and emotion. I have edited—just a little—for the book I am growing. I’ve tended to those in my innermost circles, human and feline. I have paid greater heed to the beings without form, whose presence I feel more frequently as time rolls on. I’ve shared some of those proceeds in my writing groups, yet I’ve not posted any of it here.

The year is nearly gone. In honor of the humble post, a more regular practice of which will help my first book come to form, I offer you this. You could say it’s a synopsis of what I learned in 2019.

Breaded

I have been the dough.

Amorphous, rising,
almost gladdened
by the beating down,
knowing I’d rise,
and rise again,

alternately loving
and resisting
the ways this life
has baked me.

Nearing sixty
I am toughening,
flatbread
bordering on plain,
dry cracker.

In truth
I long to be butter
melting into gold,
adorning the delicious,
softening the stale.

I want to be room
temperature slippery
salted sun, sliding
with and into—
not against—
the grain.

I want to please
the palates
of all the gods;
not just my human
beloveds,
but Stillness
and Poetry,

not just
Money
and Mothering
but Quirk
and Solace,

not just Editors
but Sleep,
and Dream
and Desire.

Imagine the Harvest

Mercy

What if we had drills,
not just for disasters, fires
and hurricanes, not just
for active school shooters
and any possible terrorisms
both foreign and domestic,

what if we had rigorous
training in kindnesses:
how to recognize them incoming,
start a volley with the perpetrators.

Imagine preparations
for frequent barrages
of mutual respect,
muscle building
and visual exercises
to increase aim with
arrows of understanding,
rehearsals in how to see
oneself
in another,

and, at last,
commonwealths of decency
brigades of beneficence,
great infantries of amity,

drilling to hone skills
of making, and giving,
and keeping,
peace?

–Melinda Coppola

My Daughter, the Foodie

The Pies by Bink

Bink loves food. In fact, her relationship with it goes far beyond what tastes good and satisfies her hunger. She loves looking at cookbooks, finding recipes on the computer, and watching cooking shows. The painting subject she selects for her weekly art class is often something edible. The paintings on our walls at home, and the stacked finished canvases along the baseboard in the living room, depict pies, ice cream sundaes, candy apples, oysters, brie cheese, jars of pickles, and other things that make her mouth water.

She enjoys cooking and baking. Although she needs the substantial assistance of another adult and takes frequent breaks, her enthusiasm about picking recipes and helping to make them is always high.

One of my favorite observations about this love affair Bink has with food is the photography it’s generated. The girl takes pictures of everything she eats, or finds appealing. That “everything” means every rendition. If she tastes her own meal or snack and finds it lacking, she has learned to say, sometimes, that it needs more salt, or sweet, or some vinegar. Once the missing taste is added, she’ll take another picture. The food on her plate may look exactly the same as it did a few moments before, but to her it is quite new.

A definite omnivore, my daughter wouldn’t dream of eating pedestrian fare like hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, or chicken nuggets. I certainly have no problem with her avoidance of those foods, and I do celebrate her widening palate. When she was three years old, she went through a phase where she would eat only blueberries and dry Cheerios. Neither is on her Yes list now. So, what does she eat?

Bink is attracted to the spicy, the sweet, the pungent, and the pickled. In her relatively short life, she’s enjoyed an enormous variety of comestibles that you’ve likely never granted transport across your own lips. She once had Ostrich Carpaccio with her father when she was about ten years old. She loved it, as she has also relished occasional octopus, eel, braised rabbit, many kinds of lamb, a rainbow of pickled plant life, anchovies prepared a number of ways, and a small variety of dried spiced crickets. She salivates at the thought of raw oysters and enjoys Teriyaki seaweed and ostrich jerky as a snack, when available. Very, very few of those things have made it onto my plate.
Most ethnic foods are yesses, especially Indian, Moroccan, and Japanese. She also loves many of the Korean delicacies her dear Aunt Young makes for her. Think homemade Kkaennip Jangajji (pickled Perilla leaves) and Japchae ( spicy glass noodles with vegetables).
Over the years, I’ve honed my cooking skills to suit her palate. Eggplant, bell peppers, smoked duck, goat cheese, and the above-mentioned lamb, are generally high on my own list of Will Not Eat. Still, I can handily transform them into dishes with an Indian, Chinese, or Japanese twist for my gourmet daughter.

Bink takes her lunch to her day program most days, and we plan those lunches together. On Saturdays, she’ll decide what she’d like to have for her lunches during the following week. We shop for the ingredients on Sundays, and cook more or less together most Sunday afternoons. Bink favors warm lunches, so typically she’ll take a lidded ceramic container of soup or stew, along with a side of something pickled or some sticky rice chips, and water. Yesterday morning, however, we had to cobble together a cold lunch, as her day program was headed to Newport, Rhode Island, wouldn’t be back in time for her to heat her lunch. She and I managed with anchovy fillets, some of my recent batch of zucchini pickles, Kalamata olives, and some coconut sticky rice chips, each of those foods nestled into a little Tupperware container. The beverage is always water, which makes it easier.

One of Bink’s quirks is that her food preferences can turn on a dime. When she requests something, it can come from memory, or from perusing cookbooks and The Food Channel. Sometimes, she’ll get very excited at one of my (or our) creations, and will eat it with gusto until it’s gone. Other times, she’ll enjoy it once or twice, and then I’ll get a text during a weekday, or she’ll announce at dinner or breakfast,” I’m tired of ______ (that thing that took two hours to make). ”

On rare occasions, we can negotiate a way to doctor the taste of the food with a seasoning or sauce, and she might deign to try it again. Often, though, she will not touch said food again, at least for a few months. So, we might end up with a container of some very spicy eggplant, or a soup that tastes and smells like strong fish sauce. I really don’t like to waste food, but Superguy and I just don’t have the stomach for some of Bink’s choices. We do know a few hardy souls who enjoy some of these things, so we can share some of the cast-offs as well as the excess from my more successful creations.

