The photo above shows my dad and my three-year-old self as I head out on my first adventure — an overnight with my grandparents. It was also my first suitcase, but oh so far from my last.
I’m a get-it-while-you-can traveler with a voracious appetite that never lets go, and I’m blessed to have family members who tolerate it pretty well. The plus side is that I always return filled with light, exuberance, and imagination simply because I’ve put myself in a different environment, lapped it up, and consequently renewed every part of myself.
But how does this happen? What’s so different about being away from home? Well I have a few thoughts about that.
When I travel …
I stare endlessly across the water and feel dolphins set the seas in motion.
I watch the Irish heartbeat ruffle long grasses until they flutter like birds taking flight.
I watch the British with their parade of staid composure topped by delightfully underplayed irony.
I sleep beneath Paris rooftops while breezes from my open windows ruffle white sheets.
I help women in Morocco prepare an evening meal, and startle myself with tastes I never dreamed existed.
I immerse myself in the endless art of Barcelona, her friendliness, and her fabulous dinners that never begin before 10:00 or end before midnight.
BUT most importantly, I take a good long look at myself and gauge how close I am to the woman I was born to be.
Travel may be about work, exploration, renewal, or a new life, but there’s rarely a downside, and there’s always infinite room for growth.
And the truth is that when we travel, we leave so much behind. Anxiety. Exhaustion. Confusion. Petty Stuff. Self-Centeredness. Fear.
Get out there and celebrate the difference. Revel in what you love. Give it everything you’ve got and let it pour endlessly over you like rain on the Irish sea.
May we never stop seeing, never lose our awe and ability to say YES, and never stop being open to the new, whether we find it abroad or at home. Grab what you love, and never let go.
And about those dolphins … it’s true, you know. If you notice the sea dancing raucously and seemingly all on her own, you’re looking at the joy and playfulness of dolphins. Now THEY know how to travel!
It’s a funny thing how much we forget when we look the other way. To be honest, I always assume that “what you know” is what you know, and it’s yours for life.
Cue laughter.
Cue more laughter.
But it seems that during the pandemic, when we fashioned a whole new way of living, a lot of the daily stuff fell right out of my brain due to a change of focus. Sure I wrote a lot and published a book, but the truth is that when they say “use it or lose it” — well, it’s not just a poetic suggestion.
As it happens, I’m about to return to travel, and surprisingly I find myself looking through old trips to remember what I used to pack. Honestly, it’s a bit mortifying. And since I’m scheduled for four delightful outings this year, I need a primer … and I need it fast.
It used to be so easy. I knew exactly what I needed for the time of year and location, I knew exactly where it was in my closet, and I knew exactly how much (or how little!) to pack. Dare I say … it was fun. And I repeatedly threw it all together the day before take-off.
This year, ahem, I pulled down my faithful suitcase, stared at it for a couple of days, and then started a walkabout to decide which items might be selected. Basically, I needed to be warm and dry, which is not always easy in Ireland. So basically, that meant dry clothes to wear while wet clothes are drying.
And then there’s the task itself. Yes, I remember how to pack (roll it up). Yes, I remember WHAT to pack. Well … mostly. But if I forget something, I can probably get it there, right? Probably maybe.
But my biggest pickle is with the airlines, which I suppose is nothing new. Two legs over and two legs back, with the middle legs on a different airline. (Cue laughter)
How hard can it be to reserve a seat? There are people, there are seats, and the seats are designed to seat the people. Voila. And yet ….
To be fair, the airline provides some directions for claiming a seat. “Please ensure that you are aware of the latest travel requirements for your destination prior to arriving at the airport.”
No biggie. I click on the italicized portion and … nothing. I eventually find and click on a much longer description of available seats (with photos!) and … nothing.
So here’s the deal. Basically, there are seats for anything and everyone, including musical instruments and pets, But somehow, there’s no way for ME to reserve a seat. There are words about choosing and reserving your seat, which is lovely, but the actual directions for claiming a seat appear not to exist. The seats just sit there, refusing to allow even the tiniest, softest click.
You can, of course, return to the beginning, where they will string you along with another option for claiming a seat, but … there’s no link for clicking or claiming or exchanging or sneaking or stealing — leaving me with only zero options. No phone assistance. No website assistance. No feeling that everything is under control. I do have a piece of paper that looks rather like a ticket and a six digit number that could, I suppose, perform the duties of a ticket … but … is it really? And if it is, why can’t I claim it???
And so my return to travel takes on something of my younger days, when skies were indeed friendly, the leather seats were deep and wide, and the gates were rife with family members hugging goodbyes as you as you flew seamlessly into adventure.
