When he called to say he’d be home early, an hour away at most,
she hurriedly grabbed the signs of her weekend with passion:
the voluptuously hot-colored glass,
(a spontaneous deviation from her usual blues),
the achingly sharp tools …
the milky white adhesives,
the markers (you are MINE!),
the ubiquitous remnants of joy
left strewn across the table,
the chairs,
the floors,
her clothes…
the Tears for Fears,
the Prince,
the Elton.
Closet closed now,
the sweep of the vacuum,
the stash of memories
now buttoned up,
but only a wisp away
from tomorrow’s
studio time.
Essay
It Was A Dark and Stormy Night
Last night, and in fact smack in the middle of what’s often called Premium Sleep Time, a tree fell on our house.
First of all, yes, we’re okay. Secondly, while my husband leapt out of bed and examined every iota of the house inside and out until he knew we were safe for the night — I slept through it. While the occasional deep sleep is understandable if you’re, say, missing breakfast, but it’s more than disconcerting if your house has been ravaged by tree limbs during your slumber. It’s just not something we tend to prepare for, and the concept of sleeping through a major episode makes all my wires short out.
And yes, it was indeed a dark and stormy night. Lots of wind and lots of rain, but not so different from most nights … until the crash. And it’s probably no surprise that 1) it rattled me big time, and two, I can’t shake it.
Once we’d enlisted chainsaw and climbing help via my husband’s (seriously) knowledge of everything on the planet, I slipped away to the studio to work on a project. I calmed down a (tiny) bit after 20 minutes or so, and then there was a knock on the door of my studio/sanctuary.
“I just wanted to let you know that there’s a large gas leak and they’ve asked everyone to leave the building.” Okay, I’m sure there’s a silver lining in there somewhere, but it wasn’t meant for today.
All in all, the tree was about 60 feet tall, and we were lucky (really, really lucky) that it snapped instead of falling full force in all its glory across several backyards. We think it was one of those “surprise” miniature tornadoes. I hope it’s my last.
What’s that Tiny Bright Light in the Sky?
I’m guessing you’re all atwitter about hearing my Eclipse story, right?
It’s actually one of the truly bizarre incidents of my life, and I have absolutely no idea how it happened. Granted, the little quarter moon in my area was lovely, if lacking a bit of actual excitement. More than the excitement of a slow afternoon, and a whole lot less than the excitement of actually seeing the full eclipse. But lovely it was, and it put a great big smile on my face and that lasted the rest of the day.
My son, of course, went waaaaaaay more than the whole nine yards, and I admire him for it bigtime, especially with a 10 year old. Both, I have to say, were high-spirited for the many, many miles of driving, waiting, driving, waiting, driving AND more waiting. But they got the whole deal and it was amazing. And oh yes, they’re already made plans for Australia and New Zealand in 2028.
But back to THE STORY. Due to regularly unscheduled issues with my car, I fuss about it a good bit. The days running up to the show were no different, but hey, at least I had that beautiful eclipse experience to lighten my many sighs. And then work is over, the eclipse has cleansed me, and I climb happily (enough) into my car.
And guess what! MUSIC streams out of the car with a lovely tune …. not MY music of course, but music, and I think my troubles are over because the eclipse wiped all those hiccups away just for me, or maybe for everyone, but I can’t really speak for that many. And though I have no idea where the sudden mystical music came from, it sang for me heartily the rest of the way home. And of course I’m thinking the eclipse, indeed, has super powers.
When I woke up the next morning, the music was nowhere to be found. Haven’t heard a peep from it since. Clearly, the Eclipse has left the room.
The Irony of Life, or Why I Hate Throwing Things Away
A few weeks ago, I decided to take a leap — a big one for me. But after years of “NO, I Might Need That!” I felt in the depths of my soul that it was time to purge, to let go and live happily ever after with what I already have — mostly, to feel lighter myself.
Ohhhhh how very wrong I was. Or right. Or something in between. The truth is that I just don’t know, because purging is not in my wheelhouse. But a week or so ago, something in me changed, and I hit the LEAP button. Had I done a positive thing that would make life easier, or had I just wildly tossed all the supplies that I’ll certainly need on Monday?
And in truth I wasn’t even quite sure what my end goal was, but I was definitely certain that some sort of action needed to happen. How did I know? Honestly, that part remains a bit fuzzy, but I forged ahead anyway, enlisting the help of a friend and going at it Big Time.
