There are moments in the heart
that sing so readily
i have to dance,
and whether feet or arms or spirit
is no matter,
knowing only that
the dance
is all —
and ever in my soul.
© Pam Goode
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
Now let me say up front that I’ve found no food anywhere on the planet that matches the sheer bliss of Irish food. All organic, all clean, all fresh, and I just can’t get enough. Honestly, I wish everyone had the opportunity to eat this cleanly. That said, the Irish do have their quirks!
Left to Right and Top to Bottom:
SERIOUSLY Plant Based Chicken; The Happy Pear … ???; Jelly (or Jello?) in plastic tubs ???; Carrots and Rhubarb (LOTS of Carrots and Rhubarb), which is clearly the favorite local veggie!; Ardfert Roosters … scratching head ….; Orange Juice … with Bits???; Ardfert Eggs … Presumably these go with the roosters in some sense; Random display of a tent, some lovies, and a very large purple flower, none of which you can really access if they strike your fancy; SIX Free Range Eggs with a lively scene displayed. After some consideration, we’ve determined that SIX is the perfect number of eggs to buy at a go. Very smart indeed.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
Following up on my brief visit to the The Grange Stone Circle at Lough Gur, I can promise you that the lives of these stones go way beyond anything we’ll ever realize. Some of it glorious, some decadent, some tragic, some probably maudlin, but forever enticing and magical.
And let’s face it — it’s hard to beat a tree that has grown through two 6,000 year old rocks AND is still sprouting leaves and limbs!
Did I say Magic?
The circle has an internal diameter of approximately 46 meters (151 feet), or a bit under half the length of a football field.
If you want to visit, Grange Stone Circle is in County Limerick, Ireland, located 300m west of Lough Gur, 4 km north of Bruff. The Limerick-Kilmallock road is nearby. Between the landscape and the history, you definitely get the bang for your buck (which is free).
Not shown but easily visible to the eye if you’re on site, are trinkets left inside surrounding trees. Some of the trees have openings that run fairly deep, and are lightly adorned with ribbons, messages, or, in at least one case, a sweet little pink ornament.
Magic indeed.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, County Kerry, Ireland.
A little tea and scone break for one at two? I do believe so. In fact, let’s dive in, shall we?
The tea is lusciously served with an ample bowl of cream and a full jar of sugar. We call that Irish Perfection.
The wifi is ….. non-existent ….. but the company, well, the company excels. To be honest, wi-fi is a full-fleged conversation stopper, though quite possibly not for the Irish.
There’s something to be said for a room full of men and women — well actually, 18 women and three men — all talking animatedly at once. I hear the chatter of course, as the Irish are nothing if not friendly and joyously, perhaps even more than joyously, animated, but with my quite minimal hearing, I understand not a single word. Of course it could be the accent rather than my ears. We’ll call it a tie.
But before I go further, let me just say that there is nothing, not anywhere on this planet or the next, that stands up to an Irish tea.
And if you’re hesitant to agree, let me just offer these thoughts:
The tea is hearty and brewed right in front of you.
The cup is a perfect size — large enough for a good hand-warming, but never large enough to cool down.
The teapot is small enough to lift and pour easily.
The teapot handle accommodates two fingers perfectly, plus a third finger for balance.
The spout is small, and therefore doesn’t cool the tea.
And the creamer, that deliverer of luscious decadence, has an aptly bounteous mouth best used for pouring straight onto the tongue,
(though sadly frowned upon by servers and seat mates alike).
And when I’ve swallowed it all and licked the last dribbles down the sides and swirled my fingers to caress the final drops hiding in the crevice, I sit.
I sit and feel the warmth that moves from tongue straight down my legs and makes me want to snuggle tight against my love, or the dog, or an errant wanderer,
And thank my lucky stars for tea and scones.
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.
We stepped off the plane in Shannon under a light rain which suddenly stopped (of course!), hopped into the car with Ger, our Guide Supreme, and took off for a wondrous exploration. And I do mean wondrous.
