I have to confess, I forgot my word of the year for 2022.

For a long time, the practice of choosing a word of the year was a precious and closely held piece of magic, guiding me through darkness, through healing, through mothering a young child. Then I got…angry? Tired? Disillusioned? Whatever it was, I gave up. Lost interest. Found other guiding lights.

During the pandemic, I turned back toward choosing a word. But with all the disorientation, the obsession with the latest Covid stats and political nonsense, the months that felt like years, my word of the year tended to slip my mind mid-March.

As the conversations about choosing a new word picked up this past December, I wracked my brain, looking for some faint imprint left by the word I’d picked. Nothing. The fog of being riddled with mold, then surgery, then my first covid infection had obliterated all memory.

Just before the new year, I picked up my 2021-22 Year Compass (a sweet, free online download in a gazillion languages), and voila, there it was.

Delight.

A lovely word. A beacon I could have, maybe should have, held close. But I didn’t.

Or I thought I didn’t.

In late November, I happened to be going through pictures from the year as I put photo books together for our parents. Interspersed between Instagram story memes and photos of food, were pictures I had taken in moments of delight.

Some were big events – my fiftieth birthday weekend in Palm Desert, family trips, weddings, concerts, and outings to the theater. But many were quiet little moments, Mary Oliver moments, moments that add up to a life.

The heart rock on my lane that made me smile every time I passed by.

The cactus blooms I looked for as I walked my dog to the State Park.

Palm trees framed against the bluest sky.

The way my husband and daughter look at each other.

Ada’s carved pumpkin sinking into itself in the California autumn heat, looking more and more like a grumpy old man.

My feet in the water as I walked myself back to health after my surgery.

Turtle playing with his best friend, Moki.

Pretending to hold the moon while looking for shooting stars.

The pink California poppies that grew in the backyard.

Perfect latte art.

And of course, the daily delight of watching my daughter grow up.

Even though I’d forgotten my word, even though it was a year filled to the brim with intense health challenges, even though it often felt better summed up by words like “frustration”, or “damaged”, or “Are you kidding me?” the magic of the word of the year wormed its way into and through my world.

It was a year filled with delight.

It was a year that added up to a good, imperfect, hard, beautiful life.

Quick note: I’m not sure if these blog posts still go out to anyone’s inbox. If you’re seeing this and can’t remember who I am or no longer wish to receive these posts via email, PLEASE unsubscribe. Because inbox overwhelm is no fun.

Hi you,

It’s been a while.

4 years and 3 weeks to be exact.

We’ve had a global pandemic + unending political nastiness + the ups and downs of life and it’s been a lot. I hope you’re hanging in there. I hope there have been moments of beauty + grace + joy alongside the hard stuff.

I’m here because I realized this week that I’ve forgotten one of the biggest lessons Benjamin’s stillbirth taught me.

I need to write.

Even if I don’t know what to say. Even if what I have to say doesn’t feel important. Even if other folks are saying similar things.

I need. to. write.

Last year, I started writing fiction for the first time since high school. I signed up for daily writing prompts from Patti Digh and it was fun to set my creativity free for ten minutes a day until I started ignoring the texts and then feeling bad about myself for ignoring them. This year I entered a short story competition on a whim, and I was shocked to make it past the first round. Then I narrowly missed making it out of the second round (I got the first honorable mention, with some pretty great feedback from the judges). It’s been a blast. I want to get better at fiction and I miss my non-fiction writing.

I’m still not sure I have much to say but that’s just smallness talking.

Over the last few years, I’ve developed an Ancestor veneration practice, thanks to time spent learning from Fabeku and Alexis. Many cultures around the world have strong traditions to stay connected with and honor their ancestors, but it’s not something I grew up with. The practice has added a richness to my life and I am grateful to be strengthening my relationships with those who’ve come before.

I’m also at the start of a new life cycle. I turned 50 this year and I’m in my 1 year in the 9 Star Ki system of elemental astrology that I learned a decade ago, right at the beginning of my last 1 year. There have been plenty of “who am I and why am I on the planet?” thoughts circling my angsty, foggy, perimenopausal brain. I’ve been asking the Ancestors for their help figuring it out.

The other day I was sitting at the Ancestor altar, having breakfast with them and just sharing the space when I heard them say, Your words are your legacy.

Excuse me, what?

While I feel close to my Ancestors, I don’t typically hear them talking to me.

Show up at the page, they continued. Just keep showing up at the page.

Ummm. Okay. I had questions. But they simply repeated themselves with this firm, no-nonsense feeling of unconditional love.

So I figure if they care enough to tell me, very clearly, what I need to do, it would be smart of me to listen.

I won’t be showing up HERE every day. Not everything is fit for public consumption. But I’d like to be here more. I don’t know if anyone blogs these days, but I remember when we did, and we made friends through our blogs and our writing and our sharing of everyday experiences. Some of those people are still in my life and I treasure them. So who knows what magic could unfold now that I’m back.

I’m always open to more magic.

xo Alana

P.S. Speaking of words, I published a mindfulness journal at the end of last year. You can find it on Lulu, Amazon and online at Barnes & Noble. It’s a sweet, simple practice and I’ve received really lovely feedback from people who are working with it.

P.P.S. Other people’s words I’ve been enjoying lately:
* Sparks Like Stars by Nadia Hashimi. It’s a beautiful story, gorgeously told. Even though the story deals with trauma, it’s handled so beautifully that it never left me feeling traumatized.
* Know My Name by Chanel Miller. I’m listening to this memoir from “Emily Doe”, the woman who was sexually assaulted by Brock Turner on the Stanford campus. Though it’s a hard story, her writing is luminous.
* Abby Jimenez, the hilarious owner of Nadia Cakes bakery, is also a romance writer. I’ve found her books to be a delightful antidote to the heaviness of the world. She follows the tried & true romance formula but adds surprising depth and realness as her characters navigate issues like infertility, disability & grief. I recommend starting with this one. Oh – and be sure to read the pinned post on the Nadia Cakes Facebook page if you’re in need of a good laugh.