#anotheryearolder, #audacity, #Audacitytocare, #findthebeauty, #heavyboots, #purpose

Audacity

In September 2019 I began a blog with the words I feel on purpose today.

I wrote about a crow sitting on my Seattle balcony with her distinct white wing feather. The magical sunrise and the hot cup of tea. There was an essay in the making and the hours ahead wide open and mine to be spent. That year I had made it past big pain and rehab and shaken off the first years of intense scrutiny for signs of more cancer. I had woken up and counted blessings and felt optimistic. I was self-focused and rightfully so.

Eight years later there have been fresh challenges, moves, losses, gains, all on the heels of covid. And politics beyond anything conceivable.

The world weighs a lot right now. Jonathan Safran Foer, in his novel Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close uses the recurring metaphor heavy boots to express the sadness and grief the narrator, nine-year-old Oskar, feels about losing his father on September 11. How heavy are yours?

We have the tools to reduce the violence and stress and I often forget to deploy tactics and save myself from sinking: one, turn off the media, select which section of the paper you do or do not want to read (or scroll through) — trust me, the insanity still seeps in but so much less — two, spend the day, or some spare minutes, to find the beauty no matter how small. And we are a sum of our parts; touch in with people that care about you, call someone who is as shocked as you are, too, proclaim loudly WTF! and trade tactics for coping.

Here is my daily purpose as 2026 heads into deep winter: first I pull the boots off. If I can’t reach them (ha, hips) I shake them loose. Once they are off I kick their sorry butts under the bed. Then I replace them with red dancing shoes. My dancing is wonky but it is the heart of the desire that matters.

Look for the moments in your day that sustain not drain: appreciate that first cup of coffee don’t let it get cold. Reread that first loving text. Look for the first bird to fly by your windowsill. Take a walk of any length. Educate yourself: read cozy and also dystopian novels. Have the audacity to not become numb and disassociate from the disruptive and fact-alternating tactics of our current administration but look what you can do. What sustaining action would help yourself and others?

Maybe it is a simple as talking to a neighbor, being a kind human is infectious. Refuse to drown wearing those heavy boots: sign the petitions, volunteer, contribute your time, donate blood, listen to your friends in need. That is how we will navigate the inconceivable.

I am another year older in a matter of days. I hope to surround myself this weekend with family and chaos and maybe hotdogs in a wet raging Nor’easter. But for now the sun is shining; for the time being the heavy boots are buried deep under the dust balls.

Seven years later I write with deep sincerity: I am here for you.

Last summer night, September 21, 2026

#remembrance, #weneedeachother, Gather

Gather: on 9/11

We called him Gordy, the very handsome young man dating a cousin in Boston. I hired him to help dig my garden beds for beer money, then soon after he got his dream job in New York at the tippy top of the World Trade Center.

Twenty five years ago a woman leaned over the fence where I volunteered and said ‘something terrorist has happened in New York.’ My friend and I dropped our gloves and rushed to my house a few blocks away. We stood before the TV not comprehending anything. I could not have done that half hour alone.

Later — when the kids were sent home from school, the husbands from their Boston office buildings, the moms from grocery shopping — we gathered; set up chairs outside on the street, ordered armloads of pizza, stared into the sky and felt all the emotions, just holding the news at bay for a little while under the reddening maple trees, kids laughing and chalking up the street, adults silently weeping.

Gordy called his mother after the plane hit and said not to worry, they were following emergency protocol and taking the stairs to the roof for safety.

Church bells tolled at 11am here in Marblehead today. As the chimes rolled over the town, every flag at half mast, I remember; I remember holding my friend’s hand; I remember the gather; I remember the strength I found amongst my friends and neighbors and needed when the call came in about Gordy and the hundreds of others lost that day.

Twenty-five years ago. Seems like yesterday. Gather. Feel the strength of others.

I raise a beer to Gordy tonight and remember: I need you and you need me.

How can you help?, Island Life, Listen, nature

Pausing Myself

If you peel away the humans and sit with the moment — no small task these days — what do you hear?

A few days ago I was finally able to sit down after a long travel day to this little Elizabeth Island on Buzzard’s Bay; a bouncy boat crossing, a week’s worth of food unpacked, tubs stored, windows flung open, clothes put away, dinner defrosting and out of habit I had brought the clutter of the mainland to the porch with me. Perched on the edge of a rocker, my phone face-up, my book spine-down, my aching leg lifted up wrapped in an ice pack I was tired and still spinning. Busy planning on the vacation with no plans. Checking my email.

And then the first bird broke through all my noise, a sleek Loon skimming the water below without a ripple. I tuned into the luminous notes of her song. In a heartbeat I was reset.

