Learning to See

Gotta Write

/ Pam Goode / 1 Comment



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

A Walk Along Bromore Cliffs, Part 1

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

Yesterday we had a long, blissful walk along the Bromore Cliffs near Ballybunion. I can’t really tell you how these voluptuously sculpted cliffs have affected me.

The 180 foot undulating cliffs are magic.

They are life, light, and lichen, striated at angles that show the tumultuous heaves of the earth.

They are water, both calm and screaming, and breath, both soft and harsh against the sandy shore.

They are tiny flowers seemingly too delicate to fight for light and space, and yet they thrive.

They are hope and bliss and longing and celebration and dancing like a hurricane.

They are peace and hope and joy.

They are every one of us.

Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, County Kerry, Ireland.

Travel: What We Leave Behind

/ Pam Goode / 9 Comments

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!

Dear Ireland: I’ve missed you so!

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

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 ….

Street Trash

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

Yes, my mom did indeed tell me not to pick up “stuff” on the street. And yes, she had good reason, but also yes, I do it anyway. In fact, I do it every chance I get. It’s a kinda caffeine-like addiction, but without the shakes — only glee.

I’m not sure how or why or when it started, but I can’t get enough of accidental street art. The random bits of shape and color against black asphalt call to me like mourning doves, only a bit dirtier, and I grab them like Sandpipers stealing periwinkles on the beach.

I’m pretty sure you can see the allure, right? A little boy whose wagon wheel fell from his pocket, the death of a worm whose last message to the planet is love, a yellow bottle cap whose vaginal shape speaks of rebirth, a gorgeous fall leaf that has somehow matured and fallen several months early (which couldn’t be a good thing), total joy in the marriage of children and chalk, and a crimson leaf that has succumbed to changes I can’t identify, but I love her just the same.

As always, my message in the post is Look. See.

There’s magic everywhere.

In the Dark

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

Last night we walked across the quiet street in the almost-dark and settled onto the dock to watch the mullets jump. I can promise you with all my heart, fingers, and toes that these are words I’ve never said before, and also that even as a beach girl, I have no clue what a mullet looks like. I DO know that they’re out in force in the dark, twisting and flashing across the night, sometimes solo and other times in groups large enough to turn every head on the docks.

Or in some cases, gigantic splashes from a passing school that wants to show off their sass and leap all at once in a shimmery flicker.

I don’t know. There’s something rather Deliverance-y about this story, but totally without the pig parts. Lots of stars, lots of dark, lots of magical splashing, lots of howling laughter.

And then I stepped a bit to one side and there — standing in mud up to his ankles with a look of quiet, intense focus and surrounded by a bevy of laughing, midnight beauties, I suddenly saw him — a huge blue heron just standing there waiting to pounce.

As far as I could tell, he never did manage to grab a late dinner, and as we walked away, he was suddenly nowhere to be found. But we shared a moment in the night, even though I’m not sure he enjoyed it as much as we did.

I can tell you this, though — we’ll be back.

Addendum: We did return — same dock, same night filled with stars — and not a single mullet, not a single splash, not a single heron.