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 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.
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
“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don’t help.” (Quote by Bill Watterson)
Today I was totally prepped for a great day. My husband has been on the other side of the continent for a week, and he flies home tonight. I’m wearing my Happy Clothes, saved for special days. The house is clean. Ish. I’ve amassed a neatly folded give-away pile with oooooooodles of my favorite (too small) outfits, we’re deep in the dregs of summer, which means we’ll soon be cooler (right?), I’m on break from cleaning the attic (self-imposed), and the garden flowers are joyously blooming despite daily basking in the bowels of hell.
But then — who knows, but something clicked — or unclicked, and hell threw open that door. And I’d say I haven’t been able to shake this Very Bad Day, but the truth is that I’m just not ready. Because you have to be real. You have to walk through these things rather than around. Otherwise they never go away, and just bury themselves in your psyche instead.
So I looked up Bad Day quotes. And honestly, they totally sucked except for Hobbes and Bill, so I made my own.
Snark: an attitude or expression of mocking irreverence and sarcasm.
Blech. I really, really don’t like snarky people. We all have so much goodness deep in our hearts — why waste it on the opportunity to hurt someone?
And I guess that’s the extent of it. I haven’t been shot or robbed or suffered a great loss. I have endless happy choices at my fingertips. But today, I guess what I really am is sad.
And I am. I’m really, really sad.
Footnote: Hobbes, named for philosopher Thomas Hobbes, is Calvin’s stuffed tiger and best friend.
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 ….
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.
So what’s the deal with Sex in the Fifties? Despite the hemorrhaging availability of botox, breast bags, hair weaves, penile implants, financial security, liposuction, hormone helpers, testosterone patches, mobility, anonymity, familiarity, butt lifts, viagra, and f***buddies, are we really getting any? Or are we just sick of the whole last-year’s-dance, preferring instead to curl up with a bottle of cabernet?
Frankly, we look old. We feel tired. We are Not in the Mood.
I wasn’t planning on giving up sex, ever. But even for those armed with a fistful of dollars and a bulge in the libido, nature keeps cropping up with a plan of her own. My mother always gleefully tittered that the years after menopause were the happiest of her life. Sorry Mom, but I beg to differ. If you’ve never had a hot flash, and by that I mean never been working away happy as a clam only to find yourself suddenly awash in a skim of sticky, smelly, pore ooze, usually in the midst of 1) a business meeting , or 2) clasping the Beloved, then get thee to a more approriate blog.
And what’s with the weight thing, damn it? Decreased Appetite plus Decreased Intake = 10 pounds weight gain. Eliminating soft drinks, chocolate, and cream sauces (kill me now) = 2 pounds weight gain. Increased Exercise = a pleasant 1 pound weight gain. So tell me why, with all the additional padding, are old people always cold? My Dear Mother Nature, if you want me to keep warm, drop the pound baggage and Let Me Have Sex! Friction = Fire, you know.
They say that menopause causes irritability. Not true. Sweat swells, bulky girth, and a dearth of hickies cause irritability. Big time.
The sad truth is that I know why Mother afflicts us in the 50’s. She has caught a whiff of rotten eggs, and wants to protect the Future of Civilization by causing hunkish males to blanch at our bulbous pretties and eau de locker room, fleeing to wantonly spew seeds into the incubators of twenty-somethings unaquainted with palimony.
And what of those man-type humans? Is their procreational rivulet spiked with preservatives? Does Mother just turn a blind eye to their dalliances, secure in the supposition that no DNA will be mangled by the Over-50 Male? I suppose it’s entirely plausible that she anticipates an occasional dip in the fertilizer population. I, myself, have considered popping off a few somewhere between the gynecologist’s office and the bank.
No one cares if a man grows fat and bald, least of all the man. But I can’t complain, really — as my Dearest insists, “I didn’t marry you for your body.” Ass.
And yet we manage well, all things considered. And, all things considered, perhaps extraordinarily well. We kiss and clutch in restaurant parking lots as gratefully as adulterers, and roll about gamely on sundry pieces of furniture more carelessly than teenagers . . . until I heave him to the floor gasping for a deep throat of air conditioning, nipples thrust greedily toward the ceiling fan, “Faster . . . faster . . . come to Mama NOW, you Bladed Beauty, NOW!”
At least the neighbors think we’re doing it.
(Copyright 2007. All rights reserved Pamela Goode.)
And as of July 25, I’ll be lying on a beach somewhere, being greedily ravaged by a pounding surf and loving it.
The Official Blurb:
“In their faces I tried to see who would be the first to break our little world of pick-up sticks and easy living. I caught sight of a spark in some now and then, but I guess deep down I pretty much knew it would be me throwing the dice wild.”
Not everyone grows up with role models for love. Raised in an affluent southern community where rules are clear and secrets held close, Jenny is surrounded by expectations she rarely believes in. When her journey betrays society’s demands, her tentative belief in love makes navigating emotions much more complicated. Ostracized by family and friends and struggling through a difficult marriage with a precocious child, Jenny moves through questions and awakenings with a soulful interior dialogue, hoping to forge a truer path.
My Preferred Blurb:
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 leave 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 at him full when I said goodnight because I knew the eyes would be there and I couldn’t tell yet what they were saying. So I made goodbyes 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.
The Scoop:
I’m one of those people who doesn’t really know how to engage in polite conversation. Therefore you can count on two things.
I will tell you the truth
It will tumble straight out from my brain, devoid of the usual filters, timeline, and social niceties (though I did cut WAY back on the profanity).
My favorite part of this book is the humanity. There’s no hero or heroine. It’s real and it’s gritty and it follows the journey of good people learning about love and, as they say, “it don’t come easy.” You’ll have a love/hate relationship with the main character, and that’s intentional. Because you know what? We’ve all struggled. We’ve all done things that were ill-advised or worse. We’ve all, at some point, been really ill-equipped to love, muddled through with varying degrees of success, and hoped to come out on the sunny(ish) side.
It’s not James Patterson. There isn’t a neatly penned plot laid bare in short sentences with an obvious (usually) bad guy and an obvious (usually) good guy. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s love and guts.
And because of #2 listed above, some of the internal workings are told in stream of consciousness bursts because … that’s how we think, right?
And Then …
I’d love to know what you think. There’s lots of space below.
Pam Goode Writes 