If you stop and listen, on Cuttyhunk you are surrounded by island silence that is actually a cacophony of sound. Pausing myself, I saw that the bushes actually thrummed with birds. The water move hypnotically against the shore. Seagulls cruised overhead while a little further away a hawk telescoped above a tiny inlet off the harbor. The Loon’s call continued to echo across the water and I eased back into the chair.

I cannot recreate this gift from nature with lists and planning and things: I can make a conscious effort to be present for what the earth has made and is offering all of us.

To listen is respect. To listen is to acknowledge. To listen is to save myself and the miracles of a tiny bird with an incomparable call to the universe.

Yes, I am reacting — aren’t we all, we should be — to the current administration stripping the earth, the woods, the waters, the air. To listen is to appreciate but also to empower ourselves. To remember we are the stewards not the takers.

Let’s create some noise to keep the sound of silence.

You know what to do. Or ask me.

Best Foot Forward, Community, friends

Community Counts

July 2026 will be a memory for me of not just healing but learning: how to dial down and take care of myself (others are critical for this), how to monitor the absolutely insane news, how to understand the rules of World Cup/Tour de France/Wimbledon; how to sit still and watch the hummingbirds alight above my head and focus on the Northern Flickers as they bed down in the massive fir tree out the living room window; how to forgive the days of setbacks and celebrate the wins.

Today a friend takes a ferry to help me get to appointments. Tonight a group of women will arrive with nibbles and drinks and their stitching. Saturday my writers gather to share summer notes and set goals. Monday more family arrives. Here’s what we cannot forget — our communities. Whether we have to call them or they stop in or they send a book or they drop a text they will sustain us.

There is so much downtime healing a joint which translates to brain spin. Then a voice shouts ‘hello’ or a card comes in the mail or a gripping soccer match happens with crowds rowing and singing and kilts spinning. How good people are and how terribly bad only a very small percentage are (ok maybe just one and a lot of spineless elected members — vote them OUT); I fall back on faith in humanity. Simple as that.

Sure, I am disappointed too. And have battled an infection that could have been prevented. And have some bad nights when no amount of pillows comfort me. But then the sunrise. And the birdsong. And a dog depositing a soft wet toy in my face at 5am.

I am not tying life into a little neat bow, I have plenty of time right now to feel down and hopeless. But I find when I look to the people, sit up and look at the goodness to be found, relish the little voice on FaceTime, put on the red skirt, kick my best foot forward it makes a difference. This I believe.

Oh and a tiny book report: adored Dave Eggers Contrapposto, Charleen Hurtubise Saoirse, Gwendoline Riley The Palm House, Lauren Groff Brawler. Next up: Maggie O’Farrell Land.

What can I do for you? I would love to.

Power bracelets on today: “Mimi” + “Courage”

Knitting Lessons, Look for the Beautiful Things, Open Secrets Magazine

June 27, 2026: All the Beautiful Things

June 27 2026 and I am looking for all the beautiful things. There are so many.

Today my flash essay Begin Again: Lessons in Love and Knitting was published on Substack in Open Secrets Magazine. A piece that 44 years ago existed as just pencil jots on a piece of notepaper to help me remember the immense and intense of the experience, the kindness of strangers, the good and bad that changed my life. I wrote down everything that happened over the four years of my mother’s illness — notes on random paper, stained napkin, random receipts, some even in the margins of books — then jammed all of them willy-nilly into a boot box for 30 years. These are the foundation of my story on caregiving, living and loss. Thank you for publishing.

I am day 9 post-second-hip surgery, both the procedure and recovery in Washington State. Steps forward, steps back and a lot of ice and kindness from family and friends have me on top of recovery. Thank you all. Remember, you are never too young for a new hip.

Cherries from Eastern Washington, Peaches from Central Washington, Arugula from local farmers are flooding the markets. I could eat a bowl of this bounty every day, tossed together then dashed with some white champagne vinegar and a crack of black pepper. Grateful to the farmers.

The Sweet Peas are blooming at Wren Cottage. At one, two, three in the morning when I wake to walk, take meds or just breathe through discomfort a handful sit in a jug by my pillow, scenting the moonbeams. Really, that magical.

I watch World Cup Soccer daily and still don’t understand FIFA rules but cheer wildly for whatever team needs me while my ice machine hums. Every day I go a little further around the block, alongside the ocean, from the car to the espresso shop. One day at a time.

And to crown the day: this afternoon my grand baby called (with some help). He said Mimi for the first time, grinned at me and kicked a soccer ball around his living room 3,000 miles away. I have no words for the joy.

Life is good, politics get worse, algae blooms: but so does his clever little mind and body, the roses on the fence, friendships and my love of a roasted cherry. Looking forward I will soon be able to lift him high, kick that ball too and kiss that giggly belly.

