Now, Can’t Unsee

Sunday, February 08, 2026

My last post explained my decision to begin relearning Earth’s geography. Many of you got it and sent thoughtful feedback. I’m continuing now, because I’ve become convinced that once you begin seeing geography, it’s impossible to unsee.

A strong argument for revisiting geography—and for why it feels newly relevant—is that we’ve been trained to read politics primarily as performances: speeches, alliances, ideologies, moral declarations. Geography is quieter. It doesn’t argue. It simply sits there—unchanging—shaping critical spaces that national leaders fear, covet, and seek to control.

Today’s major conflicts become more legible once we’ve looked at maps.

Russia and Urkraine: Flat Lands—A “Needed Door”

Russia’s war against Ukraine is often explained through nationalism, nostalgia, or authoritarian ambition. Those factors matter—but geography offers a deeper, more durable explanation.

Historically, Russia’s western border has been dangerously exposed. Unlike nations protected by oceans or mountains, Russia faces a vast, flat European plain. Over centuries, invasions have rolled across it—like Napoleon’s France and Nazi Germany’s. These experiences revive Russia’s eternal strategic obsession with buffer zones. It has survived brutal invasions, but not because of diplomacy. Its survival has been caused by distance and weather factors.

Ukraine sits squarely in Russia’s vulnerable corridor.

Geographically, Ukraine offers Russia both exposure and opportunity. Its open terrain provides little natural defense, but control of Ukrainian land would extend Russia’s defensive depth westward—something Russian leaders have long considered essential. Added to this are Ukraine’s Black Sea ports, critical for trade, naval access, and energy routes.

Geography sharpens the picture. It helps explain why Vladimir Putin will not accept Ukraine as a sovereign nation free to choose its alliances. To him, a Western-aligned Ukraine represents an unlocked door—one that history warns must be closed.

Geography doesn’t excuse this brutal, seemingly endless war. But it helps explain why Russia’s leadership experiences winning it as urgent, even inevitable.

Israel—A Nation Without “Area Depth”

Israel faces different—and equally relentless—geographic pressures.

It is a very small country, narrow, and at some points only miles wide. Israel lacks strategic depth: little space to retreat, regroup, or absorb sustained attacks. Population centers, military bases, and infrastructure sit uncomfortably close to hostile borders.

The surrounding high terrain—such as the Golan Heights—provides long sightlines and early-warning advantages. Borders here are not abstract lines; they’re launching points, chokeholds, and buffers.

This geography shapes Israeli military behavior. Actions often framed as ideological or retaliatory also reflect spatial urgency. Israel calculates threats in minutes, not in miles. Deterrence isn’t merely political—it’s firmly geographic.

Israel’s military doctrine emphasizes speed, preemption, and overwhelming responsiveness. In Israel’s compressed landscape, waiting can feel like inviting catastrophe.

Explanations aren’t endorsements. Geographical assistance helps in comprehending why restraint, however morally desirable, is also geographically difficult.

Inevitabilities—Always Unsettling

History shows that strong, aggressive leaders often equate geography with destiny. Mountains, plains, ports, and borders become stories of vulnerability and control. Over time, these geographic narratives harden into strategic myths—and can be used to justify violence.

We, as observers, debate beliefs, identities, and movements. Leaders, after long arguments with maps, may decide to order wars.

Geography doesn’t make war acceptable—but it does make it intelligible. We hope for intelligence that allows nations to anticipate conflict before it explodes, rather than react afterward in disbelief.

“Old geography” still teaches us—not how the world ought to be, but how it still behaves.

Dear friends: more on this topic will appear here soon.

[For readers who prefer receiving these morning pieces by email, I’m also publishing them on Substack.]

— Diana

What The Ground Explains

Saturday, February 07, 2026

I watch politics closely—elections, speeches, conflicts, public arguments. What nations and business leaders say, how they perform, what promises they make, and whether their promises suggest moralities. I hope for straightforward explanations, yet usually feel unsatisfied.