I’m well aware of how fortunate we are to be able to offer this quirky gourmet a variety of things she enjoys. It’s important to me that she eat as well rounded a diet as possible, and I have come to enjoy a little adventure in my cooking. Also, not all of her preferences are expensive or unusual. She likes particular pizza from certain places, and she’ll sometimes enjoy garlic bread and simple vegetable soups. Raw carrots are in occasional favor at the moment. She really likes sweets and baked goods, though she limits them to once a day and generally writes four NO TREAT days into her wall calendar. That last one is a story for another time.

Next month, Bink will turn twenty seven. Some kind friends, a family with a wonderful adult son who is also on the spectrum, have invited us out to dinner to celebrate in a few weeks. Bink is already anticipating an order of creamy raita, with just the right amount of tamarind and mint sauces mixed in, to savor with her Peshwari naan. She’ll probably share an appetizer of vegetable Samosas with me. Then there’ll be some kind of spicy lamb dish, and perhaps she’ll have a little of whatever curried vegetable there is to share. For dessert, she will be delighted with some cardamom scented Kheer (Indian rice pudding) or sweet sticky balls of rosewater infused Gulab Jamun.

Truth: Just now, on this Wednesday midday as I sat editing this piece for the blog, Bink called me from her program. That doesn’t happen too often, and usually it means Something Is Wrong. What was today’s message? “ I’m tired of the lemon risotto. Lunch I want balsamic mushroom barley soup tomorrow.” And so it is. Would anyone like a serving of perfectly good parmesan infused lemon risotto?

–Melinda Coppola

The Melting Popsicles by Bink

Turn, turn, turn, turn

OCTOBER

October is like an unplanned drive,
the roads back country
and meandering,
the other cars
occasional,
a determined deer
or quicksilver squirrel
the biggest hazards,

and then
just like that
the road widens,
and thickens,
a harsh unnatural line
slicing the middle,
asphalt and buildings
erupting like an acne
upon the tender earth.

Last week we bared legs,
dropped back into
the arms of summer,
the humidity raising sweat beads
that shimmered
jewel-like
on grateful brows,
like so much magic
against the backdrop of
autumn oranges
and reds.

Last night
a near freeze,
and the basil
is at the back door
begging to come in,

and I stand at the kitchen sink,
eyes glazing towards the window,
wondering which way to go—

out to walk
with the ever crisping breeze,
the optimism
of the sunflowers still smiling
and waving from the neighbor’s yard

or down, down
to the depths of the basement,
the underworld home
of a bin marked
Winter: Warm Things.

–Melinda Coppola

In Plain Sight

Deus Occultatum

Love sparks
and cells cluster,
forming flowers and rainstorms,
people and evergreens,
calling bees
and grasshoppers
to song,
squirrels and deer,
to dance.

Love lifts the paintbrush
to the canvas, parts
the lips of the singer,
fills the page
with poem.

Love is present everywhere;
not just at all those arrivals,
all that coupling and multiplying,
as some would have you believe.

The woman opens
her mail on a Tuesday afternoon,
receives her divorce decree.
The heaviness in her chest
isn’t simple grief.

Love has landed there
in her heart, and
hope will grow
in the places Love touched.

Afghanistan, a young
soldier has a leg
and half an arm blown off
in an IED attack.

He begs to die,
but Love knows
the names of his future children,
keeps him breathing,
returns him to his fiancée.

Love stood by as three
different cancers thrived
in your father’s body,
and when it was
at last time
for him to go,
it was Love
who took his soul’s hand
and guided him home.

—Melinda Coppola

WALKING


At twelve, thirteen,
fourteen months,
when most children
begin to walk,
or make a show
of pulling their soft
wobbly bodies
to stand,

you were content
to sit and rub
the carpet, watch
the fibers grow fuzz
beneath hands
you didn’t seem to know
belonged to you.

A plump child you were,
with flesh-ringed legs
and arms,
at least three chins.

As you grew
stronger, my arms
did, too,
carrying you
room to room,
holding you
while you screamed
inconsolably,
and turned away
from others,

while you recoiled
at sights and sounds,
textures, certain clothes,
and any kind of shoe.

We didn’t know about autism,
not yet,
but I quickly learned
what brought you comfort.

When you were at peace
I could be, too.

I wonder
if you recall,
as I do,
when you were sixteen, eighteen,
twenty months
plopped on the grass,

making a study,
it seemed,
of the individual green blades,
your fat hands
brushing the tops of them
over and over,
your face some mix
of stern concentration
and happy fascination,

sweet reprieve from the screaming,
relief for my strong
but tired arms.

And still you grew,
and rebuffed
my attempts
to hold you up by the armpits,
sing walking songs
show you videos
of babies toddling happily
from toy to toy.

It was this,
the not walking,
that brought my questions
to doctors,
to Early Intervention,

that began the parade
of specialists and therapies
I never dreamed
would become our norm.

It was a blur in many ways,
that time,
but I recall when
you took your first,
tentative steps.

You were two
years two months,
finally ready
to trust your feet
against the hardness of the earth,

to step forward
into the blur of delight
and confusion
and newness
and noise.

–Melinda Coppola