A Team Of Two

Friday, June 12, 2026

A month has passed since my mare, Rosie, died.

Rosie was Sunny’s big sister. They shared the same parents and also enjoyed a long partnership with me. Rosie was the boss mare, the decision-maker, the horse who always seemed to know where we were going and, quite clearly, had opinions about what we were doing. Sunny was content to follow Rosie’s lead. For years, that arrangement worked well for all of us.

Then suddenly, it didn’t.

After Rosie was gone, I found myself facing a practical question about horses as herd animals. Should I find another equine companion for Sunny? At my advanced age, is it sensible to take on another animal? Or, better yet, could I find ways to keep Sunny active, engaged, and interested in life as a solitary horse?

I chose the latter, at least for now.

Sunny is twenty-two years old. She is healthy and appears sound. She and I have established a routine. Each day, I lunge her at a trot, changing directions every ten minutes, for a total of about forty minutes. Afterwards, she receives her reward: time on grass or other small freedoms that she clearly enjoys. I’ve also been riding her, though only at a walk. Because I’m focused on maintaining my own balance, she carries me patiently and without complaint.

I’ve hoped we could start driving again. But Sunny hasn’t pulled a carriage in about four years. Before considering a return to driving, I asked my veterinarian to evaluate her. He watched her trot on a lead line and then observed her on the lunge. He also knew Sunny from years ago, which added value to his assessment. His conclusion was encouraging. He found her doing well and started her on Adequan, a medication intended to support joint health.

Something unexpected has happened during this month of working closely together.

Sunny is paying more attention to me.

Perhaps that’s because Rosie is no longer here to command her attention. For years, Sunny’s world revolved around the older mare. Now, she looks to me more often. She seems more responsive, more connected, and more interested in what we’re doing together.

Our next step will be returning to driving.

Before that can happen, Sunny will be shod. Then we’ll begin slowly in the dry lot. Fortunately, my lot is large enough that we can make repeated circuits amounting to several miles if we wish. There, we can regain our confidence without worrying about traffic or other distractions.

And confidence is something we both need.

The truth is that Sunny may remember driving better than I do. I’m finding that I remember the broad outlines, but some of the details have become hazy. Harnessing. Hitching. The order of straps and buckles. Those little habits once seemed automatic after years of repetition. Time has a way of quietly letting such things slip away.

The dry lot will allow me to relearn my side of the partnership while Sunny relearns hers.

Eventually, if all goes well, we’ll venture through some of my neighbor’s property and out onto the neighborhood roads. We’ll drive a familiar three-mile loop that we traveled many times in years past. It’s a relatively quiet route, though today’s drivers don’t always expect to encounter a horse and carriage on the road. We’ll proceed thoughtfully, and fortunately, we needn’t be in a rush.

Over the last month, I’ve come to realize that these efforts are about more than exercise. Certainly, driving will strengthen Sunny’s muscles. It will strengthen mine as well. Yet something deeper is taking place.

Over the past year, my donkey’s adoption by a neighbor and Rosie’s death have emptied spaces in my little herd, leaving Sunny alone. Horses are herd animals. The obvious solution was to fill that empty space immediately with another equine—or perhaps some other animal that could serve as a companion.

Instead, Sunny and I are discovering what life looks like as a team of two.

At twenty-two, Sunny doesn’t need a demanding career. Neither do I. What we both need is purpose, routine, and the satisfaction that comes from doing things together.

So we’re beginning again, one careful step at a time. What’s most reassuring is knowing that neither of us is starting from scratch. From somewhere beneath the years, Sunny remembers her job. And with a little practice, I’ll remember mine better, too.

–– Diana

What Fits Now

Saturday, June 07, 2026

My large three-horse trailer has long been perfectly sized for my needs. That’s because my horses, Rosie and Sunny, and our donkey, Pimmy, often traveled together. For many years, I’d ride one horse and pony the other, while Pimmy, who adored her horses, followed along untethered. We were a small trio heading down trails and country roads. I don’t remember thinking those perfect days could end.

But they did—as all seasons eventually do. Things for me have changed, and quickly.

Rosie crossed the Rainbow Bridge this spring. Pimmy, now elderly herself and needing daily medication, has gone to live with a younger neighbor. A donkey can live to be forty years old, and her new person can promise care for as long as Pimmy may need it. Sunny remains here with me. She’s a sweet 22-year-old, small and technically a pony. As a side note, Sunny is also Rosie’s full sister.

