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

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.

Dear Future Roadmaker

It’s still April, still Autism Awareness month. I’m thinking, as I so often do, of all the people I have met on my journey of raising a daughter with special needs.

There have been some wonderful teachers and some exceptional therapists (physical, occupational, speech and language, to name a few). There have been good hearted caregivers, van drivers, and medical professionals of all kinds that have made a huge difference in her life, and mine. There were, and are, folks from various agencies providing information about and access to services and assistance. There has been an unfortunate number of people from each of those categories that were not helpful, supportive or kind as well, and a few who brought great distress to Bink and to those who love her.

And then there are the other parents. I am a woman of many words, but I cannot adequately find the right ones to describe the love, support and comfort I have found in a tribe of others who are parenting an individual (or two) with special challenges. Most, but not all, are mothers. I’ve known some for over 20 years, and some less than a year. I am certain there will be many more I’ll come to know along the way. Some have children with multiple or well defined diagnoses. Some are parenting in the grey zone, struggling to find their children of all ages the help that might coax them to leave the house, or find a little job––a foothold in a world that has little patience for those who look “normal” but struggle to function on their own.

We lift each other up. We listen deeply, hearing the unsaid words beneath and between the audible ones. We try to check in on each other. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a ” How is _____ doing?” And a sigh or a quiet ” Just OK.” can speak volumes. If one of us learns of a new way to get help or a new service, program or activity, we want to make sure we share that information. We also understand how very possible it is to have no time or energy to communicate for many months at a time.

So many parents have helped me along the way. It’s important for me to try to do the same, especially for those with younger and/or more recently identified children. The following poem came from this place of deep appreciation and desire to be there for others who are walking the same road.

Dear Future Road Maker

I promise
this will pass.
Not the diagnosis, of course,
not your cellular memories
of initial shock, sadness, despair.

But this crisis,
the one that’s shredded
your equanimity,
kept you up some nights
for months,

the one that involves biting
and teachers,
veiled threats from
Those Who Decide
that Johnny may not be appropriate
for their coveted program,

the lauded school
that took
five meetings,
twelve months,
most of your energy
and an attorney
to finally welcome him
into their fold,

It will pass.

Toilet training:
Above all
don’t despair,
I can tell he’s going to get it,
nine is not too late
in our world.
Give it time.

Your current devastations;
Johnny rides the short bus
and there’ll be
no prom,
no diploma,
no college or
wedding or
career—
this will pass,
give it time,
these things will fade
into insignificance,

and besides
short bus=fewer students,
fewer stops,
less sensory overload,
and sometimes,
a kinder driver.

There are special proms,
if he is so inclined,
and nice certificates
of completion, now.

Take a breath,
safeguard your energy,
for you will need
every precious bit.

Choose your battles,
don’t try to war
in many places
at once,

and know this:
I am here,
and there are many of us,
veterans who faced
that forest,
stepped into the dark
growth and
trod the faint
paths left
by those who came before us,
and we are
making roads of them.

Don’t underestimate yourself
or your son.

You will both grow callouses,
you’ll know such triumphs,
and despairs you fear
will wreck you.

They will not.
You will emerge tougher,
a warrior advocate,
and we’ll be there,
all the road makers,
cheering,

and someday
that documented
list of deficits,
all his Johnny-can’ts
and Johnny-won’ts
will cease to faze you.

Mama lion,
future road maker,
mark my fervent words:

Your child,
son of your heart,
will surprise you
and amaze you
and make you
very,
very
proud.

–Melinda Coppola

To Sleep, Perchance to Wake and See the Stars

Bink does not sleep solidly through the night, ever. When she was younger it was especially challenging, because she’d wake up and need me to be right there with her, and she’d often be up for hours. Sometimes, after waking at 1 or 2 am, she’d stay up the rest of the night and all through the next day. I was really tired so much of the time. Even so, there was a certain kind of mystery and grace in every aspect of my mothering journey with Bink. Still is.

