Collateral Sorrow

Art by Marina Powdermaker


It’s been a time of times, a steady landslide of uncertainties. Yes, the Covid, the shutdown. Yes, Bink and so many other adults with disabilities being home all day every day for many weeks, with all the usual programs and activities canceled. Yes, the mass suffering and loss that has accompanied this pandemic around the globe. Like so many others, I’ve been all over the place emotionally and mentally.

All that has paled, though, in comparison to another great big unfolding. Marina, a dear friend of mine, has been diagnosed with a rare and very aggressive cancer. Stage four. She lives in a different state, and I haven’t been able to see her.

The news about her condition came at about the same time everything began to shut down. In a dizzying 9.5 weeks she has been through a surgery that was far more extensive than she expected, dealt with the after effects of that with multiple pain medications that haven’t worked very well, grappled with treatment plans. Each subsequent appointment with specialists has brought grimmer news, with predicted possible life expectancies going from a possible two years down to months. Yesterday a doctor told her that if she opts for no treatment at all, she may only have “days to weeks.”

She had a chemotherapy port installed in her chest, but crippling daily and nightly pain led to more diagnostics, and then confirmation that the cancer has spread into her bones. Radiation, which can’t begin until next week, may help the pain but will delay chemo. The first available chemo appointment may be almost two weeks away. She’s been told hospice is not an option if she opts for chemotherapy. Can you imagine riding on this monstrous roller coaster, exacerbated by Covid complications that keep her from close contact with those she loves? If ever there is a time someone needs hugs and loving touch, this is it. Her beloved cats, whose affection has been balm to her, had to be rehomed due to her inability to care for them.

During this turbulence, Marina, who has given me permission to tell you about her, dipped into Laurie Wagner’s free offering of her Wild Writing course. Each morning for 27 days, participants received a video of Laurie reading a poem, and were encouraged to use the lines as a prompt for free form writing. I’ve yet to take one of Laurie’s courses, but I’ve heard many good things.

Marina is a multimedia artist. She’s never considered herself to be a writer. During the Wild Writing course, she wrote on the days she could manage it, and she’s shared some of her words with me. Such raw and achingly beautiful writing! I keep telling her I want to see it all on the page, and online, for everyone to experience.

I’ve been pretty blocked (understatement) in my own writing lately. It’s true that my main daily focus has been keeping Bink occupied and well fed and reasonably content. There hasn’t been a lot of time for writing, or editing. My bitchy inner critic has also been strident in her attempts to silence me, and I’ve let her. There have been pockets for painting and drawing, but those creations seem to be content with five or ten minutes of attention in between the cycles of care giving.

There is so much I want to say, about endings and beginnings and life and death and change. If Marina can pick up a pen and allow such fierce and tender writing to come forth in the midst of her great challenges, than I can certainly let some of my own wordy impulses break free and overwhelm the block. I can do this in her honor.

For today, just one more thing. Please check out Marina’s art HERE.
She does layered, amazingly textured pieces that, like opals, look different in every light.

Take good and gentle care of yourself, and maybe go call or text or write someone you care about. Tell them a specific something you love about them. The world and all her people need more love.

–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

Kind or Write?


I’ve been finding it challenging to encapsulate life with my daughter, Bink, lately. Hard to shape words for the page and even for casual conversation with friends, many of whom have their own experiences with parenting and/or caring for people they love who have special needs.

It’s not for lack of material. Bink continues to surprise me at times, wear me out at others. She delights while calling forth all my mental, emotional, sometimes physical resources, in almost equal measure. She’s growing incrementally towards greater confidence. She’s opening up, revisiting some foods she’d dropped from her odd gastronomic repertoire, talking of trying some activities like skiing; these are things that are, in my world, a very big deal.

There is so much I want to share, and yet I’ve been noticing more guard rails hugging the road I walk and ride while parenting her. Sometimes my own hands show the callouses that tell me I’m on the work crew, building those stout metal fences with what might be a thought of safekeeping. But what is there to keep safe? I’m aware of maintaining some privacy for her and for our family. That’s the why for the blog names I’ve given daughter and husband, and the way I don’t show many pictures of her.