Lately, I’m adjusting how I watch, trying to make new headway. This shift began with something unexpectedly familiar from my grade-school years. I recently read several articles by a respected geography professor, reminding us that geography is a critical factor in nearly everything happening politically. That reminder started filling gaps, making sense of confusion, and changing how I interpret political reporting.

For years, I’ve focused on political performances—rhetoric, personalities, alliances. Now, I’m including geographic realities, and many maneuvers that once felt irrational have started making sense.

I hadn’t thought about geography since elementary school. Those old fifth- and sixth-grade maps had faded long ago. But now, re-educating myself, I’m discovering much that I once memorized without enough understanding, that geography is essential to understanding nearly everything in our near and larger worlds.

Contemporary political reporting rarely gives geography enough due. Yet, geography is all about hard-nosed realities—the earth’s shapes and limits. Mountains block. Rivers guide. Ports matter. Climate dictates what will grow, where people will settle, and how societies endure stress. These shapes and conditions are like energies—moving along known routes that are difficult—often impossible—to reroute. Many borders established long before modern politics simply are, and those substantially influence national choices and behaviors.

Geographic awareness clarifies much of what’s confusing about world politics. Map shapes underlie recurring patterns of wanting, choosing, and leading. Terrain, resources, and location create real constraints, making some desired changes unattainable, no matter how compelling the argument.

Politicians argue intentions. But there’s ground beneath those arguments that dictates—and limits—ambitions. Modern pressures intensifying physical constraints are growing populations, greater social awareness, and tighter margins. Political values and alliances ultimately hinge on coastlines, chokepoints, arable land, and distance.

Geography can seem humbling, perhaps overwhelmed by modern social needs. But contemporary demands still operate within physical boundaries established by ancient populations.

I’m relearning what I once memorized while too uninformed to understand enough. My refreshed geographic awareness doesn’t shout—it simply persists. And shaped by forces that ensure, it’s helping politics feel less like exhausting theater.

For readers who prefer receiving these morning pieces by email, I’m also publishing them on Substack.

— Diana

Beyond The American Frame

Friday, January 30, 2026

The other morning, in my habit of reviewing this nation’s headlines, I felt drawn to look beyond American-focused news. I began exploring the politics of a wider world—not chasing headlines, but searching for common ground beneath obvious differences. I wanted to understand how nations connect.

It didn’t take long to realize how limited my usual perspective is. That surprised me. I consider myself reasonably informed. Yet I mostly read American—and occasionally British—reporting. Stepping outside that frame was clarifying. And unsettling.

Several thoughts arrived quickly. First, what we call liberalism began to feel more local than global. Second, the technologies we’re learning to live with—communication systems, weapons, and influence itself—are advancing far faster than human moral development. And third, an uncomfortable question surfaced: how does more information become more wisdom?

Around the same time, a longtime friend emailed me about something she’d done recently. She and a group of like-minded people had stood on a busy corner, holding signs protesting two recent, unjustified killings in Minneapolis by ICE representatives. She felt good about participating in the group. Passing drivers responded—some with honks and gestures of support, others with opposing signals.

She was describing real action—sincere, hopeful, and embodied: information paired with conviction. That energy brought people out of warm homes and into freezing cold, to stand visibly in a public space. Their intent was clear. Their message landed. It informed, captured attention, and felt meaningful.

That was action. Various generations are relearning the value of immediacy—gathering, using creative signage, and collective voices to inform and encourage.

But wisdom feels like a different animal.

Wisdom seems to grow more slowly. It comes from questioning rather than signaling; from context rather than reaction. It asks us to consider the present alongside history, to tolerate complexity, and to be patient with uncertainty—long enough to evaluate what we’re seeing.

I’m for both—action and wisdom.

I value immediate, creative actions that inform quickly and speak to deeply held beliefs. I also value the slower work of seeking wisdom—going beyond volume and urgency to deepen understanding. So I’ll keep looking for information that enlarges perspective rather than simply adding noise.

My path forward means paying closer attention to places I’ve barely followed: Venezuela, where events continue to unfold; parts of Africa, whose political and economic transitions have long been fascinating—especially now, as gold mines close and international gold prices surge.