So we put on old clothes and sat on the floor for hours and climbed through years of well-stashed “but I might need this!” mosaic supplies, eyeing each piece relentlessly. And then, after filling boxes upon boxes upon boxes of glass and china that I reluctantly deemed “will never be used” … I tossed it. Okay not all of it, but so many boxes that my back still hurts, AND I’ve lightened half of my supplies. What was I thinking?
It’s a funny thing. One day life seems perfect, and the next day you realize you’re only using half of what you’ve collected over the years and maybe you DON’T need it all. And maybe you don’t even know exactly why, but you see the path and it’s calling you. And then I shed my very-long-time way of seeing, and suddenly now it’s hard to remember what I gave away.
And even more surprising, I found myself joyously making art again and planning classes.
So very often it’s the journey that finds us.
Strapped for Time?
So the good news is that it’s 2016 and I’m wandering down an empty lane in Paris on lle St. Louis. I’m thrilled to be here, but a bit anxious. “In Paris?” you ask? Well, yes. My conundrum is worrying how I’m going to meld myself into this fabulous opportunity while simultaneuosly meeting a deadline. Cause, you know — Paris/Work … Paris/Work ….. Yes, time has me by the short hairs, and I don’t like it one bit.
And then I glance up, and in an instant my entire attitude changes and I burst out laughing, my feelings blatantly displayed for all to see. Honestly, how likely is it that someone would have taped up this clock and dropped it onto my path on the very day that I’m (more than) tremblingly overloaded?
Strapped for time — that’s me, and a big THANK YOU to the universe for letting me laugh it out in a big way.
Time is so often a deterrent, isn’t it? We all want more of it, but we’re quick to specify that we want *this* kind of time and not *that* kind of time. More time with those we love, and less time paying bills. More time to learn and create, and less time studying for finals. More time to savor a good meal, and less time standing in supermarket lines. Of course there are a few enlightened souls among us who can make the most of the lines and the numbers and the tests and even find joy there, but mostly we tend to try bargaining. “Dear Time, I will gladly pay you Thursday for a Cheeseburger on Wednesday.” And so it seems we spend our lives racing toward the world we think we want rather than changing the way we experience it.
Is this the way I want to live? Nope. Nope. And Nope.
I want to look at life, live life, and love life in a way that feeds my soul now and forever. Doing so isn’t impossible — the truth is that so much of it is up to us. So change isn’t dependent on time, and time doesn’t always equal change. Look at it this way: If I allot eight hours and fifteen minutes to a flight, I can walk the streets of Paris tomorrow instead of Charlotte. That’s a huge plus, but I wonder — can I *feel* Paris in an instant on any day of any year?
To an extent, yes. But I can also dedicate eight hours to writing a proposal and get absolutely nothing of value accomplished. So the concept of time is pretty wishy washy in my book, and how can I hold myself so accountable to wishy washy?
I can’t, and I won’t, and I don’t have to. I need to step it up. Now.
Let’s say I have ten great years left, fifteen good ones, and five glad-to-be-here years. At 25, I figured I was young enough to feel my way through it, and I did. But forty hit me like a deer in the headlights. And now at 60 (or so), planning my Next Ten Fabulous Years has became high priority, and I’m working it in every direction I can grab. Fortunately I’ve learned along the path that life is pretty much exactly what you make it.
Get going.
And today I plan to look at this giant, banded timepiece a new way: I’m not the one who’s strapped. I won’t be the one who’s strapped. I think it’s time to breathe, dream, plan, work, and grab my joy. Sometimes You Gotta.
Beach Poetry
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
Those Days
I got a fast car.
You got a car with a little bit of rubber,
keeping us slow when the slow is good,
and we’re loving the life in between,
in between.
Dolled up right for yesterday
and hunting tomorrow
in a hungry way,
gotta go, gotta go, gotta
go again, cause that’s surely
most all that we know.
Oh that’s surely most all
That we know.
We know.
© Pam Goode
Gotta Write
Dear Self: I started this blog in 2007.
Sixteen years ago.
Is that long? Not so long, considering that I’ve taken plenty of breaks. I don’t remember why, but I doubt it was for a lack of words. More likely it was simply business — family, jobs, travel, the basic what-we-do that seems to determine every morsel of our daily dailies.