Maybe that’s part of the tension. As she grows, so do her talents. I’m biased, but she has a range of them that almost beg to be shared. She sings beautifully, and has a huge memory vault of songs going back to even the little tunes I made up for her five or six months after she was born. I want to record her and share some of that melodious magic with you. She is developing into quite an artist, and as our walls that display some of her work
beg for mercy, the canvases stack up along the baseboards. She wants it all framed and hung, you see.

She has been horseback riding for over a year, an activity that Superguy and I shared some pessimism about when she began. Knowing her as we do, we figured the combination of a good bit verbal instruction (which can overwhelm her), the smell of the barn and paddocks, and the physical challenges of maintaining good posture and engaging core and leg muscles for thirty minutes would culminate in a short-lived equestrienne experience. Between us we probably gave it four weeks. I’m thrilled she has proven us wrong!

I’ve talked with Bink about recording some of her singing and sharing it, and she said that would be OK. I know she’d be fine with gaining a few more admirers for her paintings, too. And there is just so much life, so much that is funny and sad and fascinating in our day-to-day. It all wants to be written, whether read by fifty or by three. And yet.

I’m fortunate to have a few handfuls of writer friends, gained mostly from some fabulous online groups and communities. Our blocks are a common theme. There seem to be endless reasons to stop writing, or at least to stop posting what one writes. Sylvia Plath wrote that self-doubt is the worst enemy to creativity, and I’d have to concur that one ranks pretty high on the list. Not surprising, right? We all have an inner critic, and s/he can be very compelling, and nasty.

And then there’s the prickly issue of other people. I think most writers are introverts, and some of us are, umm, kind of sensitive. Working on thickening our skin, perhaps, but tender in places. A casual, well meant, and possibly quite constructive comment, or an innocent question, from a family member or close friend that reads our work, can send some of us into the claws of inner critic, the alpha bitch. “ See? Your writing sucks,” she’ll hiss. The effect? Shutdown.

There are, also, the other other people. The ones who have had a big impact in not-so-positive ways. For Bink,
some of these people and her interactions with them can take up a great deal of her headspace. Her mind seems to be full of what I can only describe as files. They go back to her infancy (and even before, but that’s a subject for another day).

Once a file from a certain part of her life is open, the things that happened during that time period get played out over and over. I mean this rather literally. Unfortunately, a lot of her recall involves unpleasant scenes and comments. She loves her old-fashioned tape recorder, and she can regurgitate the exact comments people made, in a good imitation of tone, volume and inflection the way she experienced them. She can even recall the date and day of the week these things were said, or done. She scrawls in her journal about these things, too, and creates lists of questions for me to answer the way I think the particular person would answer them.

Bink doesn’t record the sounds and events of her past for the benefit of an audience. Save the aforementioned lists of questions for me to answer, she doesn’t seek a reaction from me or Superguy. In fact, she seems a bit taken aback when we suggest that it may not be the best thing for her to perseverate endlessly on the things people did or said that upset her. She might respond with, “ I’m just trying to understand it.” Or, “ I like to hear the voices.” or even “ It’s important to me.”

As you might imagine, it can be jarring and also enlightening to hear the things a few certain people said to Bink, sometimes decades ago. She doesn’t know how to lie, so there is no doubt these things were actually said. Some of them are appalling. I can only hope they were not actually yelled, and that the loud volume she recalls and imitates is a result of her sensitive nervous system and wiring.

Bink opens new files every five or six months, and re-opens old, familiar ones more often. There is always more to learn from her well-organized memories. Mostly, the people who star in these spoken or written negative memories are not actively in her life anymore. That’s probably a good thing for them because I’d have questions and some sharp words for them.

What does this have to do with my difficulty writing about Bink of late? Well, it’s a delicate thing, to either include or extricate the parts about her obsessions with unpleasant ghosts. I think it’s very unlikely that any of them read my work, but one never knows.

