You are the plank. You are an even-hewn and sanded length that reaches end to end, your hand upon my temperamental arc. You are diameter aimed clean into the heart of me. I turn as on a spit of steel (your steel) except that I am flame and meat at once the same. You are the planet firm in heaven’s sea, and I the tempest-tossing test of earth’s humanity. You are the moon. I am the tides that pout and turn and then return in love’s remembered ache. You are the balance and I am the dance.
Don’t ask me why, but something popped into my head rather suddenly over the past month. And because our time on earth gets shorter by the day, I jumped on it. I’d love for you to jump in too.
I chose the name above because I want it to encompass the world. It won’t, of course, but that can still be my goal.
P.S. You do not need to be a woman to support women.
Details: My plan is to bring women of all ages, sizes, ethnicities and dreamers together. It seems to me that our lives as women are changing daily, and certainly our options are changing already. I won’t fixate on politics because I’ve never been that girl — though I’m beginning to realize that maybe I should be. We definitely have power, but can we control what’s going on now? — or what’s ahead?
What I do know is that we can always stand for peace and right.
Toward that end I hope to share these messages across the globe. And guess what — after one email blast and a couple of days, we already have women signed up from sea to sea in the the US, as well as multiple countries beyond. We need to use our strength. We need to be the women we are without keeping quiet. But most of all, we need to support and learn from each other. Nobody’s going to do this for us — especially now.
So far I’m mostly self-funding this women’s project because that’s my option, and that’s how much I want to bring us together. But as women, we’re inevitably strong, and our fierceness will get us farther into the future than we know.
So here’s what we need: Contact with each other; Appreciation for each other; Sharing with each other; Understanding and supporting each other as much as we can. And then movement: Saying yes, laughing together, brainstorming together, supporting each other. And yes, changing the world, even when it seems like what we do is the tiniest offering. We’re so much stronger than we know.
A Plan: We ALL need a plan, and so far we’re amazingly in sync. I’m good with a plan — I can do that — BUT I can also learn even more if I’m talking and brainstorming with others. Through this project, that’s exactly what we’re doing, no matter how closely or far apart we live, no matter our ethnicities, our shyness, or our uncertainties, we’re already doing it. It’s a pretty good start, and the most exciting part is that 99% of these women volunteered on the own.
Help We Can Use: Cutting templates from fiberglass mesh (perfect for you if you love cutting perfect 6-inch circles); mailing fiberglass mesh templates, talking up the project.
Mailing Templets: The cost to mail three 6″ circular fiberglass templates is variable but quite small across the US. Beyond the US, we’re currently working with women from Australia, Ireland, France, Italy, and Puerto Rico. I’d like to be able to help with the cost of mailing overseas.
Taking Part: If you’re interested, text me. We’ll be delighted to have you involved!
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.
Last night, and in fact smack in the middle of what’s often called Premium Sleep Time, a tree fell on our house.
First of all, yes, we’re okay. Secondly, while my husband leapt out of bed and examined every iota of the house inside and out until he knew we were safe for the night — I slept through it. While the occasional deep sleep is understandable if you’re, say, missing breakfast, but it’s more than disconcerting if your house has been ravaged by tree limbs during your slumber. It’s just not something we tend to prepare for, and the concept of sleeping through a major episode makes all my wires short out.
And yes, it was indeed a dark and stormy night. Lots of wind and lots of rain, but not so different from most nights … until the crash. And it’s probably no surprise that 1) it rattled me big time, and two, I can’t shake it.
Once we’d enlisted chainsaw and climbing help via my husband’s (seriously) knowledge of everything on the planet, I slipped away to the studio to work on a project. I calmed down a (tiny) bit after 20 minutes or so, and then there was a knock on the door of my studio/sanctuary.
“I just wanted to let you know that there’s a large gas leak and they’ve asked everyone to leave the building.” Okay, I’m sure there’s a silver lining in there somewhere, but it wasn’t meant for today.