The highlight was a visit to The Grange Stone Circle at Lough Gur (Lios na Grainsi). the largest stone circle (or second largest, depending on who you ask) in Ireland. Built around 2200 BC, this Bronze Age edifice was erected as a ritual site, and also served as an astronomical calendar.
There is evidence of 6,000 years of continuous human habitation. This doesn’t really surprise me; we humans tend to be quite enamored of the mystical.
You’ll notice some spectacular inclusions, including a tree that has grown through two standing stones (not shown in this first post). What you can’t see is that the 113 stones are set into the earth at a depth of up to four feet. The largest stone in the circle is 13 feet high and weighs 2,200 pounds.
How? Did they put progressively larger rocks under the stone and roll them? How many people would this take? How many years? How many burst spleens?
So many questions I can’t answer, and yet I do know this: the men and women who built these stone circles were passionate about their task, and I’m in awe.
Shown Above: Last year’s nests, which fill treetops everywhere but are only visible during winter; Entrance to the Grange Stone Circle; Long shot of the circle; Beautiful crevice; Moss growing only on the side; Sloped stone with moss loops; Moss with flowers in the crevice.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
Stay tuned!
I always take a window seat.
I perch lightly
and raise my eyes,
hungry for that first glimpse.
These days the staff busies themselves pulling down shades all in a fever, as if even
a glimpse of the fully present
moon
would turn us all quite into wolves.
We’re sheltered.
Given a set of rules to follow.
Just in case, you know?
I wait and watch and don’t begrudge
the hours of sleep missed. She nourishes …
as women do.
And ohhhh the light when she’s ready!
On an early trip at
20 or so and, solo as usual, I watched the sky
begin to spill her soul
in crimson streaks racing
like wildfire,
carving her name into the universe
moment by moment,
and far too consumed to notice me
or my gaping jaw
as she took the night full force and
just this side
of moonrise.
And I ask you,
is there magic in your soul?
c. Pam Goode
It’s a funny thing how much we forget when we look the other way. To be honest, I always assume that “what you know” is what you know, and it’s yours for life.
Cue laughter.
Cue more laughter.
But it seems that during the pandemic, when we fashioned a whole new way of living, a lot of the daily stuff fell right out of my brain due to a change of focus. Sure I wrote a lot and published a book, but the truth is that when they say “use it or lose it” — well, it’s not just a poetic suggestion.
As it happens, I’m about to return to travel, and surprisingly I find myself looking through old trips to remember what I used to pack. Honestly, it’s a bit mortifying. And since I’m scheduled for four delightful outings this year, I need a primer … and I need it fast.
It used to be so easy. I knew exactly what I needed for the time of year and location, I knew exactly where it was in my closet, and I knew exactly how much (or how little!) to pack. Dare I say … it was fun. And I repeatedly threw it all together the day before take-off.
This year, ahem, I pulled down my faithful suitcase, stared at it for a couple of days, and then started a walkabout to decide which items might be selected. Basically, I needed to be warm and dry, which is not always easy in Ireland. So basically, that meant dry clothes to wear while wet clothes are drying.
And then there’s the task itself. Yes, I remember how to pack (roll it up). Yes, I remember WHAT to pack. Well … mostly. But if I forget something, I can probably get it there, right? Probably maybe.
But my biggest pickle is with the airlines, which I suppose is nothing new. Two legs over and two legs back, with the middle legs on a different airline. (Cue laughter)
How hard can it be to reserve a seat? There are people, there are seats, and the seats are designed to seat the people. Voila. And yet ….
To be fair, the airline provides some directions for claiming a seat. “Please ensure that you are aware of the latest travel requirements for your destination prior to arriving at the airport.”
No biggie. I click on the italicized portion and … nothing. I eventually find and click on a much longer description of available seats (with photos!) and … nothing.
So here’s the deal. Basically, there are seats for anything and everyone, including musical instruments and pets, But somehow, there’s no way for ME to reserve a seat. There are words about choosing and reserving your seat, which is lovely, but the actual directions for claiming a seat appear not to exist. The seats just sit there, refusing to allow even the tiniest, softest click.
