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Wandering Paris

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

So. What do you do with a week in Paris? Everything you can, right??? I’ve written about it more than a few times, and you might be surprised that my previous posts have usually focused on details — a clock above the road, the beautiful patina of a fish-themed, french bulldogs and food markets so enticing that you swear never to eat in America again … you get the idea.

But today I’m going to wax less poetic and dive into clothes shopping. Oh who am I kidding? It’s Paris and it’s clothes from Paris. Poetic to the max.

I’m pretty sure you can find anything, and I do mean anything, at the Paris vintage shops. But as much as I love them, there are days when I find that cruising the booths is very much like discovering an old pile of my own clothes that I somehow forgot to drop off at Goodwill. Years ago. Maybe decades.I’m drawn to them, sure … but do I really want to wear them again? 

Or more to the point, could I?

I can picture a well-coiffed woman wearing this dress or that floppy skirt, and indeed she does look fabulous. But alas, the It Girl in the body-clinging frock is 22 and weighs (almost) 95 pounds. Let’s face it, she’d look great in a roll of paper towels. Me? Not so much. I long for a dress that slinks its way over every bulge, crushing lumps like ice cubes in a blender.

They say that Paris women are sleek because they eat only when they’re hungry, and even then they manage to stop at a normal amount quite devoid of gorging. Can that actually work? What if you’re always hungry? What if you’re nervous? What if you need some extra energy? In a city with fresh croissants spewing their buttery breath at every corner, and I do mean EVERY corner, who can resist? 

French women, that’s who. Don’t ask me how.

I wonder if they teach a class in that . . . . And will there be treats?


Well Hello There!

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

It’s been a while and, honestly, quite a bit more than a while. It’s been a good busy, a hectic busy, a screaming into the pillows busy, a glorious busy, an explorative and enriching busy. But I feel like I’m at the edge of a new day, and I’m feeling more capable of grasping it than I anticipated.

Life changes haven’t always been my favorite thing. I’m one of those who stands on the precipice with gritted teeth and eyes squinting. I take baby steps. Achingly scream-worthy baby steps, and that’s okay. The slower you go, the more you examine yourself and your reluctance, the stronger you become. It’s what we all want, yes?

But somehow I’m okay with this change, and here’s the thing.

I thought I’d fall apart, and I got stronger instead. I saw the situation and merged pretty seamlessly into a mode I never thought I’d face.

Life is like this. As the man said, “you just might find you get what you need.”

Beaching It

/ Pam Goode / 16 Comments

This Thanksgiving broke beautifully clear with swirling breezes, ample sunshine, smells of the salt marsh, and the patter of much-adored toesies.

So of course we adorned ourselves with swimsuits, baby carriers, snacks, sacks for shells, and the all-important shovels. P.S. How do you know when you’re a grown-up? You no longer have a plastic shovel at the ready. That would be me.

But we’ve got the sacks and we’ve got ample cooperation from the sea, stretching out into the lowest low tide I’ve ever seen here. It’s a bit daunting — the possibility that the sea can just turn her back and walk away when she and the moon get a hankering, but we roll with it and begin the journey to the breakers by crossing a medley of tide pools alternating with sandbars. It’s quite amazing, actually.

My first treasure was a perfect hermit crab shell, and I was surprised to see it happily occupied, just as I was with the next twenty or so we spied and examined. Back they went into the sea.

I’ve collected shells over more years than I care to admit, and the change in my focus over time charms me. I might pick up a perfect shell here and there, but it doesn’t hold much interest. I lunge for those that have spent a lifetime tumbling through capricious tides, pockmarked and holy, or conchs that have given up their fancy fairy tale covering and continue to ride the waves naked, exposing that spiral twist of backbone that stays strong. Like me. Like you.

