Give

February Pep Talk.

I am spreading last summer’s blackberry jam thick and sticky on my morning toast, jam that I cooked down from buckets of berries, my face enveloped in sweet steam on a hot August day at Wren Cottage. The process was made exquisite in a huge copper pot set on an outside stove while the sunflowers swayed behind me. A Bewick’s wren flitted in-an-out of the eaves taking a shortcut to the berry-laden hedges. It was a day for the soul. This morning I screw the top back on the jar and watch a February snowstorm gather forces, ticking ice against the kitchen window. It is 2025: my soul is both joyful and shattered. But there is jam.

Joy has everything to do with a healthy baby joining our family this week. I am riding the happiness, not the shock of US and World events. But I realize that silence — about anything — just capitulates, just allows. So let me talk about another power.

Love of jam. Love of friends. Love of a warm blanket. Love of a good stitch. Love of a nap. Love of family — no matter their politics. Love of a new baby smile. Love of a hot meal. Love of a really good book. Love of encouraging emails. Love of poetry. Love of a fresh espresso in a china cup. Love of a good health report. Love of endless time to read. Love of a walk. Love of a challenging puzzle. Love of a cool find in a consignment shop. Love of a phone call from a daughter. Love of a card in the mail. Love of sitting with strangers and lending a hand. Love of listening. Love of boundaries. Love of random acts of kindness.

Love is not just on my mind because of this month: it is the strongest weapon I have against all the hate and venom and dehumanizing happening on our doorstep; massive suffering put into place very quickly because of prejudice and greed. It costs me nothing to help.

What do you love? How will you find it? How will you give it? It is free from me.

We cannot feel helpless. Find a way.

Winging love to you.

Friendship, Grief, Ode to a friend

Make the call.

She called me ‘A-bomb.’

We met lumbering around in pre-natal aerobics in 1987 at a fancy health club in San Francisco we could barely afford. My mother had just died and I had spent four months in a new city throwing up knowing no one; both my skin and my soul were translucent. I have no doubt I heard her laugh first from across the room, but whatever drew us together lasted like glue for the following thirty-eight years, over thousands of miles, through serious health issues for both of us, the death of her spouse and the grief that followed.

When she beamed her light on you there was no going back. Everything she did, designed, wore, commanded was larger than life, straight-on classy and always crisp white or navy linen. I adored being in her orbit and later, as we faced our adult challenges, having her on the other end of the phone to laugh with, anger with and decompress alongside.

She sent me absurd and outrageous gifts which were somehow always just right: a waist-high hand woven basket for my yarn when I had my hip replaced. Tiny spherical etched glasses to toast my first steps. Over the years wildly impractical and sustainable skeins of yarn in — she wrote — the color that reminds me of you. In 2000 for the New Years a bracelet arrived so jingly and sparkly and joyful I still have it in a bag even though the elastic gave out long ago.

She read everything I wrote. She would call, begin at the top of her voice, “A-BOMB YOU ARE AMAZING’ then chastise me for not writing more. There are so many stories.

Losing her spouse, living alone, facing her own health challenges have been hard for the last two years. I was able to visit her many times over the decades in her various beautifully decorated nests in Sonoma, in between no matter how many miles apart we talked, texted at all hours, shared our project tips, news about weddings, babies and parents. Each call felt like I was sinking into that familiar oversized white linen couch, cup of tea in hand, our legs tucked under us.

We argued over the years as fiercely as we loved. Then we laughed harder.

This Christmas I sent her a silly little sliver of a bead bracelet and wrote her I had one too and it was to be our ‘friendship’ bracelet. We hadn’t had contact over the busy holiday season but last Thursday I checked in by text to see if she had picked up the package. She went to the post office immediately and replied that she had put it right on, then gave me a run-down on her visitors over the holidays, what she knit for everyone and what she was casting on for the next project. I sent her the links to my recent publications.

I should have called instead.

Her daughter phoned me Monday to tell me my friend had died in her sleep that weekend.

Sudden loss is an unbelievable grief. I keep wanting to call her about the wildfires in California, does she smell smoke? Is she safe? To hear her laugh and tell me everything is alright. But it isn’t. She landed almost four decades ago in an important place within my soul which has gone abruptly and irreversibly vacant. I vacillate between anger and tears. I don’t think there is an in-between anytime soon.

