If I were a Baobab,
I’d be raucous and loud, and filled with song.
My veins would be rivers blue, and deep enough
to water the world.
My heart would be an all-hours reservoir;
my lungs exhaling oxygen and
life
in joyous bursts;
my arms
aflame with love.
And I think …
that yes, I can be this Baobab.
Mosaic Art and Poetry by Pam Goode
27″H x 21″W
Have you ever had a really good day turn into a really, really bad day in an instant? I’m not talking about Alexander his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. We all have those. Not fun, but they pass, and sometimes with cake involved.
I’m thinking about the pain of those we love. Those who mean the world to us, who take care of us from birth to death, from first glance to last, those who explain how the world works and tell you daily how much you mean to them, those who cherish your every glance, every grin, every messy floor, even when you’re sulky.
Sulky is hard, and harder some days than others. But the hardest is loss.
We all have to deal with it from time to time, but it never gets easier, does it? The only thing that makes us feel better is memory, and memory can fill your soul again and again and again.
So fill me up, Buttercup. We need to spread some extra love today.
Somebody needs us.
What else are we here for?
Photo by Pam Goode
And so it goes. Twenty-one days of beauty, bliss, fascination, sandy toes, storms, old friends, new friends, deep thoughts, waves, madly endless talks, creating, writing, wonder, books, poetry, deep sleeps, love, hugs, love, hugs, more love and more hugs. See you next year.
Some days the wind is so merciless
that the few birds venturing out
hasten in their flight,
cursing the rougher movements, the lack of food,
the strain of wings.
Some days the sand blows so briskly that it stings,
minuscule dots of quartz and glass
co-mingling
with the sharper air that
pulls my breath away.
Some days seem ripe for staying in
and lolling here and there on
softer sofas than this.
Yet some days lay splendidly before us,
mingling breath and sea and quartz
into our dreams.
© Pam Goode 2023 (Poem)
Image by Ben Wiid
I wasn’t a huge September fan until I became a hardcore beach girl. As children, we always headed out smack in the middle of the heat and loved every minute. Of course now July summers are hotter than hades and a bit less attractive. I might still be willing to go … my mom did it … but I don’t. Instead I dig my toes into sweet September sand and let the softer sun have at me. She loves me, and boy do I love her.
And here’s a secret about September — the beach is almost completely empty. And that is surefire motivation.
The best fun is hanging out with our gaggle of girls, a stash of every kind of art supply, and burying ourselves in all-day creativity (and sometimes all night), conversation, and laughter each week.
And so we come, and we cook, and we eat, and we create, and we walk the empty beach and smile at the wiggly periwinkles trying to dig back into the sand after being disrupted by a wave, and ogle the starfish. But mostly, we laugh. Indeed laughter is so very good for the soul, but it’s also so much more than that — it’s healing and renewal.
Photo: My Mom and Dad on the beach when I was just a tiny thing.
Some days
I am roundly pleased
to fancy my
self
a poet.
Other days
I open my
eyes
and see
that I am
only
the
typist.
A young man came into the gallery one day and, like many, stood with his mouth agape staring at the art on the walls. “What is this?” he asked. “It’s a mosaic,” I answered with a smile. “Well, how do you make it? Where do you get all these little pieces of glass?” “We cut them,” I said with a little glow.” “Cut them? You mean you have to cut every one of these pieces?” “Yes,” I said. “Every piece.” “Oh man,” he said,” he said. “Why would anyone do this? There’s got to be a way to streamline this process. Somebody needs to sell the glass already cut. Doesn’t anyone sell pre-cut glass?” “Well, possibly,” I said, ‘but then I wouldn’t be interested.”
And there you have the answer in a nutshell. I make art because it’s hard.
During the classes I teach, new students will often take on a familiar stricken look when they first start cutting. I tell them to relax and cut for the pleasure of exploration — that making mosaics means learning to love the process. And the process is hard.
Some might say I like a hard life in general. I’m a good one for trudging through the minutiae of a situation, considering every possibility, and then selecting the most time- and soul-consuming avenue. To me, this simply equates to actually living my life rather than just going through the motions. It’s the same way with cooking, planning, selecting (and decorating) a Christmas tree, traveling, thinking, loving, and art. Either I do it to the max, or I don’t do it at all. Otherwise, what have I gained? What have I given?
One of my favorite quotes is from the movie “A League of Their Own,” when Gina Davis admits that something is hard. Tom Hanks says “Of course it’s hard. If it was easy, everyone would do it. The Hard is what makes it Good.”