Years ago I wrote this poem about the night waking. I submitted it to a few journals, and received the customary rejections that are familiar to all writers, maybe especially poets. I decided to try once more to find this poem a home. And, yay! it has just been published in the online literary journal Vitamin ZZZ. The whole journal is quite beautiful and I hope you’ll check it out. You can see it by clicking here. 

The poem:

Night Graces

Each sleep cycle you wake happy, chirping
psalm-songs into the darkness, small
warm circles of air rising from your
curled body,

and you tumble toward my bed,
proclaim morning
whether it is midnight or three or,
more thankfully, five, and I

surface from moondreams
and embrace you,
little Talitha of Ursa Major,
Gemma of Corona Borealis,
insistent beacon,
nudging my fatigue aside so
this perfect view

of the stars,
those glorious jewels of the night,

reveals itself
as the gift it is

and I,
your student, humbly bring
a glass of water.

 

–Melinda Coppola

There’s no write time

 

BLOCKED

This morning the mirror
caught my eyes,
and I locked gaze
with the creature staring 
back at me, wondering, 
as I sometimes do,
what would happen
if I opted not to claim her.

If I chose a different identity
would the mirror recognize 
my sovereignty
or would it keep reflecting back
this worn face,
these lips closed
tight against all the words
knocking up against 
my clenched teeth,

the half formed stories,
shards of poems 
pushing hard
to get out

as living things do
when imprisoned.

Instinct favors survival.

It’s a wonder we write at all,
any of us,
with the hundred 
duties and the 
thousand doubts
almost conspiring against
our hands, 
which, 
reaching for a pen,

find a text, 
a child’s needs,
three missed calls, 
a basket of laundry,
a long to-do list
instead.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Arrivals

I’m posting this a day before my daughter’s 26th birthday. I’ve always felt, with certainty, that we were meant to incarnate this way, as mother and daughter, at this particular time in the life of this planet. I don’t need to know why, because I know it’s true.  Happy birthday, Bink. You are the best gift ever.

The Room Where Light Meets

Perhaps it began in a vast,
cloud filled room,
backlit with stars
and random flashes
of lightening,

or

the distilled bright
of a hundred
thousand dawns
that traveled,
speed-of-light style,
to their meeting place

to coalesce
perfectly and
right on time,
to kneel as pure light
before
the Beginner
of All That Is

where we
each received
our assignments,
and that

ethereal datebook,
days marked
in celestial
purple ink

to mark your conception,
and your birth,
full enspiritment,
yours as child,
mine as mother.

Perhaps there is no
random,
no haphazard,

perhaps we are all
always
right on time.

 

–Melinda Coppola

The Meaning of Compassion

The Kuan Yin

She keeps watch in the warm corner of my bedroom, her bearing almost more regal for the rivers of cracks and generous chips that mark her faded turquoise. Her right hand, the deliverer of action, folds into Gyan Mudra, the gesture of consciousness. Preparing to take her picture, I haul myself into the present moment as an honoring of what she is and what she represents.

This statue doesn’t move. Her eyes don’t shift to follow my movements. She is alive nonetheless, imbued with a love deep and rare, a love that springs from her most famed attribute, compassion.

My father gave this Goddess to my mother sometime in the mid seventies. I imagine he was making an effort to support her blooming love of Yoga and meditation. The statue moved out when my mother and I did, after the divorce, and took up residence in the corner of the small apartment. When my mum moved to a different building, Kuan Yin settled into another corner without complaint. This is where my daughter, Bink, first met her.

Bink, my mother’s first granddaughter, was delayed in nearly every aspect of development. She never crawled, and didn’t manage to pull herself up to standing until she was over two years old. During each visit to Grandma’s place, the turquoise Goddess of Compassion was witness to Bink’s ongoing challenges and triumphs. At three feet high and graced with numerous curves that made excellent grab bars, Kuan was a natural assistant during the pull-up -to-stand phase. As the relationship between my mother and my daughter deepened, so did the one between child and Goddess.