During our many years “of three,” I had little reason to use my other trailer, a smaller two-horse Logan. Why switch trailers? Why train the horses to a smaller trailer when the larger one comfortably carried the entire crew? So I let the Logan sit and time slipped away. Its weatherstripping gradually loosened. Tires aged. Dust accumulated.

This week, with only one horse remaining, I started seeing the big three-horse trailer differently. Now, it’s much larger than Sunny needs. I decided it was time to inspect the Logan and assess what’ll be required to put it back into service.

At first, refurbishing the Logan seemed simply a practical matter—replacing seals, checking tires, and making a few minor repairs. But as I stood and looked at my old trailer, something within me began to shift, and it occurred that maybe I was seeing something more.

I felt more aware of changes affecting my small property, and that seemed to influence how I saw. My smaller trailer stopped representing less. Instead, it began representing what fits now.

I almost physically felt changes in my daily life. For the first time in twenty years, I had only one large animal to care for. That meant more time for me to slow down, more opportunities to tackle small waiting tasks, and more room for quiet moments with a book.

All new realities require appropriate attention and time. Sunny has needs—deserves adventures. We’ll always need a horse trailer, but now the smaller Logan is right for carrying Sunny. Besides trail rides and visiting friends, if she ever needs veterinary care, the Logan has a loading ramp, making it easier to transport her. I now see that old trailer as having many useful years left.

I also understood that the Logan trailer isn’t the only thing around here calling for refurbishing. Sure, Logan needs weatherstripping, tires, and an overall inspection. But I’m here, too, and, oops—I need something similar—another version of refurbishing. I must keep in my sight an ongoing need to adjust my perspective on the world. Right now, it’s about my changing world—containing one equine instead of three.

My broadening awareness feels quietly reassuring—reminding me that life does continue. And that we’re capable of adapting and finding ways forward—although our daily lives may be reshaping in ways we’re not ready for.

— Diana

The Way Back To The Jeep

Rachelle’s past much-loved pal, her Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever (named Bon Jovie).

Saturday, June 06, 2026

My dogs and I love a nearby BLM area for many reasons. For one thing, it has a long irrigation canal with rushing water, lined with colorful wild water lilies. We were there recently to meet up with our longtime friend, Rachelle, who brought Ryder, her beautiful Aussie. He and my Chase are vigorous play buddies.

Rachelle and I hadn’t walked with our dogs for many months. We’ve been busy, so we had lots of catching up to do. And we did, while walking along the path beside the busy canal as our dogs played, chasing one another into and out of the water.

Rachelle is a lovely companion—bright, well-informed, and creative. Years ago, during one of our walks, she encouraged me to explore podcasts. I did, and found myself enjoying the timely perspectives of favorite writers and newscasters. Recently, I graduated from podcasts by subscribing to YouTube Premium, which is now my go-to source for news and commentary. Rachelle said she, too, pays close attention to that platform.

We were in sync, walking, talking, and sharing thoughts about our strengths, weaknesses, and changing physical and mental energies.

I am aging and thus paying more attention to matters of aging, with mixed delights and worries. So, walking and talking with Rachelle is special because she’s open, honest, and insightful. While she’s younger than me, Rachelle understands many of my concerns about what may lie ahead in the unstoppable process of aging.

She told me that she had recently been deeply involved in one of the most sensitive issues associated with aging. Her mother, Fay, who was more than 100 years old, recently passed away—by Fay’s own choice and with medical assistance. Rachelle said the actual event was a peaceful ending. (Note: Rachelle has given me permission to write about her mother.)

Fay’s early history dates back to the 1920s, and I asked about it. Rachelle said that her mom had found her way into college, earning two degrees, a Bachelor’s and a Master’s, during years when women typically did not do so. After finishing college, Fay began teaching in the New York public school system. She continued there until retiring at age 59.

From a genetic standpoint, Fay’s genes were remarkable. Rachelle probably has inherited some of those advantages. Perhaps I have them, too, as my own mother lived to around 100. We were never entirely sure of Mom’s age because she was born into an immigrant family in America and had no recorded birth date. She estimated her birth year, but whether she was accurate or not, she was certainly long-lived.

