Essay

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

/ Pam Goode / 3 Comments

When they say life is short, they mean it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re 13 or 98, It doesn’t matter if you’ve visited every single spot on the globe. It doesn’t matter how wealthy you are. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been bad or good. It doesn’t even matter if you really, REALLY want to live forever. The clock keeps ticking and you can’t stop it.

What we CAN do, is live and love.

And when I say that, I mean LOVE with all your heart. Love the good days and the bad days, but mostly, every single &%@$& day. Love for both the young and the old. Love for what you’ve lost and for what you’ve gained. Love for what you believe, and yes, love even for those you don’t believe.

So love MORE, dance MORE, hug MORE, talk MORE, share MORE, protest MORE, think MORE, imagine MORE, create MORE, help MORE, and jump delightfully into every possible moment you have.

And if you need to, change — and change NOW. You’ll be glad. So glad. I promise.

@pamgoodewrites

Tedium, A Primer

/ Pam Goode / Leave a comment

Tangles and knots and confusion, scraping dried spaghetti from between the tines of my grandmother’s sterling, reading directions, coaxing nits from a toddler’s locks, de-weaving your dreads for tomorrow’s interview at Bank of America, proofreading the company’s “Five Hundred Uses of the Industrial Bolt” newsletter, scrubbing the toilet, bad sex. We’ve all been there; NO ONE needs an example of “tedium” — otherwise known as “bored and weary of it all.”

And why? Plenty of us have pretty much anything we need, and plenty more have even more. We were born in a golden age and many are still doing well. Seriously, can’t we all just be grateful and sharing? How hard is that?

And yet we hate It. We Hate It Intentionally. We Hate It until someone else does it for us. We Hate It almost enough to toss the silver. We chop the hair; we stray; we seek excitement and a Higher Level of Existence — that one just around the corner that allows us to afford maids and gardeners and cooks and a steady revue of hilarious houseguests, studly romancers, and adoring bimbettes. That one where we can . . . lie in a Barcalounger and . . . doze while the television blares. Ah yes, we’ve arrived — bored and weary of it all.

Welcome.

Ireland, Here We Come!

/ Pam Goode / 8 Comments

I fly to Ireland on Monday.

Wait … Let me readjust that note … I FLY TO IRELAND ON MONDAY!!!

It’s not my first trip there, and in fact I’m on my TENTH visit now … because I just can’t get enough. And guess what? I’m 100% as excited as I was on the first trip.

As you can tell, Ireland will always have my heart.

And — oh yeah — we’re staying in a castle. A real-life, bells and whistles Castle. Seriously. And meals are included.

And it’s not just a Castle — aside from the monumental reality there — but a castle and quite a few other perks, and yes, I’m all atwitter and with good reason. Add in 200 acres of woodlands, and ohhh how that makes me swoon. Oh, and they feed us — and not just “food”, but a range of locally sourced delicacies like Spanish tapas, traditional Irish meals, Italian fire-cooked pizza, and vegetarian options. I won’t go hungry.

So back to those perks — We’ll have a class on Falconry (which would NEVER have occurred to me on my own), a Micro Mosaic Workshop with the fabulous and renowned Irish artist Olive Stack, a Group Collaboration on a Land-Art piece, traditional Irish music and story-telling, PLUS off-site excursions focusing on day-trips with Irish historian Ger Greaney to explore ancient Celtic sites, a stone circle, holy well, faery ring, and historic ruins; a full day in Listowel for exploring, shopping and exploring; and a day in beautiful Dingle to see artisan studios, galleries, ancient buildings, the Blasket Center, which preserves and honors the memories of the unique community that lived on the very remote Blasket Islands until their evacuation in 1953, and (of course) a bit of shopping.

FYI, we have TWO Spaces Available for Ireland (women only). We have a room with two twin beds that can be made into a King with a bathroom en suite, and two queen rooms with a hall bathroom. Our flights leave Monday, May 9 and return Sunday, May 16. Flights are not included. Let us know if you’d like details, and SEE YOU SOON!!!

Crumbs

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

© Pam Goode, 1995
Adapted, 2025

NOTE: Artist, Writer, Wanderer, Introvert, Philosophical Rambler, Teacher, Worldwide Art Retreat Leader at wildhairadventures.com with LauraMcRaeHitchcock.com and pamgoodewrites.com

The Days We Never Forget

/ Pam Goode / 12 Comments

“It’s not bad — we think you’ll be fine” and suddenly the words leap from “We’re just not sure why this isn’t working” to “I’m so very sorry, but this is all we can do,” and before we knew it, she was gone.