But even from the start, there was such a beauty to the practice of writing. I wrote much, much more than I blogged, keeping most of it private until I found my comfort zone, which primarily means that I simply stopped worrying about what other people thought.
Boring? Often, no doubt. Redundant? Oh yeah. We all have our passions, and they’re not a one-and-done deal. Self-centered? Sure, but … as writers, we pull from within ourselves. That’s not a bad thing — we all need to pay more attention to what we have to offer instead of just sitting on it for no good reason.
My major focus has always been watching, listening, and working to understand life — the joys, generosity, foibles, kindness, hatred, simplicity, and so much more. I’m drawn again and again to grasp the tiny moments — the ones we often don’t notice or think we’re too busy to for.
And that’s not true. So not true.
The image at the top of my blog is me — my mind, my joy — grabbing moments and jotting them down as quickly and legibly as I can, particularly on walks — a phone in one hand and a scrappy piece of paper full of scribbles in the other. Like everyone else on the planet, I usually think I’m “too busy” with this or that, which sometimes includes staring into space and letting my mind follow its will without judgment.
What I’ve learned:
Listen more than you talk.
Be free with support for others.
Share when asked.
Write without worrying if it’s good or bad. The more you write, the better it gets.
Say Yes when it’s a healthy response.
And most importantly, Let That Shit Go.
Really.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland, Day 14
Dear Ireland: I’ve missed you so!
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 ….
But IRELAND!!!!!!!!
I’ve missed you so ….
A Very Good Life
Today my father would have been 94 years old. He would have rocked it.
Honor the past, but don’t let it define you. I’m trying to remember these words, but I kinda hate them.
I’ve been going through my dad’s things. It’s been 8 years, and they’ve told me that they no longer want to sit in a box. They say sometimes it’s okay when I’m in the room, or whistling or singling nearby, but otherwise … eh … they’re ready to fly.
The question is … am I?
People talk about The Last Goodbye, refusing to acknowledge that it never happens, because love is forever, as is pain.
I know it needs to happen, but it feels wrong, disrespectful, too casual, too cruel, too lonely. And I’m not sure if I’m referring to my father or to myself.
Still I keep digging. Some days bring up lots of happy memories; others harp on the cruelty of dementia. Every day I pull out an armload of those memories to go through. Every day I have to decide again what to keep and what to let go. Even as an adult, I never really anticipated the enormity of it all, the blessing of it all, the pain of it all. It’s a sort of holy communion with those I’ve loved — in this case, one last goodbye blessing from the man who gave me life and taught me everything.
And isn’t that both a hellish and a deeply divine gift?
I’m trying really hard to see it that way. Some days I can’t manage it; other days I can — but it’s never, ever easy.
In truth, of course, there’s never a last goodbye. We think there will be, but no matter the passage of time, you are always with us. Thank you for that.
And now a few words from my father:
“Here are a few scraps taken, or perhaps distilled, from a good life. Life is a one-way trip; we make of it what we will. I have taken every opportunity that came my way to enrich my life and, where possible, the lives of others.
“My mother was an avid reader, descended from a long line of avid readers in the days when all were obliged to entertain themselves and, when the occasion demanded, to entertain others. Much of the teaching that went on in the home was the exchange of experience shared with others. As children, reading and reciting poetry broadened our expectations of the life to be. There was little else, in those days, to interfere with silence. And the death of silence, the lost opportunity to contemplate our world, has made us the poorer for it.
“Contemplation and daydreaming often lead to travel, and the world we have become accustomed to is renewed. By the end of life, if one has been lucky enough to grow old, our physical world may contract, but if we have stored away the images and the sensory perceptions of a life well lived, how can that be diminished?
“So I invite you to dream of other worlds, of the life to be, and to make your dreams come true.”
Sherman Pardue was born in New Orleans on February 9, 1929. He was educated at the Newman School in New Orleans, The University of Virginia School of Design, North Carolina State College (Bachelor of Architecture, 1953), Harvard (Master of Architecture, 1954), U.S. Army Post Engineers, Chief: Post Planning Office (1955 – 1957), and La Musee des Arts Decoratif in Paris (1984, 1987).
He began writing at the age of eight, publishing a neighborhood flyer, and never stopped.
He practiced architecture from 1962 – 2010, and in 1992,won the Arthur Ross National Award for his work.
Pam Goode Writes 