I have been through a lot of death and dying. For the most part I have had time to compose my goodbye, my grief, my breath. Not so here. I am still gasping.

Wow and wow this life is fragile and splendid, full of grace and heartache and it hurts, all of it.

Send the bracelet. Make the call. If you are thinking of someone it is because they need to hear from you.

Be the friend you need.

Miss you, B-bomb.

2024 Books Read+ Listened, Publications!, Titles I loved

2024: The Read + Listen List

To date, December 31, 2024: 75 reads/audio books. Slowed down a bit with a lot of submissions and three accepted publications to edit and celebrate (see previous blog post). Ended up with 9 favorites, a few tied, a wide range of OMG to MEH. Beginning 2025 with Sally Rooney Intermezzo. Will let you know.

Thank you for reading with me, encouraging me, PM’ing me, emailing me, hugging me. Love you all.

Cheers to a NEW YEAR of amazing possibilities and so many new titles.

XOX Alexandra Dane

Note: listed in the order I read beginning January, 2024. Comments and ranking completely subjective.

#1 favorite happened to be the first book read: the plot, the premise, the piece of earth. Tough act to follow!

Not my genre, but willing to read because it is for a lot of other people I respect.

I love Jess Walter and suspending reality.

A long time fan of Laurie, maybe not my favorite but she tackles family of all dimensions.

Can you guess? Another gifting book, or chicken soup for the soul when you are not feeling well.

I keep up on all of this because, well, 60’s and sleepless.

#3. Unforgettable characters. Fate. Love. Tuscany.

Consideration of 50 words, David Whyte style.

On friendship. Premise and research a bit thin to me.

Siblings, inheritance, Christmas. Short airplane distraction.

If you have not discovered Joy Harjo, poet, Native American, memoirist, make that a 2025 goal.

Vera Stanhope series on PBS is based on this book series. Engaging.

This has been controversial amongst friends and strangers. For me, boring.

#2. My absolute favorite series based on The Moth performance essays. Favorite!

A fanciful story about a librarian, a boy and a dysfunctional family. Engaged me.

You will not hold it against me that I am still making my way through this…988 pages, one sentence.

Forgive me, but not a fan. If you love all her other writing, you know she changes style for each one.

Winner of many prizes, a story from the afterlife. I bought it for the cover, really, and then loved it.

#5. Museum guard and his journey into the uniform and out.

Honest debut fiction by a Nigerian queer writer.

Big-Chill-like with an unusual pact. I found it thought provoking and tempting.

I am still reading this in small bites by my bed. Fantastic.

#4. Old book, a memoir about a woman who takes her children cruising in the PNW back when arrowheads were on the beaches and strangers offered meals.

Anything Joan Didion. I am catching up on her.

Ok this was a phase. Lost track halfway through but engaging mythology.

Memoir, addiction, inheritance, love story.

Bletchley Park based novel about Prince Philip’s first love.

Novel of betrayals, art, love and fallen angels. Airplane read.

Tied for #1 of 2024. This writing, the darkness and the light are not for the fainthearted.

Essays by a proud, queer indigenous women. I greatly admire her work.

Read Tove Jansson’s short spare stories soon. The Summer Book remains one of my all-time favorites.

Never a fan of fiction that stretches the facts, this felt hysterical and thin on reality.

Coming of age in the political turmoil of Iran in the 1950’s. Reminiscent of The Kite Runner.

#6 for me: set in Pembrokeshire coast of Wales, a woman’s journey through the sea and her health. Think Rachel Carson and Annie Dillard.

Long awaited Flavia de Luce series, book No. 11. Another series to pick up before a snowstorm.

Popped up in someone else’s feed and found at http://www.betterworldbooks.com, a thought provoking but a bit meandering and thin book.

Set in 1994 in Dublin and County Donegal this leaves you hanging in too many ways.

I tried. I really, really tried to like this. Was not for me.

The Kate Atkinson binge begins: Jackson Brodie series for planes, cars, sleeplessness, knitting.