Today is the day my Mom died. It was 5:30, March 30th, 2006.

I remember every moment of that day, as do my sister and brother. Still. And Forever.

Death is so surreal — and often, so unexpected. Even when you know it’s coming, it jumps at you like a growling hyena, and you wonder if you’ll every understand.

If you’ll ever get past it.

My mother’s death was one of those “wait, WHAT HAPPENED??? sequences that spilled suddenly from “It’s not bad — we think you’ll be fine”, then morphed strangely to “Unfortunately we’re just not sure why this isn’t working” to tears and more tears right up to “I’m so very sorry, but this is all we can do.”

We stayed with her night and day, and still before we knew it, she was gone.

Mom was one of those women who could (and would) do everything. She loved us, fed us, had a fabulously and almost childish laugh, danced, taught us how to sew and create and curtsy, get along with Dad, AND be a bad ass??????

My sister, who gardens like a similar first-class badass in addition to raising sheep (LOTS of them) and growing food for the family, pretty much took on Mom’s role and keeps us together.

Three children — each forging their own path and as different as night and day. It didn’t matter a wink how different we were (and still are). I’m so deeply grateful that we’re all still together and helping each other along the path. Life isn’t always easy, and that’s an understatement, but we love each other.

Thank You Mom
Love Always

Staring Into Space

/ Pam Goode / 18 Comments

This morning I knew exactly what I wanted to say. What I needed to say. It was clear and concise — a mix of horror and loss.

This afternoon, I can’t tell my front from my back. I can’t complete a sentence. I can’t remember where I was headed when I left the house. Maybe I just don’t want to remember — to lose these feelings of safety, sharing, and creativity — these days of love and laughter that held much of my life before this morning. It was a good life — filled with happiness, joy, women working together, and love.

And then this morning my husband misread the clock and accidentally trotted downstairs an hour early. I did the same an hour later and by then hell had already broken loose — at least in my house and my heart and the hearts and souls of so many. I’m accustomed to waiting and waiting and waiting for the election results, usually taking a day and a half or so. When have the polls ever been ready in less that a day??? This didn’t seem like a good omen, and it certainly wasn’t. I dropped into my chair and stared at the TV for only a few minutes, and then spent most of the day staring into nowhere, which seems appropriate.

I’ve read part of the manifesto put out by trump and friends, and yes, it scares me sh***tless. And yet somehow I put much less concern into it than I should have. Tonight, if I’m thinking clearly, I’ll delve further to acquaint myself more fully with Project 2025 and the demons that lurk when we’re not looking. I won’t make that mistake again, but is it too late?

Crumbs

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

© Pam Goode, 1995
Adapted 2024

Steam

/ Pam Goode / 7 Comments

The summer is losing its steam,
and you begin to warm
and grow large in me
again.

Just today
I passed too silently
behind you,
and your body grew in greeting leaps
both left and right
until I doubted I could make
my way beyond
without a full submission
to your hands —
so present, and so full
of opportunities
to touch,

Your body
a forgiving bank
of second chances,

And I wanted my
hands
to have them all

in fingers full.

© Pamela Goode

i

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

i cough.

and breathe and

cough

again

and wash

and walk and

run

and run and run and

run …

and still you stick

in me.

© Pam Goode

Little Moments

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

To be honest, I have very little recall of most Fourth of July festivities. I don’t dislike the day — I’m just ambivalent. Actually, wait . . . . . . . okay, maybe I’m not ambivalent at all.

The best thing I remember about the fourth of July is children. I love seeing their bright faces, watching to see which balloon figurine they’ll choose and then stand in eye-popping awe as a masterfully (and surely exhausted) moustachioed man (or woman) twists and turns and blows and wiggles his way into the skinny balloons until THWACK! And suddenly the child is magically holding a pretty darn good replica of a dog/spaceship/tuba/baby girl/….. And mind you, this is all AFTER we’ve stood in the forever-line for tiny-tot-face-painting.

The saving grace, of course, is the look in their eyes and the glee lighting the entire night sky.

So yeah … I LOVE the Fourth. Don’t you?