Mood of the Day

/ Pam Goode / 1 Comment

There are days when I’m In A Mood. You’ve been there, right? Some days I’m wary. Some days I’m bull-headed. Some days I’m that free-spirited 20 year old looking for a meadow to roll around in. Some days I’m afraid. But most days, most days, I’m everything at once.

I feel the bliss of quiet sunlight illuminating early morning leaves. The protective warmth of green tea with honey and milk. I feel the dread of an upcoming errand that requires leaving home and interacting with strangers. I feel uncertainty about tomorrow. I feel both joy and dread in possibility. I feel.

And you know, I’m lucky that way. Not everyone allows emotions to have their sway with the head and heart. It’s a risky business, no doubt, but would life be the same without that full-on face to face with the world? With myself?

It absolutely wouldn’t.

And so as much as I luxuriate in the morning bubble that allows me an hour to visit the realm of my choosing, I try my best to equally meet the rest of the day head-on. To listen. To learn. To honor. To allow the ups and downs. To close the doors that need closing. To walk through the doors that patiently wait. To honor both past and future. To give equal consideration to the skinny branch. To choose my path each day, be it safe and comforting or wildly (and perhaps ill-advisedly) experimental.

I think we’re all allowed a certain number of safe and boring days. They heal. Find the balance.

Flowers on a wall in Giverny, Photo by Pam Goode

In the Neighborhood

/ Pam Goode / 13 Comments

When we first moved in, we could sit on the porch and see nothing but green. No other houses. Rarely a human form. It was pretty amazing, considering we live smack dab in the middle of the city, or less so, realizing ours is the last on an unmarked dead-end street with only 5 houses in total.

We have no back yard, but the front runs for 120 feet and then drops into Briar Creek (aptly named), and thus began our soul-stirring relationship with nature. We could see egrets on the bank, training their eagle eyes on unsuspecting fish, hawks circling for daily joy rides, deer prints …. I drove home from the studio late one evening, and as I reached our short street, an owl appeared and flew alongside me not even two feet from my face until I pulled into the garage, my mouth hanging open the entire time.

And then as gardeners do, we began planting. Okay, mostly my husband, who cares nothing for temperature or insects or the clock or even food. And of course the more we planted, the fuller and more lush the garden became, transforming itself to a wonderland so deep and multi-layered that we could no longer see the creek or the egrets standing watch, and we assumed that “progress” in the neighborhood had moved them along. I missed them, but I also loved the banana and fig and mimosa trees that had magically sprung up in their place.

Or perhaps more accurately, the banana and fig and mimosa trees that had shortened my vision.

A few days ago we went for a walk along our winding two-lane main road, and I suddenly felt pulled to jump off the sidewalk and shimmy down the bank for an eyeful of our creek from a different point of view. And there, some fifteen feet below the level at which we pass our days, focused too heavily on where we’re going and whether or not we’ll be late, I spied a gorgeous four foot heron picking her long-legged way towards us.

Hang on Sweet Nature. You give me hope.

What do You See?

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

I see a whole bunch of us not understanding what’s going on in our world.

I see a child wondering where rain comes from, and why.

I see a construction worker who draws well.

I see happiness in the cordoned off zone of a parking lot.

I see someone, or a universe, that needs a hug.

I see polka dots.

I see yellow shoes that have been places. Lots of places.

I see a smile that’s only implied.

I see love waiting for her other half.

Book Release Coming Right Up!

/ Pam Goode / 1 Comment

It seems easy enough, right? Many claim to have penned this truth: “Writing is easy. Just open a vein and bleed” — and no doubt we’ve all felt it, whether during middle school exams or penning a verse to a would-be lover.

But the truth is, writing is sometimes hard and sometimes easy, but editing and publishing can extinguish god’s own holy spark in the best of us. Not that I’ve ever been particularly holy.

Regardless, I believe I’ve just pulled myself through the last hoop atop the last hill (and yes I CAN hear you laughing in the background) and have pushed the appropriate buttons to make the July 24 release date.

Can you hear my wild self-applause????