Part of the way autism presents in my daughter is her unrelenting adherence to self-made rules and rituals. Each time Bink visited Grandma’s place, she lurched or toddled or otherwise found her way to Kuan Yin in the corner. Bink developed a real attachment to Kuan Yin. She loved to touch the smooth blue-green skin and garments. Perhaps the coolness felt good to her frazzled nervous system. My mum photographed these encounters several times, inadvertently documenting Bink’s physical growth. Though I can’t find any of those old photos now, the memory of them is clear in my mind.

I loved it when my daughter spent time with her grandmother. It gave me a much needed break from a child who didn’t sleep through the night and often wore me out with her intense and unusual needs for…well, almost everything, except perhaps socialization. My mum grew to understand Bink in a way that few others did. She understood the bizarre food preferences, the need for space and the simultaneous obsessive-compulsive need to touch people’s noses. She celebrated my daughter’s triumphs and her quirks almost as much as I did ( and do). Kuan Yin was there to witness much of this.

During one of Bink’s Grandma visits, She grabbed Kuan Yin overzealously and the turquoise wonder toppled to the floor and broke into a multitude of pieces. The statuesque Goddess had the grace to land in a way that caused no injury to my daughter, but there was some devastation nonetheless. What would visits to Grandma be like without the reassuring presence of the dear clay lady in the corner? Luckily, we didn’t have to suffer long enough to find out!

Enter my brother S. He loved model cars and planes when he was a kid, and he still excelled in his ability to visualize solutions to problems and then manifest them. S glued back every little piece of Kuan Yin, and though she bears scars that tell this tale, she stood once again tall and strong in Grandma’s corner.

When my mum had to vacate her apartment to live in an assisted living facility, Kuan Yin came home with me. At twenty five years old, Bink no longer shows an attachment to her. That doesn’t diminish her power one bit in my eyes. The one who symbolizes my favorite attribute will always have a place in my corner, wherever that may be. She is a testament to a deep love that springs from a compassionate heart, the bond between my mother and my daughter.

–Melinda Coppola

 

Little Things

It was, in my home, an ordinary weekend morning. I rose before him, he before her, the felines were fed. I made three different kinds of tea, two prepared with stevia and soymilk, one with honey.

It was the latter that sparked it. She who has such challenges, she who’s made such gains, she whom we encourage towards greater independence, (which is such a big word for a collection of rather little things), she rose from the table for more sweetness, and he, who loves her like a daughter, was making his own breakfast, standing right in front of the lazy susan, home to the nectars—clover and wildflower, and the raw, local blend that boosts immunity.

“Excuse me.” she said, and lest you think nothing of those words coming from that young woman, I tell you manners are a milestone in this autism infused home.

He stepped aside, she went for the good stuff, picked up an unopened jar when there was an open one there too. He, who can be less patient than I, told her to put it back and find the open jar instead. From across the kitchen, I saw the signs. Her face tightened. Her hunch grew hunchier. Her hands began to flap. “ I need a break!” she said. Such advocacy! And often, those words are enough. Girl gets her space, and life goes on.

This particular morning, he-who-loves-her-so felt the honey task was within her abilities. He was also maybe tired, a little cranky. And so he pushed back. “ Bink, take a deep breath. Look for the open honey and use that instead.”

It was too much. Her hand darted out, her fingernails clawed his forearm and she grasped the muscle, skin, and hair there. “ OWWWWW!” he yelped. “ That HURT me!”  Bink was off the rails. Superguy, who is usually calmer, wasn’t far behind her. I intervened with soothing tones and smoothed it, smoothed it, as I am prone to do.

To his credit, he settled well before she did. After an intermission, we had a meeting to rehash the events. “ It was too many instructions,” she said. “ But still….,” he replied. We talked about ways to avoid a situation like this in the future. Bink’s outbursts and aggressions have lessened dramatically over the years, so when they occur now we try to address them head on, after the storm. We meet, we identify triggers. We strategize and together we come up with rules that make sense to her. I am, generally, the one who remains even tempered and toned. I am her safe harbor, and also his. It’s a balancing I’ve grown proficient at finding and demonstrating.

It was what happened later that sparked something wild inside me.

