Weary and Awed
a collection of parts of the holy whole
One of my favorite songs is “All This Joy” by John Denver. If you’ve never heard it or it has been a while, here’s a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AE9PSoMrcEU
I probably heard this song when I was young, but I didn’t become well-acquainted with it until I joined a Spiritsong Circle in…wow, I don’t remember what year that was! It’s been at least 15 years. This small group of kindred spirits meets every few weeks for part of the year to honor the soul of song and to witness each other. “All This Joy” (hereafter referred to as ATJ) is a frequent visitor to our meetings. It’s a gorgeous song that beautifully weaves the disparate threads of human hope, love, misery and happiness into a unified tapestry of what it means to be alive.
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I wrote a little something to read at my mother’s memorial service in late 2021. That morning, feeling faintly shaky and sad, I called my dear friend M who participates in Spiritsong with me. I asked her to sing a song over the phone with me. I had ATJ in mind but didn’t need to vocalize this, M just intuited and suggested it. And so we lifted our soprano voices into the heart of ATJ. When we reached the final notes I felt restored and ready to face that long day.
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Last week, another dear friend, D, wrote and posted something about the
beauty and grace she finds in parenting her daughter. Her adult child, like mine, lives with a number of diagnoses we collectively refer to as special needs. Her words poured into my consciousness and jostled the part of me that daily feels and sees the astonishing joy of being my daughter’s mother. I fear my own most recent musings and posts and poems about my parenting journey have focused too much on how it feels to be an aging caregiver. The fatigue and worry are a very real part of our journey. They are, though, just a piece of an indescribable journey that is rich with light and love and laughter.
A few days ago another friend (who has an adult child with special needs) spoke of the loveliness that comes along with the aforementioned worry and the endless and exhausting care that life with our kids entails. “He is the most wonderful kid,” she said with a smile. “Nobody who doesn’t live this life can truly understand. And…it never ends.”
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A few days ago I was sitting on a too-low stool, working diligently on shaving my daughter’s legs. (This is a routine we reserve for warm weather—the rest of the year, her legs sport a dark forest hidden beneath her long pants.) I don’t enjoy this task. My back and knees were complaining as I carefully dipped the razor into a bowl of warm water and brought it to one of her cream-covered legs. Just then, she began to sing.
She erupts in song at random times both at home and in public, and her voice is quite beautiful. I share her love of singing and I know most of the hundreds of tunes she has memorized. I join her when I am moved to do so. There we were, 64 year-old mom and 32 year-old daughter, belting out a glorious rendition of Do Re Me straight from the Sound of Music. Aches vanished, my chest began to thrum with the vibrations of song and joy. Unmistakable, unshakeable joy.
“Who gets to have this??”, I said to Superguy a short time later when the task was finished and Bink was ensconced in her warm bath. “Who else gets to be serenaded at random times with an ever-changing variety of music that is always perfectly on key”?
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I had a poem published recently online at Knee Brace Press. This is a venue “…for stories about chronic illness, disability, mental health and neurodivergence.” I’m usually up for offering a peek into our family’s very different life. I believe in the power of broadened perspectives and I think awareness is key to changing attitudes. I’m also pleased this poem found a home in a publication. I was unprepared, though, for the way my requested bio and poet’s back notes appeared prominently above the poem itself. Bink’s diagnoses were right there, spelled out in a way that could be perceived as wholly negative, which is never my intention.
That was earlier this week.. Today, my poem is no longer the featured item on the front page, so the information was dropped down to the end of the poem. Here’s a link, or if you prefer, I’ve also pasted the poem below.
I hope, kind reader, that you can taste the triumph and (to over-use a word) the joy in this piece.
Breaking News About Shoes
My hands are cupped, quivering,
I deliver this gem to your inbox—
an invitation
to pull your eyes from shiny screens
your kid’s college acceptances
pictures of your firstborn’s firstborn
canal views from your Venice trip.
It’s not that those aren’t pretty images—
and so glittery
decorated with your pride,
but here,
I’m waving you in from the sidelines
listen well
and hear the miracle in my words,
the miracle—
She tried on shoes last Tuesday.
Two pairs!
In the store.
In the store.
I found the probable size
and we sat,
side by side
and I unlaced pink sneakers
‘til the mouth gaped wide enough.
One foot in, then the other,
and I tied.
She got up slowly,
and walked with me,
trudged up and down an aisle.
Are they tight?
Loose?
Rough?
Success was the NO
that slipped so smoothly from her lips,
butter on bread
We repeated the process
untied another pair, gray this time.
Put feet in.
Tied again
walked
talked
Are you still with me?
Still here?
Last Tuesday
I have no pictures
but it’s true, I swear,
(and I so rarely swear)—
She tried on shoes,
we even bought a pair.
Her small smile told me
she was proud.
I was,
am still,
silly happy
to be a mom
whose daughter
tried on shoes
and chose a pair.
Your eyes have glazed over
I see your finger poised to delete
having never been
one who buys ten of everything
sets a schedule–
Let’s try on one bra a day,
one pair of pants,
right shoe Monday
Tuesday left,
Having never been the one
who has a Doctorate
in Making Returns.
Breaking news here from the front
which is usually the back
or a side—
we are so invisible in your world.
By Melinda Coppola
Woman, Circle, Poem