Touch of Fire by Pam Goode, available as e-book or paperback July 24, available for e-book pre-order July 10, aka, NOW.

Pre-Order Link here. Let’s roll!

Bowling Lady Watering Can

Birds and Words

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

Today I got out early enough for a bit of a breeze and so many birds, The birds are a gift to my own ever-tenuous ability to hear, as well as a sort of much needed cosmic validation that stretches between us. I’m still here and you’re still here, and some knowing of that life spark passes between us.

When I walk, the words flow, quite unlike the way they sit, box-like, arms crossed and eyes shut tight to truth, when I’m still. I often invite them quite graciously to join me at the table, but they know my tricks. And more, they know the cage has to rattle for truth to escape.

So I use my legs for the rattling. They say exercise saves lives. I say that much of that rebirth springs from the ground and heads straight to the page.

Birds in Tree Crop

Telling Stories

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments
Heart in Stone
Hello Hello!
I’m Pam and I’m a mosaic artist. Mostly. Just not right now.
Twenty years. I’ve made mosaics for TWENTY years, and the first thing that happened when I started worrying about our global situation was my loss of any interest in art. I don’t know why, but I suspect my soul was pushing me in a direction it felt I needed.
During the first few days of self-quarantine, I did what everyone did — we cleaned. Now I’m not much of a cleaner, but when high anxiety hits, I become a frenzied organizer. It felt good and positive, and somewhere along that path the universe threw an old manuscript my way and said, “It’s time.” And you know what? It was time.
So I dusted off that hard copy, paid my daughter to type it up, and dove in. I’ve spent almost every quarantine day working at the table on my front porch to birdsong and endlessly fascinating skies. I’ve walked miles through my neighborhood studying the trees and other walkers, the aftermath of storms, and human resilience, and then written about those in snippets for Facebook. And I finished the book. Eep!
Back in the old days, some lucky souls were able to sit down, write a masterpiece, hand it to their agent, and hang out at the farm or the beach or Studio 54 until copies were rolling off the press.
These days anyone can publish and sell on their own. The only requirements are:
1) Some sort of topic and then some words,
2) A psychic ability to format your work by carefully following the exact details for your specific software as it would have appeared multiple upgrades ago (which are no longer available for use) and somehow making that work,
3) The willingness to trash and redo the manuscript page number formatting daily for weeks until you magically hit upon the exact sequence required — and can instantaneously press save before it reverts.
I’m so close. And yes I’m thrilled to be almost done. And yes, the difficulty of properly formatting with outdated instructions has dimmed my ardor a bit, but it has also doubled my excitement over scaling this Everest of a platform.
So I’ve done it. I’m proud of it. I’m proud of me. I’m proud of my supportive family. And I’m mostly proud that I wrestled that bitch software to the ground.
There are stories everywhere — in the trees, the glance of a stranger, in our children, on the open road, or even last night’s pizza. You just have to be open to the whispers.
I’m guessing you have a story somewhere inside. Will there ever be a better time to sit on the porch and start? Even if you don’t finish, I wholeheartedly believe that these are the days for introspection, hard questions, a clearer vision, and coming to terms with your life, your love, your choices, and your future.
And when you finish, I’d love to read it.

On My Walk: Six Sisters

/ Pam Goode / 3 Comments

Six SistersWhen I was younger with kids at home, there were days when the heat of South Carolina, which normally just lay on you like a suffocating stillness, took a turn. When I sensed the change I’d grab them both and we’d walk and run and skip to the end of the street across from the bay. Though we couldn’t feel it six houses away, some force in that spot gathered up the breezes from the water and spun them by their tails, and we’d stand with our faces upturned and our arms stretched wide so that as much of our bodies as possible could catch that magic and let it run right through us in an unexpected gift of renewal.

I spotted these six sisters on a walk yesterday. They’re watching and pulling for us, and I’m pulling for them too.