Mid-morning, I was at the table in the dining area that is open to the kitchen. That table is a multi use surface for us. We eat there, and fold laundry there. Writing is done, art is made, bills are paid. I heard something unusual, and looked over to find Bink opening the lazy susan and turning it, finding the honey. She looked at all the jars, selected the open one, and put it on the counter. Then she picked it up, put it back in its place, and maneuvered the awkward folding door into the closed position.

“ Bink,” I asked, “what are you doing?” “I fixed it!” she said triumphantly.

She had, on her own, done a do-over. She recreated the scenario as best she could and practiced finding the open honey, taking it out, and then putting it away again!! This was, and is, a totally new thing. A small thing that was beautifully important and large in its meaning.

Did I praise her? You bet. In fact, I called Superguy in and explained what had occurred, and he was blown away as well.

I have a decorative painted sign that sits over one of my favorite framed art prints in my kitchen. It’s the little things, it says. There are tiny lovely potted plants painted on either side of the words, and the whole small rectangular piece is bordered in gold. It’s one of my favorite things to look at in my home.

It’s the little things, indeed.

–Melinda Coppola

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 to announce itself.

It’s her posture, head down and feet planted wide. Her hands, making gyrations large and small, flapping, playing air piano, reaching for the comfort of my hair.

We’ve had some really dark times of late. She struggles with tremendous anxiety and OCD.  I’m not writing about that today though. I want to write about the joy.

Sometimes, when she is especially happy, and seated in the car, when the color of the music transports her to a sunny place, the feet lift and both legs vibrate, bounce, shimmy.

The singing comes at home, in the tub, and outside; on the swings, in the car, and another favored venue—the market. She has no self-consciousness. Zero. Which makes it doubly delightful.

These are no small sings, not the little hums I am prone to, when alone. These are voluminous, gloried and mellifluous eruptions of words dancing to notes in lovely—I mean perfect—pitch.

When the dark clouds of anxiety lift and a little sun shines through, this is what I live for. These moments of great grace that feel like reprieve, taste like hope.

It’ s only in recent times, the past two years, that she’ll allow me to join in, and I can’t tell you what joy this brings! Mother and daughter, doing some pretty good justice to oldies and classics. Some may snicker, some may stare. Can’t tell how many because I simply don’t care.

Yesterday it was Que Sera, Sera at the ice cream stand. She started, and I joined in, and we belted out that song while the short line ahead of us pretended we weren’t, in fact, gifting them with a surprise serenade.

These moments of shared song are serious infusions of good energy for me. It doesn’t matter that Bink may not care if I join in. When my voice meets hers, they flow like some wild river of song-ish glee. This is my untamed salutation to God/Goddess/Universal Pulse , my dance-as-if-nobody-is-watching. This is my untouchable rapture.

How about you, dear reader? Where do you find great gladness, beyond concern of censure or reproach? I’d love to hear.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

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, being humans of great imagination and great fear. We twist and rearrange the past to suit our current longing or passion or outrage or collection of beliefs.

Here, then, is what’s left of it, the details in no order of significance. If you read it and relate, that is le cerise sur le gateau, French cherry atop French cake. I should tell you, since truth is being honored here, that writers write what first and foremost will save their sanity, which means they write for themselves, whether they tell you so, or not.

For the record, it was surgery on my dominant foot. Neither the largest reconfiguration of bone and cartilage ever, nor a mere removal of some tiny irritant. The Podiatrist called it a Big One, and said the recovery would be the hardest part. A slice was made, and ten years of free floating stuff was vacuumed out, and tattered cartilage was cut away. Bone, grown spurred and convoluted, was planed down, made smooth and then holey, ready to receive adopted titanium parts. A plate and seven screws married foot’s old bone in a ceremony of bright lights and shiny, sterile tools, officiated by a surgeon seasoned in the ways of the human foot.