There you go. We heal.

Today at the Bainbridge Island Farmer’s market.

#jointreplacement, #patience, #slowdown

Planting Patience.

This morning on my walk a crow flew above me like a whisper of air, every wing feather reaching to catch the tiny whiffs of breeze overhead. I watched the arc of its flight, stopped to take in the early morning silvery shine over the water, to wipe my sweaty palms and regroup my walking sticks. When the hip or knee or shoulders go it is fast and permanent and requires hard rewiring not just the joint but the mind: that said I am not good with slowing down, or taking it slow or all the other slow up phrases. So I don’t go far but clock in accomplishment early in what can be a long day. I will keep moving if I can. Seven day countdown.

Things that took me two hours are taking me two days without range of motion. Gardening in slow-mo (here’s another one) with a thick pad and everything laid around me — tools, fertilizer, seeds, seedlings — is extremely contrary to my usual efficiency. I am beached at night, rewatching Vera on Netflix from Season 1, episode 1 (there are 14 seasons!). And yet…the pace is growing on me.

Getting it done is not pretty or glam; I cannot put socks on or tie my shoes this week which reminds me why. I wake up carefully to test how well the right side is weight bearing then each slow footstep is an act of planting patience. But I have had the time to witness extraordinary bird migrations in my feeders. I have been home to watch the peonies from bud to bursting, the roses explode, the rise and glow of several full moons.

Highlights? My Aperol, soda and lime tastes so good at the end of the day. Friends reaching out and making the kind of plans only a person facing a long recovery can appreciate. I look forward to rereading Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce series in a couple of weeks and on the other side, coming back to see the tiny starts of white Impatiens planted yesterday that should be sprawling amongst my lavender by the time I return.

Cancelling summer, taking a step away from it all for deep self care is a trick of the mind and heart sort of like here you go busy self, there’s time on your hands, look what you can do when you are not doing! A lot, it turns out, slowly and with deep meaning.

See you soon. Thanks for reading.

Alexandra Dane

all the right reasons, summer2026, Surgery

Summer cancelled for all the right reasons.

What was on the wish list for summer 2026: walk the Cotswold in England; maybe also the cliff trail in Wales; redo my garden including an apple espalier and more peonies; maybe a reunion; a writer’s conference in late June; be the crash car for my family in the PMC; push my grandchild on the park swings. What is actually happening: hip #2 in a couple of weeks. Summer has been cancelled.

When it’s done it’s done, so say the x-ray and the pain. I stopped being able to lift anything in January and for a new Grandmother this will not do. Forget compost, kneeling in the garden, tying my shoes, putting on pants without wincing, walking more than a mile. Bring on the ‘old lady roll’ when I walk. Last hip I had to wait three years b/of oncology and by the time I dragged my sorry self in for surgery in 2020 more than just the bone was messed up. Live and learn — this time I am on it.

I lie awake and wonder why in my 60’s this has happened, this sudden bone-on-bone pain. Step aerobics back in the day? Running? Riding accidents in my teens? Whatever. Get her done. No looking back.

Letting go is hard when those plans or maybe-plans were so exciting. When I watch the weeds taking over (no, this is NOT a metaphor) and can’t lean over to pull them. I have standing desks wherever I go as sitting is tricky so still hitting the monthly goals on submissions. Now the equipment is borrowed, the cousin is willing, the hedge is full of birds outside my recovery room and I will be counting steps before I know it.

Until then, there will be a break in blogs when and if I am on meds. I have stockpiled very big novels. I have taken the scatter rugs up and with gratitude to my family and friends I know I will be unstoppable for 2027.

Catch me if you can.

Birdsong, Family, Mothers

Us

Yesterday I pulled out the hiking poles at Wren Cottage and walked at a slow but steady pace down roads, to a path by the water, into the woods, back through a swamp and finally winding up amongst fully blooming lilacs. So many birds are migrating and nesting throughout the Pacific Northwest right now and OH! The birdsong! My Merlin Bird app heard the following:

Orange-Crowned Warbler, Wilson’s Warbler, Purple Martin, Bewick’s Wren, Chestnut-Backed Chickadee, Spotted Towhee, Dark-Eye Junco, American Robin, Western Tanager, Song Sparrow, Hutton’s Vireo, Western Flycatcher, Purple Finch, Brown Creeper, Pacific Wren, Chipping Sparrow, Black-Throated Gray Warbler, Steller’s Jay, Black-Headed Grosbeak, Red-Winged Blackbird, Brown-Headed Cowbird, Common Yellowthroat, Northern Flicker, Red-Breasted Nuthatch

They flitted around me and above me, filled the air with wing beats and melodic music. So many different sounds, colors, points of origin. Just like us.

