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.
Sam has a touch of fire. When we got to be almost friends he would put his hand on my shoulder when it was time to leaves the parties we both went to and he said goodbye.
He would come up behind me and there would be the hand, and I would know it was Sam without even turning because his touch was fire.
One night I went to a party and I wore a sundress with no back. When it was time I thought he won’t touch me now. not tonight.
But then we were leaving and there was the hand again, On my bare shoulder this time and it was fire.
Night after night always the same, and when the hand came without stopping I was hard pressed to look him full-on when I said goodnight, knowing the eyes would be there, And I couldn’t tell yet what they were saying.
So I mumbled low at the floor, not wanting to leave until I knew, but needing the cool night air and the dark ride home to keep his touch from showing plain.
I don’t mean to gloat, but … IT’S SPRING!!!! IT’S SPRING!!!!
No more cold winter nights (we had TWO this year! Horrendous!) or clamoring around the house searching for a blanket — it was just hell, I tell you! HELL!
And now that every potential frost drop has high-tailed it under the cover of your chinny chin chin, we’ve been frolicking ALL over the place. Yes indeed — every hour of the day and night, and I’m like a whole new person now that the “winter” has passed in the south. I even waved to a stranger!
Here’s hoping with all my heart that your spring is hurtling toward you as we speak. And if it’s not your turn yet, it’s headed your way. I promise.
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.
I may have mentioned a few or fifty-seven times that I’ve spent almost 100% of my time for the past five or six or seven weeks cleaning. And I don’t mean sweeping and dusting obsessively — that will never be my goal.
What I mean is that I’ve been digging deeper and deeper into the “I can pick them up and carry them around” bits of my life — memories from across the decades, moments of loss and moments of euphoria, talismans that helped me through various decades depending on my spiritual quest at the time, aches that I’ll carry forever because they were a critical part of my growth, and aches as well that scarred me deeply and took up residence in my soul for far too long.
And yet all in all, it’s been, and continues to be, one of the most healing times of my life, taking me from emotion to emotion as I try to place each into the part of me that will keep me moving forward with wonder and sharing and joy day by day.
It’s a bit dreary today (not to mention several other days across the last few weeks), so how about a handful of Sunny Provence?!
I took these photos during a glorious week in Menerbes. Now, I’m one of those girls who LOVES traveling countrysides, frankly they just flat out amaze me. Have a look, and let me know what you think!
And no, I did not visit with Peter Mayle, but I did pass his delightfully charming house!
P.S. During our walk along the gorgeously ancient cobblestones, we passed an enticing church that was closed. Not to be deterred, I snapped a bit of the interior through the keyhole.
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.
It’s unusual for me to enter the hell of housework, but sure, every now and then it happens. And this is one of my favorite things about the holidays — the joy of family arriving makes everything fun — even cleaning. I mean, it isn’t raucously fun, but still. At any rate, my life of late has been a whirlwind of washing everything in the house, tossing anything that’s no longer usable, and donating the rest. And then comes the fun part — re-dreaming, re-arranging, re-hanging and, often enough, re-loving.
Yes, the wonderful, mind-altering, fabulous thing happened, and yes, I actually cleaned.
Mind you, when I say I cleaned, I mean I CLEANED — right through the nittiest gritty on the planet. And then another thing happened. A wonderful, magical, mystical thing.
I was hot into ripping off bed covers and sheets and pillows and the errant what IS that? when I saw it. Between the mattress and the box spring, between the feeling and the knowing, between the motion and the act (10 points if you recognize the reference), a small piece of folded paper poked herself out quite nonchalantly. Just a papery flutter minding it’s own papery business. So of course I immediately pulled it out, and with it flew a lilting passel of individually written 20-year-old memories spilled full out and joyously tumbling all over the floor. Some written to me; some written to each other.
And suddenly I was back in those joyous days of artists arriving from multiple states, laughing and creating non-stop, sharing food and ideas and sleeping exhaustedly on every flat-enough service of every room in the house.
Over those years, we made art together for hours and hours at a time, easily filling a day or two with each visit. New friends, old friends, come-and-go friends, love-you-forever friends.
“A security I cannot describe.” “Pure solace, as it always is.” “May you have an enchanted and marvelous time in this room.” “Rest and be refreshed.” “I find peace being in this bed and with those who live here.” “Sorry for the scraps — I don’t travel with paper!” “Rest and be refreshed.” “Is this bed comfy or what???” “Workshops, gardens, peace, contentment, beauty, and inspiring art.” “With each short visit, I’m reminded how it might be to stay with cherished family. Thank you for your friendship, humor, advice, and suggestions.”
And it was, again, bliss, no matter the distance.
Love you forever, indeed. Maybe cleaning isn’t so overrated after all.
* Image above by Pam Goode, taken one night in Ireland.
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.
Is there a purpose in waiting? I feel a bit like it’s a vigil, which makes sense. I know it will mean a bevy of time, a tsunami of pain, a gasping of fear.
I can do that.
What it doesn’t require is my personal presence, but most definitely my spiritual presence.
And I can do that.
What it doesn’t promise is a requested outcome, allowing only my prayers.
What is does promise is waiting. I don’t mind waiting, and yet I hate it. Or maybe I don’t hate waiting, but I hate the reason.
Some reasons are joyous. Some, uncertain. Others, life changing.
And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and it will be okay. Probably” is both momentary and lifelong.
And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and I’m sorry,” is also both momentary and a lifetime.
Lifetime. Lifelong.
I’m not sure I like those words anymore.
I like the word forever. And ever and ever and evermore.
“The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.” ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Pam Goode Writes 