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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Solace

Solace

OOOOF.

I liken us to standing in a wind tunnel, our features blown back into flattened grimaces, hair streaming and for some of us, falling out. How to find solace while whatever we are standing in/on swirls around us politically and emotionally, far and wide?

I have experienced what I don’t wish on anyone, a time of lying awake — between surgeries, diagnosis, outcomes — and wondering what time is left. But importantly, how, if I was given it back, would I live my life. In the darkness I knew for certainty a few fundamentals:

I cannot change what is happening.

But I will remember this dark, deeply disturbing place and how I got myself out of it.

I made some decision, followed some roads, continue on the journey still staying healthy enough and always, always breathing.

But I feel this darkness again.

Sleepless this week I got up and read, coming across this passage from The Comfort of Crows, written by Margaret Renkl:

”The world is burning, and there is no time to put down the water buckets. For just an hour, put down the water buckets anyway. Take your cure from the bluebirds, who have no faith in the future but who build the future nevertheless, leaf by leaf, and straw by straw, shaping them into the roundness of the world.”

I am not a political or opinion blog, just a navigation tool, if it speaks to you. In the midst of it all, the shouting pundits, the heart breaking news, the inconceivable debates between friends and foes, how will you turn it off and make your future in the world — ensure your deep breaths?

Are you screaming, throwing things, building something, hugging, learning, speaking, sharing? All of this is ok. All of this builds your nest and will weather this world.

Please, tell me.

Eagle rising off Restoration Point, Bainbridge Island.

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Magnolia Tree, Mother Earth, Spring

Witness.

The magnolia tree across the street is in full bloom. Over thirty years ago this tree was so small new owners thought she was a bush. This spring she stands taller than the neighboring rooftops. For some reason — temperature? sun? soil? — her scent is epic this bloom cycle. The sweet air wafts through our backyards, almost sugary. Pedestrians walking by stop still to look for the source. I just have to open a window to be overwhelmed.

While spring proceeds to throw down beauty the news of the world gets more ugly. Countries are tearing themselves to shreds. I have friends going through hard stuff; beloveds lost, physical challenges, life decisions. How to be effective, helpful, supportive? Texting seems impersonal. Phone calls are exhausting. Letter writing is a rusty skill. Darkness is falling on so many people. If I could bottle the perfume of this magnolia I would not hesitate to mail it to you, coddled in tissue. Much better than deciphering my handwriting in a letter.

I have been thinking about faith today: faith in the trees waking up come April; faith that my riotous hyacinth will emerge all the wrong colors but still so right; faith that a day of sunlight can keep the worst at bay. Last summer we held our breath when the house across the street sold, the time of year when the magnolia is just a big leafy tree, a little too big for her corner of the property. In fairness to the newest owners, the magnolia shadows their yard and brushes against the house behind her. When the tree surgeons arrived a few weeks later and the machinery started there was every possibility that I might have leapt the hedge, put my arms around her trunk and held my body between her and the workmen. I watched through the shade (that kind of neighbor!) and held my breath, shoes on standby. Thankfully she just received a good prune, a limb taken here and there, some cables attached to hold the biggest branches stable. Their reward for having faith in her was the glorious bloom I am gazing at from my desk this morning.

We should name her, this magnificent sentry, this quiet force of mother nature that swings moods and intoxicates evenings. She stands so tall and reminds me that witnessing the earth’s journey is a privilege. And I am responsible whether a human, friend or stranger to take care of what has been and will be placed before me — the good, bad, well, unwell, new or old. Join me.

I send you my far-reaching love and support and appreciation. And her.

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Barefoot, Breathe

Barefoot.

For my last week here at Wren Cottage I am letting the senses play. Winter’s grande finale in the Pacific Northwest has been to deliver us a stunning, early springtime. Birdsong is histrionic, the daffodil, narcissus, cherry and plum blossoms have exploded. Laundry hung on the line dries in two hours. I dusted off a straw hat today; everything about me and around me is breathing, from my fingers to my toes. There are flip-flops in play.

I recently submitted to ten publications, a tough piece, a braided essay of the two illnesses that make me who I am today; my mother’s and my own. This is the story, in short form, that I have been trying to write for a long time. Not a grief story (so many to read and listen to right now) but a story about actively dying, facing death and coping despite. The work energizes me when it reads right. It deflates me when it reads wrong. But ah, the view out the open window.

I break in the kitchen to bake Irish Soda Bread (I have not a lick of Irish in me, just love it) and a Guiness Chocolate Cake. Frittata tonight. Barefoot if possible from morning to night. Kicking off my boots and shoes in the last three days has been as good as a skinny dip in a clear mountain lake — cold, shocking, sensory.