He’s so right.
It’s a funny thing about “easy.” There are many things I do because they’re “easy” for me, like sorting or folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher or writing a press release — I can have them done in the time it takes to think “oh — I should do this.” Accomplishment is a powerful feed-good, and we can rack up way more of the easies than the hards. But does that make them good? Well, no. None of my easies will ever make it to my Very Favorite Things list.
But give me something hard: determining and creating the ideal ratio of perfect cuts to “human touch” in art, cooking the (very) occasional meal that takes alllllll day, raising a child, or growing the balls to be my fullest self, and I’m all over it.
So yeah. I love mosaic because it’s damn hard. I think we all need to love and engage in something that tests us, that pushes us flat up against the wall and says, “Do your best. Now.”
It’s my favorite part of life.
We all have a slightly quirky side, don’t we? For some, it’s counting (steps, minutes, peas), for others it’s repetitive motions (touching door handles or hair, checking and rechecking door locks), or any simple act that calms us. Whatever it is, we do it — some blatantly, some surreptitiously, some in the dark of night while sitting in a rocking chair on the roof of your house. Or someone else’s. (Um….) Sometimes it’s small things that just make us happy (I love to pick up bits of glitter — it’s everywhere!), a sudden memory of glorious times spent with friends, or a hidden pleasure that we don’t want revealed. And mostly, they’re all okay.
Life isn’t always a piece of cake, and sometimes we slip. But what makes us label someone as crazy? Is it the clothes they wear? A 24/7 Jack Nicholson grin? Silence? Staring? Loners?
Some of us are very blunt about our idiosyncrasies. I think bluntness generally helps us all unless there’s ill intent involved. Others are still figuring it out, which is fine, or dealing with psychoses, which is rough. I had an unsettling run-in with a very sweet person lately who changed personalities in a quick minute. Not her fault. Not my fault. Really messy day.
I’m a quiet girl. Always have been. Does that make me crazy? Idiosyncratic? Odd? Surprisingly knowledgeable about others?
I can’t say that I’m any smarter than most, but I can say that, generally speaking, I’m more aware than many, and that’s pretty much a good thing. But what would it take to move from awareness to stalking? Hiding? Fear? It gives me pause.
I pick up glitter because it was dropped by someone who revels in happy moments, and it delights me to carry that torch. Happy moments I can carry in my pocket, or spread across a new spot.
Life isn’t always a piece of cake. Keep the people and moments that make you happy.
Image: Pablo Picasso, one of my very favorite artists!
I once bought a passel of Barbies. Not whole Barbies, mind you, but just the heads. They were for sale on a friend’s website, and though I rarely (never, ever) spend money on dolls, I snatched these up like a woman possessed and gleefully began arranging them. It was a Very Good Day.
Lately I’ve been purging, and although your first thought is surely “OH NO! NOT THE BARBIES!!!!, you’ll be pleased to know that in no way shape form or teeny tiny inkling of a thought did I ever consider turning them over to a new Barbie family. Those barbie heads are mine for life.
Mind you, this large jar shows about 1/3, or a bit less, of the heads.
But OH! Surprise! While cleaning out my (grown) daughter’s closet this morning, I pulled out a box and — you guessed it — Barbies! And not just body-less Barbies this time, but fully grown and totally intact Barbies. (I may amend this statement when I more carefully examine my haul).
Interestingly, only one of the “intact” barbies is naked, and yes, it’s Ken. I’m uncertain whether he’s showing off his manliness or or was stripped to the bones by the entire box of girls. I figure it’s a tossup.
Oops, two more have stripped. It’s a party!
I guess it’s about time to watch the movie. Sometimes the oddity IS the story.
Gotta say there’s NOTHING like visiting my sister, shepherdess extraordinaire. She decided a few years ago to buy a sheep or two and off she went — building hutches, fences and water troughs, scratching limbs, studying every conceivable aspect of shepherding, scheduling and completing regular health and med checks, naming each one in a thoughtful manner (take a look at Crosby and Nash!), keeping the hay stocked and whatever else livestock require, AND growing her own veggies.
And yes, she’s up to 35 sheep now.
Mind you I can do none of these things, and by none, I mean not even the tiniest smithereen of sheep care. I am, however, great at giving each one a big smile multiple times daily. I think they like it.
NOTE: We have no prejudice toward the color of any sheep or person shown in this collection. We do, however, have sweet memories of the song. You’ll notice that our sheep come in delightfully assorted colors.
Pam Goode Writes 