You can, of course, return to the beginning, where they will string you along with another option for claiming a seat, but … there’s no link for clicking or claiming or exchanging or sneaking or stealing — leaving me with only zero options. No phone assistance. No website assistance. No feeling that everything is under control. I do have a piece of paper that looks rather like a ticket and a six digit number that could, I suppose, perform the duties of a ticket … but … is it really? And if it is, why can’t I claim it???
And so my return to travel takes on something of my younger days, when skies were indeed friendly, the leather seats were deep and wide, and the gates were rife with family members hugging goodbyes as you as you flew seamlessly into adventure.
Only with none of that.
A few years ago, I took a walk with my son and grandson through Historic Fourth Ward Park — a beautiful wildflower and indigenous plant heaven with a watershed pond smack in the middle of Midtown Atlanta. We walked and walked and gaped in surprise at the loveliness in front of us. And isn’t it funny how many “native” plants you’ve never seen before? Humans do have a bottomless hunger for the new, don’t we? — so often ignoring what’s right in front of us.
After resetting my expectations, I wanted to sit on the steps a bit and get a fuller view, and then a thing happened — I glanced down. And then? Sprinkled across the steps were metallic stars and equally delightful shapes in every color just sitting there glittering at me.
At first I wondered why someone had left their treasure behind, but I soon realized the answer — of course they had left them for me, and for any other passerby who needed a moment of joy.
As summer continued, I made two additional trips to Atlanta, again charmed by walks and hikes and exploring with no agenda other than Mac’s nap time. We could go anywhere, and indeed we went everywhere — parks and woodlands and rivers and bamboo forests and streams cleansed the soul and sharpened the vision, and it was bliss.
And surprisingly, the stars never stopped appearing, showing themselves on the Georgia Tech campus, city streets, the Doll Cemetery, along river beaches and woods, at a roadside memorial, the waterfall park in Greenville, my Charlotte walking path, and even at Pawleys Island. I knew they were left for me — left for each of us — as a message to hold on, look high, laugh, eat good food, create, sharpen my sight, keep walking, keep acknowledging, keep dreaming.
Nine months later I bought a package of gold stars and we tossed them high on New Year’s Eve. Not surprisingly, there are still a gracious plenty between the planks of my kitchen table, and seeing one glint with the light as I walk past never fails to make me happy. And now since that very first 2020 sighting of the stars, they’ve just kept coming, usually where you’d least expect to see them, and other times when you need to see them most.
We are never as alone as we feel.
Last week I had the supreme pleasure of playing with babies, and I can tell you right off that there’s nothing better.
Nothing. But you knew that.
It all started with a parental trip to the hinterlands of a 40 foot snowfall — the perfect adventure in the perfect location, otherwise known as “too far away for the sitter to throw a tantrum and beg them to come home.”
Consequently, it didn’t matter if the kiddies loved me or loathed me — they were 100% stuck with me for a week. I, of course, was in heaven.
I now realize that I never really envisioned heaven properly. I knew it involved glitter, Bluey, dancing raucously atop the four foot high marble island, tiny tea sets with tiny spoons, and running with scissors. Still, while my own imagination may have begun drooping at least hourly, these babes never once drooped, not even during my mental collapse and their subsequent invasion of the blue and white “good” china. “Ooooh, let’s play flying saucer!!!”
Bath time rodeos? Check! Midnight sonatas? Check! The quick consummation of 5 bags (at 48 pieces per bag) of chicken nuggets for dinner three nights in a row? Check! Painting grandma’s hair with glitter bombs? Check!
But oh the joy of it all — I just can’t tell you — though I’ll gladly share a bit below:
Images taken at Atlanta Botanical Gardens, Fernbank, and Virginia Highlands, left to right: Smiling Giant, Wishful Thinking, Giant Wooden Forest Tulips, A Garden of Mesh Birds, the Water Maiden, Happy Frogs, Planting for Spring, Pure Joy
Pam Goode Writes 