On my morning walk today I came upon fountain mice borrowing tiny blue sparkle shoes probably misplaced by a small leprechaun after the St. Patrick’s Day activities. I smiled all the way home.

Can you kick off your shoes today, wherever you are, feel the earth under your scrunched toes, let a little air on your skin? It’s the little things that will get us through.

The Marketplace at Pleasant Beach, Bainbridge Island WA

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Gather time, Obituary, Tiny Stories

Tiny Stories

On Sunday I woke to a pink sky. An eagle hung off the flowering cherry outside the window calling to something somewhere, competing with a tiny songbird who was celebrating the blossoms. Incongruous. Thrilling. Auspicious.

The day poured rain but there was slow-roast cabbage and herb-stuffed chicken in the oven for the Oscar marathon later. I ironed clothes and cleaned closets, the washing machine thumping. There were a scattering of touch-in phone calls, texts and emails. I put on my pajamas at 5pm. That, friends, is OK.

A day that might seem mundane was actually satisfying, filled with tiny stories that I could turn over late at night when the stars swam in the sky: stories of keeping order. Soap. Music. A basket of mending. A story of not working. A chance to let my mind wander. What do I want to accomplish this week? Maybe just that day. Maybe the rest of it will fall into place better because I took a day of reset. Maybe I will just be better prepared for the swoosh of to-do’s and must-do’s and have-to’s. Do you ever take that time to let the day gather in your hands?

I think of all those jokes about what is going to be written on our gravestones, obituaries we might write for ourselves. Mine will read,

”She loved butter and puppies and spring but nothing more than watching her children grow wings and become beautiful.” Maybe I will add the smell of lilac and laundry soap. Perhaps a line about breathing being the most essential involuntary precious gift.

What are your tiny stories?

They will be different day to day. That is the beauty of it all. Pay attention.

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Faith, February 29, leap, Still Life

Leap!

Today we leap! February 29, 2024. True confessions, I was more of a slug today, wrapped in a blanket reading and listening to the wind throw down arctic temperatures. Urge to cocoon, not cavort. I could not turn on the news. Trying to figure out just where the heck 2024 is going. Overwhelmed by a need to have GOALS and PURPOSE and PRODUCTION and CLARITY immediately. Which is of course the curse of all of the above.

I am reading a book, Still Life by Sarah Winman, a novel with engaging characters including a parrot that roam between England and Florence, loving and losing and loving again, eating fresh pasta and drinking shots in a pub. Humor and wit and sadness and art. Adore every page. Have cried twice in the last chapter. Feel propelled to book a ticket on the railway.

February is traditionally rudderless — beware the urge to give yourself bangs. Yes, the sun is setting later but it still gets gloomy at 4pm. I am tired of comfort food. I am in need of a pedicure. I want to wear a swishy skirt and feel sun on my shins. No leaping here.

Perhaps the word I am looking for is traction; my toes firmly digging into this day. Appreciating what I have done instead what I am not doing: that I have a clean essay to send to twenty submission calls. That I have had an amazing time with my family this week. That the daffodils and cherry blossoms are blooming, though a bit soggy, when I return to Seattle next week for book readings, workshops and hikes.

Is this going to be a ‘leap of faith’ year? Not about bangs. Really. For me, I need to trust myself. That may be on the couch. That may be jumping into the unknown. Faith in self.

Pat yourself on the back. Today you have done an amazing job of being here, there, or wherever the day landed you.

This guy, just mere ounces of feathery bone, braved the arctic wind for a few crunchy seeds and posed for his cameo shot. It’s all in the toes, do you agree?

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Chocolate, February 14, gratitude, Heart, Pink, Valentine

Everything Counts.

I love all things valentine. The chance before, during and after February 14 to beam out love. Is it necessarily a bad thing to proclaim a sentimental day in the middle of the bleak midwinter? Construction paper and a pair of scissors, a scrap of fabric and some embroidery thread, a batch of chocolate brownies, a group of gals for dinner, a phone call? I have seized the day to celebrate you, friends and family, ever since I could write my name. Today, pink hearts, boxes of chocolate, cards, even ecards fly through the air to remind people they mean something for many reasons. A one-hit chance to show a little more love.

This 2-2-24 I join you in feeling broken hearted from war, loss, illness and displacement; from our politics that wear me down and darken the days. The news is violent. The climate is suffering. I take today to reset my thanks, take a long walk and see the early daffodils near Wren Cottage, send some pink to friends and family who have made the last year better despite it all. I have spent the last week spelling out heart-shaped gratitude to my family, to those who have held my hand when things are difficult and to those acquaintances that have done more than they know. Especially to those of you who have become like family: everything counts, just being there. Everything you do.

Love you all.

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