#7 for 2024, a 2024 NYT Best Historical Fiction Book, inspired from Claire Messud’s own family history. “As intimate as it is expansive.”

I will follow this voice anywhere. Though he sort of runs out of interesting meals he sure has interesting guests.

Jackson Brodie #3 — a lot of @adaneknit orders!

Pre-ordered and waited with held breath I was profoundly disappointed. My least favorite setting brought back (Monastery) with a lot of to-and-fro with no movement in story. So sad.

Thanks to a prompt for a virtual book group to discuss this book with Wendy Call, I would call this my #8 favorite read of 2024. Essays so thought provoking and tightly written the editor Wesley Morris knew what the assignment was — tuck this in for your next trip and enjoy.

Could not finish. Perhaps done with Elizabeth Strout.

Louise Erdrich is a master. I stayed with this, liked The Sentence better.

Ugh. It always comes down to the narrator. I could be skimming if real pages but the voice drags me down. Have hit the ‘pause’ button.

Purchased and stamped by Shakespeare + Co in Paris for the airplane home. Distracting.

I end 2024 on a book about pilgrimage during our turbulent covid/political times on The Camino Francés. Packed with history about the route, scenery and the soul. Not a fast read but inspiring.

Bear, Hope, Publications, The Leaving, Twirling

Tinsel + Butter + Submissions

During the next month three of my essays — long and flash — will be published. Ending 2024 this way is amazing and at the same time this is a tough season to promote oneself. I am hauling ornaments and pounds of butter and checking social media and doing edits and today just want to lie down with a hot chocolate. So here is an overview before I break for the eggnog and family and wrapping.

First, on Thanksgiving Day The Keepthings published my piece about a bear, a mother and a gift of love.

Secondly, Two Hawks Quarterly has just published “Twirling” an essay that is the blueprint of my memoir, my story that braids the experience of both being a caregiver and patient. Click on my writing name, Alexandra Dane, to follow the link.

And early 2025 The Sonora Review will release my flash nonfiction piece “The Leaving” which captures, in a split second, the moment my mother transitions in her illness. (I tell you this in case the subject is triggering).

A heady way to end the year. I still struggle with my (free) Substack account, mostly who needs so many outlets? But those in the know think this is essential. All of five people have read that account. To be assessed in 2025? I love WordPress but unless you hit the follow button it is hit or miss if you see my posts.

I am grateful to the editors, the students and the proof readers that put my words into the world. Memoir is a singular perspective, personal and often controversial. Transparency about illness, death, dying and living is very important to me. Equally important is recognizing the threads of hope that lie in the marrow of our bones. That is what I write about.

Cheers to hard work and ending strong in a year of 95 submissions. Grateful for all of it, and you out there that read my words.

May we find peace and love and hope in the next year, despite.

Alexandra Dane

*My well-loved garden Buddha holding a little sparkle for the season at the door of my studio.*

Action, Giving, The Keepthings

Giving Thanks.

Thank you to all the readers who read Bear on Thanksgiving Day and the days since. This short piece of writing had so many memories packed in so few words but more than that, the little story of Bear reminded readers to give at a time when we are all a little shell-shocked from world events. How can we all make more of an impact — not political but emotionally on others?

I feel like I am in need of revving up Christmas to counterbalance what looks to me like a fierce break- down of decency on all sides and especially people navigating intersections (double-entendre intentional). I am glossing over the news with tinsel and decorations, pinecones and extra lights. Today I snuck over to my daughter’s house and added lights to her window boxes (they can blink!). I sent a few extra donations. I am writing holiday notes with surprises tucked inside. Where are you giving your extra hugs this December?

Giving Thanks is not just about a prayer but an action for me. I joined my old choir for the season (rusty, but so what). I am baking for the neighbors just because. I am going to bed very early to read and rest.

I received my first 2024 Christmas card today from an old friend who has had a year to remember. He chose to clarify that, while he recognized the unprecedented challenges, he will remember the blessings. The humans around him elevated their giving of time, money, space, love and saw his family through to new beginnings.

He and his family are worth it. You are worth it. Thank you for reading the little big things that make my world go ’round. Go do the little things that will seem big to someone in need.

Peace, Friends.

Family, Forthcoming, Grandparent

Things. And Bear.