I don’t know exactly where my curiosity might lead. But I feel convinced that understanding the politics and social conditions of the wider world deserves my closer attention—and that emerging wisdom will help illuminate, for me, more of American leadership’s content, choices, and possible consequences of its decisions.

For readers who prefer receiving these morning pieces by email, I’m also publishing them on Substack.

— Diana

Allowing Journalism To Think

Sunday, January 25, 2026

I’m regularly reading a non-newspaper publication. I follow very few magazines, but these days I always check what’s current in The Atlantic. And I don’t skim its headlines or dip into a single article—I actually read its essays.

The magazine has a tone that feels educated—a better word might be oriented. Its editor in chief, Jeffrey Goldberg, strikes me as intelligent and impressive. He hosts the television roundtable Washington Week in Review, which thoughtfully models observation and discussion without performative outrage. I now try to catch every episode.

I follow a couple of other favorite magazines: The Economist and Foreign Affairs. Both publish serious essays by informed observers and skilled writers.

But The Atlantic, for months, has puzzled me. The magazine has been around for generations. In fact, I read it long ago, then stopped at some point and forgot about it entirely. Several months ago, I picked up an issue someone had left on a table, and was struck by how good it was. Since then, it’s become a favorite again—making me wonder what has changed.

Why did The Atlantic reappear for me? What made me suddenly recognize—again—its excellent writing, capable thinkers, and fine essayists? I might credit taste, talent, and luck. But no dice, because that familiar trio doesn’t explain the continuous, high-quality output I’m seeing.

My questioning has pushed me into social history. It teaches that good writing has always required more than taste, talent, and luck. It has needed patrons. History tells that serious journalism has required both a point of view and money—the two forces that make steadiness, thoughtfulness, and complexity possible.

In earlier eras, aristocrats, universities, and churches underwrote serious thinkers and artists. Today, there are fewer patrons of independence and seriousness. My research—and my renewed relationship with The Atlantic—suggest that point-of-view and money still matter. And today, perhaps, they matter more than ever.

Most contemporary media organizations seem to be running on fumes. They’re dependent on algorithms, advertisers, and relentless speed. Adding political expediency to the mix—consider The Washington Post’s recent loss of subscribers—makes media independence look increasingly fragile.

The Atlantic doesn’t shout or pretend. It’s a magazine that thinks—and thinking costs money. So, I looked for a story behind its resurgence. And, I found it.

In 2017, Laurene Powell Jobs became The Atlantic’s majority owner and fundamentally changed the magazine’s prospects. Jobs did not impose an ideology. Instead, she provided patience and capital. She didn’t demand instant returns, viral hits, or ideological obedience. Her money began funding quality rather than control.

That kind of backing allows writers and editors time—to follow ideas into uncertain or uncomfortable places—and also trusts readers to stay with the writers. Trusting works both ways. Trusting the magazine’s writers has drawn me into The Atlantic’s podcasts and videos as well.

It’s been many years since I felt attached to magazines. Once, there were several that spoke with original voices, and I loved them. Some that still exist feel to me like shadowy reflections of their former selves.

Those of us who love good journalism want to believe it can survive on virtue alone. But that’s unrealistic. Serious work that endures means someone, somewhere, has made a bold, fearless decision that it’s worth protecting.

The Atlantic didn’t become compelling again simply because “it got good.” What keeps its articles relevant, thoughtful, well written, well edited—and alive—is that someone is allowing fine journalism to happen.

For readers who prefer receiving these morning pieces by email, I’m also publishing them on Substack.

— Diana

Under The Inversion

Friday, January 23, 2026

Central Oregon has been captive to a depressing layer of weather inversion for at least a week. A constant fog, intermittent light snows, and freezing temperatures have coated everything—trees, fences, properties—with thin, icy-white films. A few days ago, while driving to work, I unexpectedly passed through an independent microclimate—an actual snowfall was covering a small, contained area. This snowy stretch began and ended abruptly, blanketing only about a half-mile of roads and homes. As if the weather had briefly lost its sense of scale.