Rachelle explained that Fay actively participated in choosing her method of death. That decision was made several years earlier, while Fay was more cognizant of the realities of aging. Rachelle and her brothers supported Fay’s choice. Rachelle filled a prescription and stored it for use when the time eventually came.

Next year, Rachelle’s brothers, who live in other cities, will join her to spread Fay’s ashes.

Meanwhile, our dogs were having a wonderful time, but an underlying worry nagged us. I had brought along Osix, my 15-year-old Border Collie mix. Physically, Osix remains active and strong, but she has lost 80 to 90 percent of her hearing and has developed cataracts, which have impaired her vision. These days, I take Osix only to trails she knows well, thinking that if she gets confused about where she is, she will still remember where my vehicle is parked.

Just in case, I had brought the dogs in my old, familiar Jeep, and at the BLM, after releasing them to run, I left the cargo door open. Somewhere along our walk, upon realizing that Osix had disappeared, Rachelle and I were concerned. But we remained cautiously confident that Osix could find her way back to the vehicle.

Upon finally returning to the parking area, we saw Osix waiting patiently in the Jeep’s cargo area. Yet, I sensed a bittersweet note in the moment; for that may have been my old dog’s last opportunity to roam freely in such wide-open spaces. Although I hadn’t spoken much about this, a worry in the back of my mind was what I’d do if it were necessary to search for a lost Osix in that vast BLM landscape. It was a tremendous relief that she remembered her way back to the Jeep.

Rachelle and I are planning another dog-walking outing in a couple of weeks. With more pleasure, good conversation, and mutual appreciation ahead for ourselves and our dogs.

— Diana

Under Her Wings

Saturday, May 30, 2026

Domestic chickens are arguably the underdogs of the pet world. Tiny chicks need coddling until they’re fully feathered and able to keep themselves warm. After that, they’re turned loose in an enclosure—or allowed to free-range. The point of keeping chickens, of course, is getting eggs. There’s little as pleasing as farm-fresh eggs—standing up in a skillet, smiling, and, by most accounts, tasting better.

I could babble on about fresh eggs, but my real purpose here is to talk chickens—or rather, one chicken. Specifically, a single hen.

A Welsummer was her breed, and “Welsummer” became the name I casually gave the little chick who joined my first flock back in 2010. I purchased her, along with two bantam chicks, when they were about two days old. They had been placed in a “sick tank” at the feed store and needed special care. I paid 50 cents apiece for them.

I remember wondering, “What’s a Welsummer?” I later learned it is a Dutch breed of mixed ancestry, developed in farmyards during the early twentieth century.

At home, I found an unused terrarium, added bedding, rigged an overhead heat lamp, and settled the tiny chicks inside. As small as Welsummer was, the bantams were even smaller. What I witnessed was lovely. Each bantam hopped over to Welsummer and tucked itself beneath one of her wings. There she stood—patient, accepting, and hardly bigger than the chicks she sheltered.

I was looking at a chicken, and yet, was mightily impressed. I never forgot such kindness. That trio’s behavior continued until the babies grew stronger and more confident. Eventually, all three joined the larger flock.

Fast forward about ten years. By then, every member of my original flock was gone except Welsummer, who still wandered the enclosure. I brought home a new batch of chicks, raised them until they were feathered, and then turned them loose with the old hen. That was before I understood the importance of properly introducing unfamiliar chickens.

The youngsters and Welsummer were not going to get along.

Welsummer had outlived a great many chickens, and I wanted her safe. So I moved her into a special pen with a heat lamp inside my attached garage. There she would remain protected for as long as she lived.

That was nearly six years ago.

Sadly, yesterday, Welsummer—once the kindest little chick I had ever known, and later my beloved special pet—crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

She was turning sixteen years old. A remarkably long life for a chicken.

— Diana

What Friends Are

Friday, May 29, 2026

I had another birthday this week. I’d prefer to forget that this is my 86th year, but so it is. Longtime friends reminded me all week with cards and phone calls. On the actual day, Eva and I met for lunch and discussed activities and issues in our lives.

And then, there were Susie and Dale. Just when I’m not caring much about celebrating another year, Susie steps in.

She’s big on relationships, big on caring, and big on birthdays. So is Dale, who stays busy managing his business — his brainchild and creation — HeliLadder. Which, by the way, now occupies a building of its own in this city’s key industrial district. (More about HeliLadder later, in an upcoming blog, as I’ll soon visit to see its new digs for myself.) But, for now, I digress.