I submitted a small 600-word flash essay to The Keepthings about things: things that we keep, things that we find, things that give us solace or maybe some distress, too. My piece is about a bear, a brother and my mother’s love. It goes live on both Instagram and Substack today on Thanksgiving.

I am a thing-keeper. So imagine how perfect the moment when I entered this publishing booth at a conference and heard the premise: putting into the world what people write about — their small, often mundane highly personal items. I recommend following and reading these flash essays: you might THINK you don’t keep things but what about that flannel shirt from an old boyfriend that no one knows about except you at the bottom of your sweater trunk and you still wrap up in it when sad? (Ok, so maybe that is one of my things, too).

I have two other pieces of writing that have landed ie. forthcoming in the new year. I was up to eighty-five submissions and no bites, so the year seemed like a lot of work with little yield. Then Two Hawks Quarterly took one of my favorite pieces about recovery. Then, The Sonora Review took my flash piece about a second in time that changed time forever. I have allowed myself a few martini’s to celebrate this mic drop ending to 2024. Keep an eye out.

While it has been a rough road into November I have had a lot of fabulous moments to think back on, a LOT. I made an effort for good things, lots of writing and editing, time with friends and family. My health is good enough. My grand baby G continues to incubate: I have made it to grandchildren.
My mother would have made an amazing grandmother. She did not live to see the next generation and died nine months after my wedding. I think she might have been a very naughty and undisciplined grandmother but so fun. There are big shoes to fill when this tiny baby-form of my son and his beautiful kind wife arrives in a few months. I will do my best.

As you can see, I am leaning into this end of year focused on the positive — yes, there are already Christmas decorations — and also lots of hot soup, extreme gifting and many hugs.

@thekeepthings tomorrow. Enjoy.

Sending this from Cleo Wade to you, friends. Have a peaceful Thanksgiving.

Non Partisan, Politics

Fix Us

At a vintage market a few days ago I picked up a Dresden plate-patterned quilt, folded up and very heavy, the hand stitches so minuscule, the colors that brilliant vintage calico only an old handmade quilt can showcase. The shopkeeper stepped over to me. “It’s a cutter” she said. “I will sell it to you for $15.”

Without missing a beat — or opening up the quilt — I replied.

“I am a fixer. Sold.”

We all know that is not quite true for everything. But doesn’t trying to fix something, or make someone feel better, or delivering a cake just because cake always make the day bright do something for the soul?

I grew up in politics; a grandmother who was a Connecticut State Senator after twenty years of local politics before that. An uncle who was a Congressman. The family was made up of opposite parties and the best of friends. There were as many democrats as republicans at our houses for coffees, teas, drinks. I attended election night countdowns from my sleep suit years to my high school years, helping chalk up the results board, eating sandwiches with the Governor, listening to the debates, the excitement, the hopes. I knew politics to be non-partisan (def: not biased, especially toward any political group), hard-working, problem-solving and a terrible topic of discussion at the dinner table after two rounds of Manhattans.

So disappointing, these days. But how to fix that?

Not with needle or thread. Not with anger or disruption. Not with locked-in, myopic, self-serving rhetoric. Think about the big picture. Save the earth we live in and on for our grandchildren and their children. Be the solution whether that means with scissors or tape or talk or change. Listen to the other side. Work it out. Your playground is my playground is our playground.

We have one life people. Make it good for everyone.

I have begun to stitch that quilt back together. Not a job for the fainthearted. It has massive, deep holes through the layers. Enough with the metaphors.

Thinking of everyone: we all lost in so many ways last week. Have some tea with me.

Between the dash, Chapters, Community, Lifetime

Between the Dash

Pie & Persistence, the house concert series in Seattle organized by an accomplished musician friend raised over $5,000 for The Voter Movement Project in a beautiful backyard a few weeks ago. Between songs Sheryl Wiser — musician, songbird, activist — who I have watched grow into her persistent heart for forty-seven years, mentioned a phrase that has haunted me.

“What are you going to do between the dash?”