All in all, the tree was about 60 feet tall, and we were lucky (really, really lucky) that it snapped instead of falling full force in all its glory across several backyards. We think it was one of those “surprise” miniature tornadoes. I hope it’s my last.
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.
So the good news is that it’s 2016 and I’m wandering down an empty lane in Paris on lle St. Louis. I’m thrilled to be here, but a bit anxious. “In Paris?” you ask? Well, yes. My conundrum is worrying how I’m going to meld myself into this fabulous opportunity while simultaneuosly meeting a deadline. Cause, you know — Paris/Work … Paris/Work ….. Yes, time has me by the short hairs, and I don’t like it one bit.
And then I glance up, and in an instant my entire attitude changes and I burst out laughing, my feelings blatantly displayed for all to see. Honestly, how likely is it that someone would have taped up this clock and dropped it onto my path on the very day that I’m (more than) tremblingly overloaded?
Strapped for time — that’s me, and a big THANK YOU to the universe for letting me laugh it out in a big way.
Time is so often a deterrent, isn’t it? We all want more of it, but we’re quick to specify that we want *this* kind of time and not *that* kind of time. More time with those we love, and less time paying bills. More time to learn and create, and less time studying for finals. More time to savor a good meal, and less time standing in supermarket lines. Of course there are a few enlightened souls among us who can make the most of the lines and the numbers and the tests and even find joy there, but mostly we tend to try bargaining. “Dear Time, I will gladly pay you Thursday for a Cheeseburger on Wednesday.” And so it seems we spend our lives racing toward the world we think we want rather than changing the way we experience it.
Is this the way I want to live? Nope. Nope. And Nope.
I want to look at life, live life, and love life in a way that feeds my soul now and forever. Doing so isn’t impossible — the truth is that so much of it is up to us. So change isn’t dependent on time, and time doesn’t always equal change. Look at it this way: If I allot eight hours and fifteen minutes to a flight, I can walk the streets of Paris tomorrow instead of Charlotte. That’s a huge plus, but I wonder — can I *feel* Paris in an instant on any day of any year?
To an extent, yes. But I can also dedicate eight hours to writing a proposal and get absolutely nothing of value accomplished. So the concept of time is pretty wishy washy in my book, and how can I hold myself so accountable to wishy washy?
I can’t, and I won’t, and I don’t have to. I need to step it up. Now.
Let’s say I have ten great years left, fifteen good ones, and five glad-to-be-here years. At 25, I figured I was young enough to feel my way through it, and I did. But forty hit me like a deer in the headlights. And now at 60 (or so), planning my Next Ten Fabulous Years has became high priority, and I’m working it in every direction I can grab. Fortunately I’ve learned along the path that life is pretty much exactly what you make it.
Get going.
And today I plan to look at this giant, banded timepiece a new way: I’m not the one who’s strapped. I won’t be the one who’s strapped. I think it’s time to breathe, dream, plan, work, and grab my joy. Sometimes You Gotta.
Life is strange. Or maybe it’s me. Does it matter which?
I started making art when I was about 6, which comes so naturally to kids. And then of course I stopped. I stopped, in fact, for 47 years. I was busy doing wonderful things of course, and as a creative type, that never stopped. But mosaic art was to be my future, and I made my first piece at the ripe old age of 30, which, perhaps surprisingly, seems to be the usual path. And suddenly I fell hard. I loved the art form, and it loved me back. This in itself isn’t unusual — it was who I was and, I believed, who I was destined to be.
And then one day some years later, I stopped cold turkey and without a thought to the contrary. I don’t remember if this made me sad or happy. I don’t remember loss. The only change I remember was that I was working on some large pieces for a mosaic flower garden, and it was a kick ass project. I loved it. No matter that I had to drive five and a half hours to make the work/play dates — and then make the drive back home three days later. No matter that the roads were filled with big ass trucks barreling south down the interstate. No matter anything, I was in my fifties, in my prime, and it was pure bliss.