Yesterday evening, on a very rainy day, Dale and Susie hosted a birthday dinner for me. We went to the Pine Tavern, this city’s oldest restaurant — a delightful place — where Dale had ribs while Susie and I dove into gigantic hamburgers, a rare treat for this “casual vegan.” Afterward, we took our desserts back to Dale and Susie’s, where we lingered and talked late into the evening.

I’ve reached a time in life when relationships matter more and more. I’ve never been especially skilled at handling meaningful relationships, for complex reasons, though I’ve forgiven myself for that. I filled many years of my life with beloved pets and, later, horses, which always kept me busy and physically strong. While I’m generally content with the life I’ve chosen, it feels like a mitzvah to have met Susie and Dale — people with whom, over time, I’ve become comfortable and can freely “be me.”

So Susie made certain they shared my birthday. And, in a rare experience for me, they asked for details about my background and listened — without judgment — to my complicated story.

Their kindness has helped me better understand what it means to be a friend. Friends “are there,” unafraid of getting involved, supportive of others’ choices, yet willing to push back, ask questions, and perhaps influence a decision-making process. But whatever decision ultimately prevails, they remain — listening, encouraging, and supporting.

For someone who has always been careful about relationships, they are among “the best” for where I am in life now. They help keep me anchored to occasions, events, and sometimes delights. Speaking of which, Susie and I plan to head east next Sunday night “to chase” the rising Blue Moon.

Punctuating a mature Ponderosa inside Pine Tavern’s Main Dining Room

The best part of my special day was simply this: people who genuinely care “were/are there,” even while busy with lives of their own.

— Diana

Bend’s New Library – Revisited

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

I was excited on my first visit to this brand-new building not long ago, but I became disappointed when I found it wasn’t the kind of “real library” I was accustomed to. A day or two later, I reflected on how the structure is actually meant to be used. Certainly, it will be a popular meeting place — and already is — with its huge, nearly always full parking lot. Still, it wasn’t like the libraries I understood and had known. I left the building with a sense of loss.

Now I see things differently. At first, I was deeply wrapped up in myself and wanting what I expected. Later, my outlook began to recover as I reflected on the larger picture — the social changes that influenced the library’s design and purpose.

I was flummoxed to discover that the building primarily serves as a community gathering space. Although books on display hint at a traditional library, with well-arranged shelves holding the newest and cleanest volumes, they don’t fully counter the sense that the building functions mainly as a hub. Cardholders can go online, search for and reserve desired items, then simply pick them up. A dedicated drive-through even facilitates quick pickup and return of library materials.

Yes, social media and AI have changed our relationship with libraries. Online access makes things easier and reduces the physical need to wander through stacks or seek assistance from librarians. Libraries are adapting by becoming less centered on book browsing and more focused on serving as multi-purpose community spaces.

That realization had me reflecting on my part-time job as a department store cashier. During breaks, coworkers rarely talk with one another. Instead, we stare at our phones — and, personally, I usually prefer not to be interrupted by someone wanting to chat. Not only at work, but also out on city streets, people are absorbed in their phones.

Yet while I check out customers, many seem delighted to share parts of their lives with me — stories about their backgrounds, travels, pets, and adventures. Some even say they’ve appreciated our brief exchanges, and occasionally someone jots down a phone number and suggests I get in touch.

Those brief getting-to-know-you moments are enjoyable, but somehow they feel sufficient in themselves. I don’t follow up. Still, I sometimes think I might enjoy knowing some of those people better, as many clearly have unique backgrounds, interests, and accomplishments. And if we happened to meet in a non-work social setting — perhaps in that new library building — getting to know one another more deeply might seem more natural and appropriate.

On this second visit, I’m not searching for books. I’m simply enjoying time in an enabling space while drafting this blog. No pressure, no disappointment. I’m sitting beside a large window, feeling creative — and communicative — while occasionally accessing social media myself. Nearby, other visitors are taking similar advantage of the space, working on studies or staring into laptops and cell phones.

This library — designed for meetings and work as much as for books — serves as an alternative to the popular coffeehouse. One can leave home with a laptop and come here to sit, think, and spend time among others in a non-demanding social environment. And there’s even a handy coffee bar.