“I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.” ― Tennessee Williams
And although the images above could very easily work to convey a group of hysterics, they are, in fact, regular people competing in a “Stella” Screaming Contest. And though I’m not a suitable Stella-Screaming prospect, I’d show up to watch in a heartbeat.
To be honest, I’m not exactly sure why. Though I’ve seen much of his work, I’m not really a Tennessee Williams fan.
Is it the full-throaters? The constant comics? The attention grabbers? Not so much. I’m just ever and always an admirer of those who can jump in and give it all they’ve got.
Are you an avid Tennessee Williams lover? Mildly interested? Begrudgingly tolerant? Trying to find the up side? Or pretty put off?
Flowers on the Wild Atlantic Way, Photo by Pam GoodeMosaic by Pam Goode, Wild Atlantic Way
My studio mate in Ireland and I are both mosaic artists. One of us (NOT me) churns out gorgeous new work daily, and you’ll definitely want to keep an eye on her!
I, on the other hand, tend to spend a lot of time in my head and approach the actual work with the zeal of a sloth and the pace of a snail. I’m tempted to start making pieces now, so I can simply pop one out of my suitcase every other day and wow myself with my “productivity.”
Does that count?
But sometimes, and often in Ireland, I’m so overwhelmed by beauty and generosity that art just rolls right out of me like so many thank-yous to the universe.
The art above is one of those gifts.
On the left is a slightly blurred photo that I took about a decade ago on a gorgeous windy day during my first residency in Listowel, Ireland. We were exploring and enjoying a glorious walk on a glorious sandy beach — first along the high dunes and then down to the water under brilliant blue skies. That’s where I discovered the yellow shells shown in my last post, as well as a host of pink darlings twirling joyously in the breeze that immediately became my inspiration. On the right is the stained glass mosaic that I created from my photo.
If you happen to find yourself in Ireland during the month of April, please stop by and say hello. If we’re lucky, you may be be able to join us for a workshop! (Date to be determined; likely mid April)
I’ve missed your lonnnnnnng frothy grasses, your ubiquitous flowers and delightfully moody seas. I’ve missed your shells of every color, and certainly your mind-blowing hand-built walls. And your stripey stones — how could I turn away from such whimsy?
I’ve missed your waterside horses and donkeys and cows inching closer and ever closer while hoping to get to know us better. I’ve missed your poets and your deep love of writing. I’ve missed your lovely tea rooms, your lobsters, your ubiquitous inlets, and your spell binding vistas over land and sea.
And I think —
You’re waiting for me, aren’t you?
Only 13 sleeps … and some fleece-lined pants. And two wool hats because one will need drying while the other is worn, and weather-proofed boots ….
Yesterday I had my purse stolen. I was in a quiet corner of a public place that I visit daily for writing sessions. Everyone is always, always quietly respectful and attentive to their own work. We recognize each other though, for the most part, smile at the children who come in, and our eyes glitter at the parents. It’s a happy place. A safe place. A place largely inhabited by kind, quiet souls who create — some for a living, and others because it’s simply what we do.
What we don’t do is steal.
Every day I spend a few hours writing. It’s hard to write at home — too many chores starting me in the face — so I trek daily to my favorite bookstore, grab a chair, fall immediately into my zone, and have at it. It’s a beautiful part of my day — silence, creativity, kindred spirits, and a lovely unspoken support for each other.
I’m not going to say that yesterday changed things, because I won’t allow that. It will take me a few days though. I’m mad. Hurt. But trucking along, or attempting to.
Yesterday was a very quiet day — only a few tables taken, and I sat in my usual spot, wedged my bag and my computer bag between the table and the short wall, turned my chair at a slight angle, pulled out my laptop, and started writing. I was aware of a guy sitting close behind me — he was a bit gangly and wore all gray. I had my head in my work, as did the others around me. Well, mostly.
I started a post about Ireland. When I finished a quick first draft, I reached for my bag so I could grab an afternoon snack. The bag was now under my chair rather than against the wall and beneath bag two, as I had left it. I pulled it out, looked through it several times, and realized that my purse was indeed missing. This guy was smooth.
It’s been 22 years since my purse was last stolen, Twenty-two years since our house was robbed. You begin to trust. Again. I spent the rest of the day closing accounts with my husband. I think we shut him down (along with his several $2200 Nordstrom purchases and a $775 drugstore purchase), so hopefully there’s not much of a financial loss.
The loss, of course, is trust.
I’m going to try my level damn best to hold on to it.