So far:

Alexandra Dane, born September 27 — daughter, granddaughter, grade/college/graduate student, horseback rider, singer, teacher, volunteer, care giver, wife, mother, hospice volunteer, gardener, knitter, writer, cancer patient, traveler, grandmother-to-be — died…

What strikes me about this list is how much I did without thinking too hard about it. Younger energy that multitasked effortlessly, took care of three generations, ran organizations, slept eight hours a night. This list also makes me think about the things I SHOULD think harder about: my continuing health (I am having a hard time getting on the protein wagon) my writing goals, (meeting them) my friendships.

Because as I get older I see my friends less, a casualty of covid habits, writing more, doing less in more time. I have firm goals to walk the Cotswalds and the Wales Coast Path before 70 and need to plot this out. I have taken advice for this next page of my story seriously, see Swedish Death Cleaning — the closets are getting close to empty/cleaned out as I set the stage for being more nimble and leaving less for others to deal with (sorry, maybe not my workspace yet!). I ‘love out loud’ to my children and friends at every opportunity. I sit and stare and listen to the birds for a living affirmation every morning. I have found my places of peace.

Between that dash is just part of my lifetime and frankly, just the beginning of it. I am sorry if I have not called or seen you or driven over for a dinner. Call me on it. I am busy filling that space, making it as worthy and valuable and interesting as possible. Why not?

Make a list. Check it twice. Say “yes” to whatever comes your way.

Call me for an espresso. Remind me to add protein. I am still here, between, despite.

*Super Moon before sunrise at Oregon’s Cannon Beach, October 2024, on a retreat with besties.*

Birthday, Faith, Vote

Word of the Day

My resident Carolina wren woke me this morning at 4:45 which I must say is an absolutely perfect start to another year ’round the sun. Big day, September 27. While she practiced her scales I inventoried, drinking tea and watching the sun pink up an incredible day:

I have outlived my genetic statistics by 15 years.

I have lived to see my children form deep, wonderful relationships with partners.

I have lived to anticipate a grandchild in the new year.

I am seven years cancer-free from diagnosis.

I have friends and family that I can ask anything, anywhere, anytime and they the same of me.

I have healed over and over and over and that, my friends, should be a mantra: we heal.

There is cake and chocolate for lunch.

I will survive the election season.

After my mother was diagnosed and died at fifty-one there is not one day — not one — that I don’t appreciate, rain or shine, good or bad, upright or down for the count. Coping can be as simple as taking a breath. While I am discouraged about my writing (nine months of essay rejections so far) the book — breathe — is gaining momentum. I have been blessed to be able to travel to the center of my creative hive many times — bigger breath — and I have planted a tree in my garden, made endless jams for the winter darkness and plan to begin this new year with more travel and a baby shower and best of all tonight we gather for a dinner with my family.

Trust me that I do not take this lightly, this living. Grateful to all of you who give me feedback and read my words and make me tea. I am filled with gratitude.

I struggled to find a word today when I thought of writing an update blog — something that said everything about everything. And then, honestly, this happened.

I have so much faith: in my body, my care team, my family, my friends, my barista, my hands, you. Because what is the alternative? Mine is not an angry world. Vote.

Friendship, Grief, Regret

Flyover

The geese have flown over the island house for five days now at precisely the same early morning hour, at precisely the same angle, as if the white cottage is a compass point on their journey south. It is only August I say, as their wings send quick dark shadows over the floor. It is too early I cry out the half-cracked window. Turn around I whisper as they disappear over the passage.

A friend died this weekend. Hard mourning has caught me sideways and spins me: I wince at the many vague promises made for coffee and wine together, those squandered opportunities to remind him how essential his thoughts, how astute his editing, how bottomless his kindness and applaud over my small successes. To congratulate him on his newest manuscript. He was always here, being amazing just a text away and then he was not and my heart has a hole.

I rage against this life lesson: who do I think I am, to assume I have endless time spooling ahead of me? Regret is a bitter ash in my mouth and I spit. How can I forget this taste time and time again?

And then it is the hour, early enough that drops of dew are still gathered on the green apples. I hear them first, then look up as they rush over me, so close to the roofline I think I can reach up and grab a tail feather and in that moment my grief changes to an energy that surges through my fingertips as I watch them fly, all my senses alive. Thank you my accomplished, kind friend, how lucky we were to have you. I will remember.

For Charles.

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