I’m giving this new library building a great deal of slack. A modern community needs people-friendly spaces — and certainly more spaces like this one.

— Diana

Beautiful Rosie

Monday, May 15, 2025

This year, Rosie turned 30. Yesterday, she crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

She was a Foundation Morgan, which meant her pedigree traced back to the original Morgan horse, “Justin Morgan.” Her paternal grandfather was a famous Morgan named Promise, whom she physically resembled. Rosie came to live with me in her late prime—around 15 years old. She had been trained as a carriage horse, and I hoped to learn that sport.

Rosie went to a capable trainer to be physically reconditioned and refreshed for driving. Meanwhile, I took driving lessons. Soon, I learned to drive my flashy mare, and we became a fine team. Lovely Rosie was also built beautifully for riding, and together we traveled many trails through nearby mountains and forests.

She was a true boss mare—the Queen of the Paddock—over Sunny, her accommodating stablemate and younger full sister. Rosie was special, with her own peculiarities. Her distinctive personality and style taught me how to partner well with a sensitive horse.

Last night, Sunny and I deeply missed Rosie’s usual strong presence. We will miss her again today—and for many days to come.

RIP, our Beautiful Rosie.

–– Diana

Bend’s New Library

Saturday, May 16, 2026

Yesterday, I sat in a “creative cubbyhole” beside a large window with my laptop in our new main library. It opened earlier this week, and inside it is beautiful—spacious, light-filled, modern, and carefully designed. Yet, surprisingly, as I looked around, I found myself missing this city’s old, now-closed main library. That crowded old place felt less curated and more discoverable.

Almost as soon as I entered the building, I began comparing what I saw to the old library’s stacks, which had always seemed endless. I recalled the faint dust-and-paper smell of well-used books and remembered running my index finger along crowded spines—often stumbling upon a surprise: a long-forgotten title, a long-unread author, or an unusual and compelling subject.

Central Oregon is full of readers. We’ve all been curious about this ambitious building, watching it rise and eagerly awaiting its opening. All week, visitors have filled the library, circulating among its attractively displayed shelves. But to me, the shelves feel too tidy, almost merchandised. Shiny book covers face outward in displays that seem heavily edited—perhaps too intentionally curated. Titles are visible, but authors’ names are partly obscured by catalog stickers.

Those displays push the curating system itself into the foreground, suggesting that organization matters more than browsing. I was surrounded by clear, clean order that somehow didn’t feel intimate. I assumed any book I wanted would be available and easily accessible, yet something essential felt absent.

While sitting there yesterday near the large window, I noticed the blinds lowering automatically in response to the changing light outside. I would call the library beautiful in the way airports and modern museums are beautiful: open, bright, efficient, and almost impossible to criticize directly.

The building even includes a first-floor coffee bar. One can order a designer coffee, settle beside a window to work or study, or simply linger over a latte. The interior design encourages community and socialization—a kind of environment I usually enjoy—but it is not quite my idea of a real library.

I found myself reflecting on the libraries of my childhood, my young adulthood, and my more recent past, remembering their narrow aisles and accidental discoveries. What returned most strongly was the feeling of books aging together in those old spaces. There, books were encountered almost physically: by touch, by proximity, by scent. In this modern setting, the books feel staged. There is more emphasis on display than discovery.

Old libraries invited wandering, browsing, and sampling. This new facility is designed for ease of navigation. Perhaps this very modern library optimizes access to materials. But a better building does not necessarily feel like a better library.

Essentially, it functions as a hub. Someone seeking a book, movie, or other item from the library’s non-visible holdings goes online, searches the catalog, and reserves the desired materials. The items are then picked up and returned at the building.

And yet, it is undeniably seductive. Imagine a Starbucks on steroids. Someone—maybe me—can walk in with a laptop, order a latte with an extra shot of espresso, settle beside a large window, think, create, and perhaps even meet new friends.

— Diana

Diversity or “The Places We Carry”

Thursday, April 02, 2026

This morning arrives as my mornings mostly do—quietly, though never silently. A thin light works its way over the junipers, and my animals begin their routines. Horses waiting, dogs shifting, birds announcing themselves from places just beyond my windows.

Nothing unusual. Nothing unsettled. And yet, as usual, I find myself thinking about life in a nation that feels unsettled.

