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” and grinned at me and kicked a soccer ball around the 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 soccer ball across the grass with him and kiss that giggly belly.

There you go. We heal.

Today at the Bainbridge Island Farmer’s market.

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#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

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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.

“No feeling is final”
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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.

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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.

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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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Cake, Hearts, Red liptstick

Why I Wear Red Lipstick

I do not carry a chapstick, lip tint or moisturizer. I carry a red. I have many tubes of various shades of luscious carmine lipstick, some more strident than others. Nighttime shades, daytime shades, fun shades. Why, in the age of neutrals?

Well. I am not neutral. Particularly the bad days in 2017 when I was not sure if the next surgery would reveal more carcinoid tumors, more dire circumstances than just the one tumor that filled my appendix. And honestly, I was pissed. I wanted more of my kids, my work, my gardens, sunshine and travel. My life. So I got up a few days later and slicked on some red lipstick and looked in the mirror and said ‘not going to happen.’ And so far, it hasn’t.

Red gives me courage, brings out the blue in my eyes, makes me smile. Isn’t that what we want everyday? If all it takes is a wardrobe of reds, I am here to tell you: do it.

Best foot forward everyday because you might not be walking tomorrow.

Still walking.

Oh yes, and cake. Surround yourself in what saturates your soul with happy. You will not regret it.

(Photo: Galantines. 2026. All the red hearts. All the cake.)

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Bad Bunny, Humanity, Language, Melt The Ice Hats

Translation Not Needed.

There is a daffodil blooming on the back hillside and a rosy pink camellia peeking through the greenery outside the kitchen window. Temps in Seattle have been changeable but recently 50 degrees, the red-winged blackbirds chortling in the hedgerow. Plenty of rain has come and gone but three feet of snow just fell on my other coastal nest; this works for me. What has not worked is finding my place in the many, many words — some interesting, most angry, all emotional — flying around as our country tries to find ballast during the current devastation of our culture and values. I do not know where to dip my oar, pull hard, gain traction against the tides. Or do I?

Bad Bunny sure did. He blew love to the top of the Super Bowl rafters; love for his country, his family, his people, all people. He hugged and kissed and shook his hips and danced on the roof and fell through the ceiling and kept singing and hugging and kissing And guess what? I didn’t understand ONE WORD because ask my family I do not have the language gene so to speak. But I felt him. And this isn’t new, is it? All you need is love.

Love first. Love before hate. Love Strong. Love Wins.

What does love look like? Well, whatever it looked like before this administration has to be amped up a billion times more. I am trying to look deeply into the faces of those around me. Smile first. Give a compliment. Lend a hand. Pay it forward. Buy a stranger a cup of coffee. Think kindness before inconvenience. Understand anger pulsing from so many people is fear and grief and despair. Follow the @walkforpeace monks on Instagram who are walking through snow and sleet to Washington D.C. peacefully, single file, in love and peace. Just walking.

I wonder if you are reading this with an eye roll. Maybe. But when I asked a sight-challenged man last week if I could help him as he was going off the sidewalk edge it wasn’t a lifelong commitment but a moment of humanity and I felt a feeling I have been missing for a few months: I felt ok. He was ok. We would be ok.

Don’t let anyone tell you or frighten you otherwise: we need each other. And the each other in this country is made up of everything — different colors, languages, shapes and sizes. Remember when this was what made us proud of our country?

I am mostly angry but not helpless. We cannot feel helpless or we have failed our neighbors. Find a way to help. Write. Speak. Listen carefully, even if you don’t understand the words.

Thanks, Bad Bunny. I didn’t need a translation:

A hug is a hug in every language.

Yes, we have knit many #melttheicehats too. Let me know if you want one.

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believe, Christmas 2025, Family, Stick together

A Christmas Note


“Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack, a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in”. 

Lyrics from Anthem, Leonard Cohen

We have sung the hymns and eaten the pudding, lit the candles and gone about giving. I am blessed to have had everyone for 24-hours under one roof and an 11-month grandson that never stopped smiling. Things ache, my eyes are tired but the light oh the light is bright and inspired by my family, and you.

Happy Everything. Let’s stick together in 2026. Promise not to rant.

January I celebrate fourteen years writing online, sending my words into the stratosphere.

Blessed be. We are still here.

Alexandra Dane




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