Each morning this past week, and today, I’ve stood at a large living-room window, sipping my first cup of coffee and surveying the scene. I want to know the present and the approaching weather alike. That’s easy enough, because its signals are almost entirely visual—and because what I see reliably fills me with dread about the inevitable need to go outside to care for my few farm-type animals.

The animals feel it, too. The chickens huddle tightly together on their roost, nearly merged into a single feathery mass. The horses trot toward me, snorting, impatient to begin eating. Before leaving the house, I force the dogs to go outside for a few minutes, and they’re eager to rush back in as soon as possible. I’m entirely with the dogs on this—after being outside, I can’t wait to return indoors and warm up again.

I work part-time as a cashier in a busy, price-cutting retail goods store. Lately, my most common topic of conversation with customers is our local weather. They’re putting their money where their mouths are—buying sweaters, heavy outerwear, and warm pajamas. They’re also buying household organizing and cleaning supplies, preparing, like so many others, to stay mostly inside until the weather breaks.

For days now, I’ve felt urges to slow down more, to look again at possibilities, before settling on decisions. Now, I’m considering ways to use this gloomy stretch for something more than simple griping. This morning, standing at the window, I’m evaluating the possibilities of making a small shift once the animals are cared for. And, instead of spending more time fixating on the uncomfortable inversion layer, I’ll point myself toward a more utilitarian direction, firmly.

To start this shift, I’ll create a list of tasks needed, doable inside, away from windows—like ordering animal feeds, contacting a professional for advice about my questionable roof, finishing a terrific book (Raising Hare by Chloe Dalton), and staying busy with the kinds of organizing and cleaning that customers have demonstrated belong to weather like this.

The inversion will lift when it lifts. Until then, there’s work that fits these indoors.

For readers who prefer receiving these morning pieces by email, I’m also publishing them on Substack.

—Diana

What The Morning Asks

Thursday, January 22, 2026

This morning feels like a quiet weight. Central Oregon still is hushed beneath a thick inversion layer—and my small world seems held in suspension—deeply still. I almost hear the air breathing as it freezes. I know that heavy fog will erase the Cascade Mountains from the horizon and leave my few acres monochromatic. I know that now the junipers are shadowy sentinels, half-seen and half-imagined. 

I’m standing at a window and holding a cup of steaming coffee—and, almost seeing the stubbornly cold air. Frost coats juniper branches and grass blades, and soon, the sun will struggle to rise—pale and ghost-like—trying to burn through the low mist. 

Despite this chill, there’s a necessary routine of feeding my horses. In this still darkness, layered in snow pants, a thick sweater, and my heaviest coat, I step outside—into a muffled world. The usual neighborhood sounds are absent; there is only the sharp, rhythmic crunch of frozen earth beneath my boots. I move slowly through this morning’s blurred edges. 

The horses are waiting, their whiskers white with ice and their patience thinned by hunger. I hurry through the usual labor—cleaning stalls, filling water buckets, and hauling fresh, sweet hay into the barn. It is work, but offers a few brief, pleasant moments of focus, too. Free of other concerns for the moment, I’m considering this weather inversion, hoping the fog will lift soon and normal clouds return.

Once I have settled the horses, I pause awhile. I listen. Few sounds are as satisfying as the steady, rhythmic grinding of horses chewing—watching them, wholly relishing their meal, is fun, too.

It’s time to turn back toward the house. I crunch across the frozen ground. My dogs, cat, and birds are waiting for their breakfast. Only after caring for them will I prepare for my part-time job.

This is how most of my days begin—as dependably as our January freezes—and regardless of any other weather conditions.

— Diana

When I Stayed With The Image

Wednesday, January 21, 2026

Today’s header photo richly rewarded me after I paused to take second and third looks.

While reviewing my camera’s newest downloads, I noticed this image of a hiking path, with Chase far ahead of me as we walked. I liked it immediately—but hesitated. I wondered whether, as a header image, it would actually reveal the dog, or whether he would read only as a distant dark spot.

That question—would the dog work?—changed how I began seeing the image. Slowing down, staring longer, and looking more closely, the photograph grew more compelling. I stopped isolating its parts and began to see all its elements together. Suddenly, I recognized something new. This wasn’t just a snapshot. It felt complete—almost like an Old Master’s composition.