I’m a big fan of Metta, the practice of loving kindness meditation. It has saved me, at times, from becoming entangled in sticky globs of anger or fear or bitterness towards a person or people or happenings that seem to have hurt or wronged me, or Bink. There is a process to the practice, a form and shape that starts and ends in the heart center. It begins by directing deeply loving attention first to the Self. Next, there is a gradually expanding circle of invitees, beginning with the loved ones, then the liked ones, then the neutral people, and finally the people (or circumstances) who challenge us the most. Yup, the practice is to open the doors to the most tender and loving place inside. Once the guests arrive, we make them comfortable, and then proceed with blessing them with happiness and peace. It’s not an easy practice, but it can shift the entire energetic relationship we have with life.

Therein lies my answer, I suppose. I can write about Bink’s thorny memories, or my own. I can poem about anything, include anyone. I just need to be willing to accept reactions, and remember to bless each person and circumstance, present or past, who have crossed paths with Bink, or with me. Thank them for the lessons and wish them an honest well-being. And, just maybe, Bink’s opened files, her very vocal recitations and hastily penned recounting of less than pleasant things, can serve as reminder that love can indeed be greater than fear, and the choice to forgive is the very best gift we could give ourselves and each other.

If you’ve read all the way to the end of this run-on piece, terrific! And if you haven’t, that’s fine, too. I’ve just written about not being able to write about Bink. Surely, that counts as writing about her, which means it’s time for tea.

“I write to discover what I know.”
–Flannery O’Connor

PS: Bless you. I forgive you. Be well.

Tender

Raccoon, bread, apple by Bink


Tender.

Unless I am speaking of meat,
which I mostly don’t,
the very word owns its ness,
as in,
what is tender
evokes tenderness,
and what calls that forth in me
is that which I am drawn towards,
or s/he whom I draw close,
or want to.

Draw close,touch,
be connected with, and to—
it’s like a song whose notes
sidle up beside each other
and seem happily married,
or a poem that dances
smoothly,
word to word,
meant to be silken,
not rough and chopped
like this one.

Tender.
Tenderness.

Decades ago, as a young mother, I joined a playgroup with the odd name of Warmlines. I was lonely in my complete consummation with motherhood, and with my baby. The group name continued to strike me as odd, until recently.

I am thinking of the people in my awareness that are hurting, that are celebrating, that are lonely, and tired, and scared. There are mothers whose adult children have complex special needs ( like my Bink) , and they are trying to hold their ground in choppy waters, and I so get this and I feel connected to their pain. There is the friend from a writing group who has recently been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer. I’ve never met her in person, but she is a sister of the pen. I can only hold her image in my heart, and pour small offerings of caring into her hands, her mouth, as I trek through my days. There is a friend whose brother has mental illness, and his dangerous behavior pulls something from my depths which reaches out to her. There is my dear Aunt, recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s, and my beautiful friend M who mourns the loss of her mother.

On the celebratory front, my niece is blossoming in her first independent teaching job, living in her own apartment. One of my Yogabilities™ students is in a new day program, an art program for adults with disabilities that encourages her immense talent and will also market her work. My own Bink is creating rather wonderful art in an afternoon class nearby. She also began horseback riding a year ago, and she has exceeded my expectations with her interest and ability.

There are so many more, people I know online, in person, people I know of through friends or family, all dealing with the sticky stuff of life. When I think about them, I visualize myself floating in a kind of emotional outer space, connected to each of these people, who are also floating. There are slender but strong ropes growing out from my body to theirs, or perhaps they originate from each of the others and find their way to a temporary home in my heart. The ropes are purple, and there is an energy pulsing through them; the energy of connection and compassion. That’s when it hit me. Warmlines. Tentacles of caring, linking us to one another as we journey through life. So tender, so very tender.

–Melinda Coppola

Love is a Rendering

Love is a Rendering

 

Telling you how I love you
is like trying to find things
that haven’t been said
about the ocean.

My hands prefer to paint it—
affection, water—
sweeping, striped backgrounds,
turquoise and deep
salient greens,
silvery whites frosting
every liquid peak,

and there’s the sky
hovering above the seas
like a mother,
cooing and cajoling
smoother, smoother now.
You mustn’t tip the boats,
or dunk the sailors.