And then it happened like this: I was working at home on a piece, and the large center space was filled with beautiful, ethereal circles that pulled you into a distant paradise. My circles were perfect, and I loved them.
They loved me less. My glass grinder began emitting coughing noises. I added more water and solvent and kept working to make every curve perfection. I bought a new head. I spoke to it sweetly.
But the fingers . . . the fingers that had worked with me so well over so many happy decades …. I simply couldn’t control the budding arthritis in my happily toiling hands, and in a short series of hours, they just stopped working in the flawless way they had always worked. I got it done, delivered the piece and then another, but when I finished, I just walked away. I don’t think I’ve ever walked away before. It’s not who I am, and it didn’t feel right.
A few weeks later, I made it back to Virginia to help with the installation, and spent the weekend laughing and working. It was the best of times, but I knew my mosaic days were numbered, and I didn’t like that one little bit. But what do you do? Give up? Push on? Wait for healing? I chose the latter.
Last week I was teaching a class to a great group, and they were doing so well on their own that I walked over, sat down, … and picked up my tools. I picked up my tools for the first time in years. I looked at them with joy for the first time in years.
And then I started using them. No real pain, no backing off, no icky feelings — I just worked without worry or expectations.
And then I worked the next day.
I worked by myself in the studio. And … I had fun. Some very long-lost fun, and though concessions had certainly been made, it felt good. It felt really, really, REALLY good.
And you know, change isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Some times it’s just what we need. And sometimes it opens whole new worlds just when you needed them.
P.S. These pieces were created to fit together with those of other artists in a community project.
When I first made this trip 20+ years ago, we traveled across the Pan Am Highway, her roads broken into car-sized holes that slowed the journey considerably. It didn’t bother me an ounce, because travel teaches us truth. And during every visit since, I’ve watched Costa Rica blossom in so very many beautiful directions. I pray it will always be so.
And now, once again, we’re here! First, we’ll enjoy a beautiful three-hour journey through the countryside. Along the way, we’ll pass small houses with colorful laundry hanging, stalls selling creches and life-size deer figures, and vast fields of sugar cane. The backlit fronds of the cane will compete for our attention with their feathery tufts.
The roads are hilly and winding, with lushly planted homegrown guardrails of Dracena protecting against the steepest drops. Fortunately, traffic is mild. A small white dog trots up the road; a hilltop palm missing most of its fronds arcs leeward in the mist. I spy a rounded tree literally covered with white birds — at least 50 of them — and again, I wonder.
Halfway through the drive, we stop for coffee and the skies open wide for the twenty minute afternoon rain. When we pile back into the van, mist has settled onto the hairpin turns taking us down the mountain, but not enough to obscure the drive of banana, coffee, bougainvillea, citrus trees, dracena, palms, unfamiliar tropical fauna with giant leaves in every shape, blooming brush, and one surprising stand of three-needled pines.
Bridges become more frequent as we cross rocky streams and rivers, each path only one-laned, making a gentle dance of transport vans and the occasional bus or truck. Most of the locals walk, wisely against the traffic but still along the road with neither sidewalk nor shoulder for safety. Small signs advertise local businesses: “Many Meaty Dishes. All Meatless. All Tasty.” The rafters of a porch along the roadside support 20 bunches of bananas hanging by ropes. We pass through several small towns, and as the 5:00 sunset moves in, the people double in number — there is so much walking through the nightfall, and I hope hard that each arrives home safely.
We reach Finca Luna Nueva at what seems like 10 or 11 PM, though it is actually closer to 6:00, and we ascend the gravel just as moonstain moves in, spreading her welcome across the sky.
The lovely ladies of the lodge feed us well — offering chicken with saffron rice, soup, organic spinach, juices and salad from the farm, and I’m fast asleep before 9:00, tucked away in my little cabin with Costa Rican breezes blowing through.
I pray it will always be so.
P.S. Twenty years of visiting Costa Rica regularly, and I’ve never, ever tired of it. Bring it on in January 2024!
Pam Goode Writes 