How many different mothers are there are in the universe, too? Biological ones, lost ones, found ones, friends that mother, friends that I mother, new mothers, old mothers, never-known mothers, mothers of animals, mothers yet-to-be. The verb, the adjective; the noun, the sentiment, the action. Powerful. Poignant. Deeply personal. My relationship to mother is both loss and love: I have been alive for so much longer than my mother who died when I was 25 years old and here I am fortunate enough to keep going; to be able to watch my three children reach their third decades, to be alive to know my first grandchild, to witness two marriages. So many memories banked for me — my gardens filled with peony plants my children picked out for Mother’s Day, plants which still bloom late May reminding me of those special Sundays eating barbecue or lobster rolls, the scramble to decorate cards, the home-baked cupcakes.

I have kicked off the Friday of Mother’s Day weekend at Mirabelle by Orphee in Pioneer Square Seattle consuming an entire double-baked almond croissant while sipping a dark, perfect Cortado with absolutely no regret. Due to certain circumstances I returned to the PNW early: I will conclude the day in the following order: x-ray and hip consult, Elliot Bay Bookstore crawl and a dry Martini with olives. That sums it up, this decade, this spring: worn out joints, books and treats.

When I return to the other coast I hope my family and I can find a time to be all together and celebrate motherhood. Nothing beats being ’round the table with those you love and will love forever no matter how connected or where we came from or where we are going, how we found each other or when we gather.

Cheers. XOX

Tasha and Me, a long time ago.

Hope, The Pitt

No Matter How Hard.

A couple of nights ago a dinner out with friends ended abruptly as everyone needed to get home to watch The Pitt. I loved it; handbags grabbed, coats flung on, bill paid, out we raced. It has been a long time since I cared about a series that much, or watched it on the night it was released. This Is Us might be the last show I can remember that made a weeknight non-negotiable for me. We are in human, world and climate chaos and this little cameo of an emergency room in a fictitious city has reached out of the mayhem and grabbed us by the heart.

Here are some coping tools I have deployed to combat daily heart plummets: reading, early and late, not screens. Good food, simply made, no shortcuts if possible, centering myself on the cooking and prepping task. Treats, recently I opened a tremendous bar of chocolate gifted to me, Blanxart, and have been wedging a piece into a few inches of fresh baguette with my tea in the afternoon. The French call it ‘le goûter’ and it elevates the slump in a big way. Kindness, to self and others. And if they can’t be kind back, letting it go. And most importantly, talking, seeing and being with my family including extended family as much as they can stand. Go outside. Every coping mechanism makes me feel better.

Why have so many of us been captured by The Pitt? To me, each episode feels like a mirror of our current existence. Realistic often frayed and flawed humans doing their job, taking care of all sorts of situations in extreme crisis. The script writes in skill, compassion and humility along with and a lot of blood, disaster and sadness, red eyes, tired bodies and constantly broken hearts. From the people who clean up the mess to the surgeons they give it their all. And when I think, after each show, what were those writers thinking I know they didn’t have to think very hard: this is an actual microcosm of the world right now.

I know! I am talking about an HBOMax TV show! How did this happen.

Because what has grabbed me is how their efforts, hard and bitter and beautiful, build foundations for hope. And I need to do this too, fiercely, no matter now hard and imperfect my single and imperfect efforts feel.

Exhale. Inhale. Eyes wide open. Witness. VOTE. Every one counts. Talk with a neighbor. Talk to a stranger. Hug your people. Make hope happen.

Bear. Taking a break.

Hunger Games, Inclusion, Pride

April, 2026: Do What You Can, When You Can.

I pulled on a bright day-glow yellow blazer early today. Added jeans and boots. “Half winter/ half spring” a friend commented as I passed her walking for my morning coffee. Little did I know Hunger Games chic is a more accurate description as the day progressed.

The back of my workspace north of Boston abuts a wine and cheese shop that proudly displays a gay pride flag. Recently they posted that people have come into the store to complain, citing the flag as an ‘abomination.’ That members of my community have felt emboldened to not only question inclusivity but empowered to openly shun it. I see why it feels like the world is shifting off its axis: I button up the neon jacket, channel Katniss and head to the shop to find the manager.

We agree to hang a pride flag, as bright and big-assed as this town has ever seen, on the side of my building for Pride Day in June. We move on from the hate: if we don’t counter bad behavior with better behavior this will never end. They will hang it for me and I will for sure attend their Pride Festival, maybe even have my face painted.

Understand the message:

All are included here. All are human here. All are loved here.

This is how we heal the wounds of divisive, uneducated leadership.

There will be iced cream and rainbow flags and big smiles. All are invited.

Do what you can, when you can.

Textile art by Emma Giacalone.

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