On the shore, wild
coastly rocks, and
the dark of cast-off
tree limbs
adding interest and balance
to the composition.

Further inland,
I love you like new snow
frosts the grass,
like blue melds with ebony
to make the nocturnal sky
sing midnight,

like the way those
ensuing wee hours test
the nerves of first time
campers
in their thin tents
along random pieces
of the Appalachian trail,

but fear doesn’t win,
dawn always triumphs,
breaking their sleepless faces
into chapped grins
as they whisper
I made it through I made it through
nothing will get to me or you.

 I love you like that.

Our word is song,
lilt, flow.
Our word is comfort,
as in I knew you
before you were born,

before you were separate
from the great meld
of souls waiting to enter
their chosen bodies,

and someday,
when I need to go,
please don’t say
you lost me.

Know, instead,
that I live on,
around you
and beside you,

in your first
waking thought
as you chide the cats
for meowing before dawn,

and as you rotate the dishes
just the way
you know
they told me to do

and as you bless your gums
by flossing frequently,
and gratefully,

as you pull
all the way over,
leaving the phone
in the car
so you can stand and stretch
and take in the sunset.

That little rustle
you’ll barely hear
could be autumn leaves
swept along the dry ground
by the wind,

or it could be me
whispering
be present,
be present.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In praise of song

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SONG STORIES

You open
your mouth
and out pours
a river
carrying the rhythms
of fluids—
blood and lymph,
tears, synovial.

It is current, and source,

keeper of memories
and the stories
of your ancestors,
and mine.

Song is the lilting thing
passed down
from breast to infant lips,
from old warrior
to young hunter,

and passed on
lover to loved,
cricket to cricket,
across the fields
and through forests.

It is the play of wind
between mountains,
the Earth’s drumroll
pre volcano.

Song is the ancient
chants of the native peoples,
sacred contract
between the land
and the beings She
once welcomed,
and now strains to support.

Song is the chasm,
the lightening, the divide
between keepers of light
and keepers of darkness,
and those being born,
and those who are dying.

There isn’t a breaking dawn
without the heartbeat of earth,
the symphony
of wings rubbing together,
of claws scampering
up and down the trunks
of trees whose leaves
make whistle

out of breeze.

There isn’t a dusk that settles
without the howl of coyote,
the barking of prairie dogs,
rattle of snakes,

and the sea
with her incessant breaking
and pulling back,
giving rhyme
to the arrivals
and departures
of tides, and storms,
and stones.

Song is the hum
of all life,
natural and now
created—the talking
screens and the bots,
the drones
and the buzzing wires
that link us
and divide us.

Space,
that ultimate infinity,
was once thought silent,

but now we know
it’s out there, too—
the Song, wild and
roiling in the
gravitational waves,

bouncing
between howling
planets
and whistling
gasses,
celebrating the spaces
between things.

 

-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

The Poet Says….

Allow me to share a poem that debuted on the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review this morning. This is the third of my poems to be published there in the Last week. All three are eligible for the Readers Choice Award contest on the SongsofEretz.com    Voting begins March 1!

 

The Poet Says This is How You Should See

 

A prism is lifted to the sun. Imagine
a million nuances of color and shine,
fractal languages of symmetry
resting perfectly
between breaths or heartbeats.

The artist knows the power of spaces,
without which there would be no means
to shape the eye’s longing.

Musician has this same knowing,
gleaned through the eardrum’s
oscillations: there is no song
without pauses
between notes.

Someone in your diaspora of friends
will die tonight, and in the moments
between last exhale
and the doctor’s legal declaration,
a poem is written on the window
in frost. It lingers

only as long as two pairs of eyes can see it,
and if the heart that goes
with one pair can hear it,
a song will be born,
and if the soul that goes
with one pair can see it,
here will be a rendering
in charcoal, or paint, or crayon.

This is how life continues;
The poetry between things
must draw the attention
of some realized aspect of God,
like you, or you,
and your near-desperate desire
to interpret the miracle
becomes the language, the love, the soil
from which
something else can be born.

–Melinda Coppola

The Goddess of Every Little Thing by Melinda