It was December, and I planned as much as I could for the extended period of no weight bearing. Yes, it hurt. It was hard in all the ways you might expect, and a few you might not consider. While I was able to schedule a break of several months in my Yoga and Yogabilities™ teaching, the rest of the  process was quite complicated by my role as primary caregiver to Bink, my adult daughter with special needs. But it’s the afterwards I concern myself with here.

After the first week or so, I got used to needing assistance with many activities of daily living. Superguy began to adapt to doing the chores and errands and caregiving that typically make up a good chunk of my days. As I stabilized, he felt freer to leave the house for longer periods of time. I had some visitors, but there were lots and lots of spaces in my days, stretches with no people, or very few of them.

I’m an introvert by nature, and the intensity of my care giving experience tends to add extra appreciation for solitude and quiet. I’ve never been one to shy away from being alone. That said, I’d also never had weeks of enforced couch time in a very quiet house. When Bink was at her day program and Superguy was off at work, I had hours and hours of time and space.

I read. I watched the collection of home shows I record on a regular basis. House Hunters International is my only mode of world travel, after all! I did some art, and wrote a bit. After some time I was also able to wheel myself clumsily around the house on my nifty knee scooter, but most of my time was spent sitting.

I resisted it at first, and spent a little time feeling sorry for myself. The magic—and I can’t call it anything less— began to manifest slowly, and only when I allowed myself to surrender into this lifestyle. I required the acceptance that my primary vocation for a while would be healing.

It’s taken me many months to write about this, and I am still struggling for the best words to convey the transcendent experience I had while I was confined to my house for those few months last winter.

In Yoga tradition, we all contain five bodies of life force that nest inside each other. The layers are made of increasingly finer grades of energy. During my couch sitting weeks, it was as if the edges of my energy bodies spread and became more porous. All that activity I was so used to, had been keeping my energy confined to a certain size and shape. When the structure of my life fell away, the collection of energies known as me began to expand, and in the process, I welcomed a deep peace to trickle into my being. It became flood, the landscape altering kind, unlike anything I’ve ever known.

This was a peace that needs a new name, like superpeace or hypercalm. It settled over me like the softest blanket, lightweight but warm enough to melt the frozen places in my heart and soul that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. The hours of silence and solitude were nourishing some bits of my insides that I didn’t even know existed. In circumstances that I thought would drive me nuts, I found a state of deeply serene acceptance, a wild form of being present that went beyond meditation. I didn’t realize the extent of the effect until I was exposed to the outside world again.

After weeks of confinement, the only exception being follow up visits to the foot doctor, my Superguy and I decided I could go out of the house on a little field trip. He helped me into a portable wheelchair we’d acquired to get me to and from the house for said appointments. We went down the street to Panera bread for a cup of tea.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you my senses were bombarded with haphazard grenades of color, light and noise. It was jarring, to put it mildly. I’d lost touch with how loud and chaotic and abrasive the sights and sounds, textures and energies of the cars and clerks and crowds are. I remember actually recoiling at the store signs and the speed with which all those tires on the roads kicked out snow and gravel. And the pace! Frenetic, dizzying. I was exhausted after that first outing.

Subsequent outings had similar but very gradually more muted effects on me. When I was finally able to drive again and I began doing all the things I’d been relieved of for so long, I vowed I would hold on to the peaceful state I’d been gifted through my convalescence. It faded, though. The figurative leap back into the busy swirl of my life demanded my focus and energy. I’m sad to say that I felt myself contract again, fitting back in to the expectations that my life before the big surgery was modeled upon.

I’ve not forgotten my experience, though. I’ll call this somewhat inadequate attempt to convey it to you a victory, because I’ve resisted even trying to explain this for so long.

A few years back, I wrote the following on one of my Yoga Facebook pages:

“There is a quality of fullness in silence, in emptiness, in spaces. Spaces nourish and soothe and spaces can heal. The space between sentences, between breaths. Space between footsteps and activities and thoughts. The space to be, the space to be with, the space to do small things well.”

Today I kneel before the transformational power of experiences we may dread and avoid. I bow to the possibilities that exist within the fullness of emptiness, and I testify to the immense importance of spaces between things.

 

–Melinda Coppola