Scarlet. Vermilion. Ruby. Cherry. Cerise. Crimson. Oh, the colors that grab us and make us their own.
You know it. I know it. The question is, do we hide it or flaunt it?
We all have obsessions — some more than others of course (ahem) — and for the most part, they’re harmless and fun. Let’s face it, if you have a passion, it’s never a one-time deal. You’re definitely, without the skinniest skinny of a doubt, going back for more.
It was exhibition time, and this month it was our turn to choose, our turn to flaunt, perhaps even our turn to be a bit naughty, and we were three girls at the ready.
We named this show Accidental Obsessions, because at some point, aren’t they all? Right before you just can’t get enough.
“Accidental” is an interesting word, isn’t it? I can’t help wondering where the line is between truly “accidental” and “planned in obsessive detail over at least two thirds of my entire life.” I’ve known a lot of shoe girls over the years, and no wonder — they strike the eye like wildfire.
I’ll quickly admit that the photos to the right look vaguely like something from a murder scene. Red has no bounds, and still we gasp and grab.
P.S. This display was created by Ciel Gallery in Charlotte several years ago as a teaser for an art exhibition. We drove to the nearest Goodwill and bought all the red shoes we could find, painted a few extras, and put on our Come Hither looks. A totally delicious evening!
A few years ago, I took a walk with my son and grandson through Historic Fourth Ward Park — a beautiful wildflower and indigenous plant heaven with a watershed pond smack in the middle of Midtown Atlanta. We walked and walked and gaped in surprise at the loveliness in front of us. And isn’t it funny how many “native” plants you’ve never seen before? Humans do have a bottomless hunger for the new, don’t we? — so often ignoring what’s right in front of us.
After resetting my expectations, I wanted to sit on the steps a bit and get a fuller view, and then a thing happened — I glanced down. And then? Sprinkled across the steps were metallic stars and equally delightful shapes in every color just sitting there glittering at me.
At first I wondered why someone had left their treasure behind, but I soon realized the answer — of course they had left them for me, and for any other passerby who needed a moment of joy.
As summer continued, I made two additional trips to Atlanta, again charmed by walks and hikes and exploring with no agenda other than Mac’s nap time. We could go anywhere, and indeed we went everywhere — parks and woodlands and rivers and bamboo forests and streams cleansed the soul and sharpened the vision, and it was bliss.
And surprisingly, the stars never stopped appearing, showing themselves on the Georgia Tech campus, city streets, the Doll Cemetery, along river beaches and woods, at a roadside memorial, the waterfall park in Greenville, my Charlotte walking path, and even at Pawleys Island. I knew they were left for me — left for each of us — as a message to hold on, look high, laugh, eat good food, create, sharpen my sight, keep walking, keep acknowledging, keep dreaming.
Nine months later I bought a package of gold stars and we tossed them high on New Year’s Eve. Not surprisingly, there are still a gracious plenty between the planks of my kitchen table, and seeing one glint with the light as I walk past never fails to make me happy. And now since that very first 2020 sighting of the stars, they’ve just kept coming, usually where you’d least expect to see them, and other times when you need to see them most.
Last week I had the supreme pleasure of playing with babies, and I can tell you right off that there’s nothing better.
Nothing. But you knew that.
It all started with a parental trip to the hinterlands of a 40 foot snowfall — the perfect adventure in the perfect location, otherwise known as “too far away for the sitter to throw a tantrum and beg them to come home.”
Consequently, it didn’t matter if the kiddies loved me or loathed me — they were 100% stuck with me for a week. I, of course, was in heaven.
I now realize that I never really envisioned heaven properly. I knew it involved glitter, Bluey, dancing raucously atop the four foot high marble island, tiny tea sets with tiny spoons, and running with scissors. Still, while my own imagination may have begun drooping at least hourly, these babes never once drooped, not even during my mental collapse and their subsequent invasion of the blue and white “good” china. “Ooooh, let’s play flying saucer!!!”
Bath time rodeos? Check! Midnight sonatas? Check! The quick consummation of 5 bags (at 48 pieces per bag) of chicken nuggets for dinner three nights in a row? Check! Painting grandma’s hair with glitter bombs? Check!
But oh the joy of it all — I just can’t tell you — though I’ll gladly share a bit below:
Images taken at Atlanta Botanical Gardens, Fernbank, and Virginia Highlands, left to right: Smiling Giant, Wishful Thinking, Giant Wooden Forest Tulips, A Garden of Mesh Birds, the Water Maiden, Happy Frogs, Planting for Spring, Pure Joy
Pam Goode Writes 