I keep asking, as many of us do, why Americans choose the leaders they vote for—especially when those choices seem, from other points of view, difficult to understand.

It’s tempting to explain those choices in terms of temperament or values, or to assume that something has gone wrong in people. But I doubt that’s quite it. I’m considering something quieter, but more persistent—something tied to the places we carry.

I was first shaped in a small town in Oklahoma, where my young life had visible edges. People knew one another. Expectations were understood without being spoken. There was a rhythm to things—one that didn’t demand questioning. Things simply were.

Years later, I lived and worked in Los Angeles, a world that moved very differently. It was expansive, layered, and constantly in motion. You could become someone new there. You could step away from what had once defined you. The geography itself—ocean, mountains, forests—seemed to encourage that sense of possibility. The pace alone invited change.

Now, I live on a small acreage in Central Oregon. Mornings like today feel grounded again—with animals, weather, and light. There is a steadiness here that encourages attention over haste.

Still, I remain aware of the larger world. Current global conflicts have led me to study geography more closely, and I’m beginning to see the quiet power it holds over nations and leaders. Lately, I’ve started to wonder if that same influence applies to us as individuals.

Using myself as an example, I can see that who I am has been shaped by three very different places. Each has left its imprint.

Those changes didn’t come quickly. For a long time, I felt closely tied to my early attitudes—relying on them as fixed, reliable, even permanent. But living in different environments has a way of loosening certainty. Experience stretches perspective. Time and place invite reconsideration of what once felt settled.

Change, welcome or not, keeps arriving. The question isn’t whether change happens—it’s whether we can live with it. Whether we can move with it. Whether we can leave certain attitudes behind when they no longer fit the world we’re living in.

Not everyone experiences that in the same way. Some people live in environments where change is constant—where difference is expected, where adaptation is part of daily life. In those places, adjusting feels natural, even necessary. Others live where continuity matters more—where stability is not just comforting, but essential. In those places, too much change can feel like something important is slipping away.

Neither response is unreasonable. But they do lead to very different instincts—and often, to political divides.

I find myself returning to this idea: not that people are so different in character, but that they are standing in different places—shaped by different surroundings, carrying different versions of what “normal” looks like.

Geography doesn’t just shape nations. It shapes us—what we expect from life, what we notice, what we overlook. It shapes what feels secure, and what feels at risk. And perhaps most of all, it shapes what we believe ought to stay the same.

I can still feel traces of Oklahoma in me. I still recognize the pull of Los Angeles—its openness, its movement. And here in Oregon, I feel something else entirely: a steadiness that allows me to consider both.

These reflections don’t resolve the differences. But they do give me a wider place to stand.

And from there, the question shifts—from Why would someone choose this? To what feels like a better question: What has shaped the place from which they are choosing?

The ground beneath us may differ—but we are all standing somewhere.

— Diana

The Earth Talks Back

Sunday, March 08, 2025

Yesterday, the morning behaved itself. The sun arrived on clock-cue, light crept over the junipers, and the birds carried on as usual. My routine was a simple, four-part harmony: coffee, listening, looking, and assessing the weather.

But today, the “human committee” has intervened. It’s Daylight Saving Time again.

My clocks—the ones I forgot to change—insist nothing has happened. But it’s still dark, and I know better. I suspect the horses do, too. Creatures of the natural world are famously unimpressed by national policy.

When I step outside at the hour my watch will be claiming this day begins, the sky will argue. This country air will whisper, “You’re too early.”

The result? My house is divided.

The Clocks: Claim I’m on time.

The Dogs: Complain that their breakfast is an hour “late.”

Max the Cat: Ignores this adjustment entirely, views the whole thing as unnecessary human drama.

The Birds: Are still hit-snoozing in the trees.

We play this peculiar ritual twice a year, pretending politely that time itself has shifted. But out in the country here, the real clock is the faint glow behind the Cascades. And it’s the stirrings of animals without alarms. Because the rhythm of the land is stubborn—and frankly, far more sensible than attempts to “move the sun.”

I’m forced to compromise. I’ll pretend as much as possible to follow the government’s clock. But I’ll keep my internal gears set to the horizon, embracing these truths: coffee first, listening second, looking third.

I’ll let the bureaucrats move the numbers. And meanwhile, I’ll keep listening for the wild birds to reveal the true beginnings of our days.

— Diana