The image works with or without Chase’s presence because it behaves like a painting. It successfully captures depth, design, space, and distance. The path pulls the eye forward, framed naturally by trees that recede from near to far. The structure holds.

At first, I questioned whether Chase truly belonged in the scene. But looking longer altered my judgment. I moved from wondering whether the dog was clear or merely a murky blur to finding the image genuinely lovely—either way. The photograph works so well that Chase can stay, adding interest and quiet narrative to that moment.

That realization carried me, briefly, to Italy, where images of renowned artworks surfaced in my mind. When my thoughts returned home—to my snapshot, my dog, and my blog—I felt happier. Slowing my decision-making, allowing myself to wonder, and taking time to look again launched me into another kind of life—one that encourages imagining, evaluating, feeling, and deciding.

— Diana

Seeing Isn’t Always Seeing

Tuesday, January 20, 2025

At first glance, I was certain I knew what I was seeing.

Two pale strands hung straight down from the branches of a juniper, each coated in frost. They were white, linear, and unmistakably rope-like. Our minds are quick that way. They reach for the nearest familiar explanation and settle in. We just go with it.

Like me, then—not questioning whether the frosty objects were rope, only wondering how they had gotten there. I reached up to pull one strand free from its branch, and in that instant, the scale shifted.

In my fingers, what had looked sturdy immediately shrank into something improbably delicate. I expected resistance. Instead, frost slipped away, and I found myself trying to grip emptiness. I paused and looked more closely.

You’ll never guess what I discovered. The “rope” I was trying to hold was a single hair from one of my horses’ tails. Looking up again, I noticed several similar strands—long, pale, impossibly fine—each thickened by frost and hanging, rope-like, from the branches.

The experience startled me. These fine hairs had likely been carried aloft by nest-building birds, caught by chance in the tree, and layered again and again with ice. The moment felt slightly dramatic and, at the same time, utterly ordinary. I had misread the evidence—and it had been astonishingly easy to do so.

I’ve been thinking about deciding and misassuming. These happen more often than we realize. We believe we’re seeing what’s there, when instead we’re seeing what our experience tells us ought to be there. Our brains—efficient and decisive—are always working to help us make sense of things quickly.

But efficiency may also be a kind of blindness. When we label something too fast and move on—without lingering long enough to reconsider—we miss the chance to see it differently.

The object I mistook for rope wasn’t merely a variation of what I expected; it belonged to an entirely different category of reality. It was something once living—shed, carried, and repurposed by chance.

Only later did my mind begin to imagine a quiet collaboration among animals, weather, and time—a whole story I had nearly missed before I paused, looked again, and wondered.

This experience reinforces something I’ve been learning: that deciding well often requires more than one look. Not because first looks are careless, but because they are incomplete. The longer I live, the more I understand wisdom as less about sharp eyesight and more about patience. Wisdom is staying a little longer with what we think we understand, allowing ourselves to be surprised by what else might be there.

Here’s today’s small example. A single strand of horse tail hair is usually barely visible. Yet here were several, transformed—fluffed with frost and suspended in front of me. I mistook them for rope. I tried to pull one down. Instead, I learned again that what appears solid may, upon re-examination, be lighter, finer, and less obvious than we first believed.

Seeing—really seeing—asks us to pause, reconsider, and sometimes admit that our first understanding was wrong. That lesson, offered by a few horse hairs, humbled me. And because of what it taught, it was also comforting.

If something as slight as a single horse tail hair can—against all odds—hold its place in the world, suspended and briefly transformed, then perhaps our own uncertainties deserve a little more time in the light as well.

Taking more time means looking again. Reflecting longer. It’s a practice that can help move our perceptions closer to what actually may be there.

— Diana

A Scene Made of Time

Monday, January 19, 2026

Happy Martin Luther King Day!

Yesterday, the dogs and I enjoyed an outing in another of my favorite places. No surprise—it’s small, BLM-type land: unimproved, au naturel, and quietly familiar. The dogs played along the large canal that runs through it, a channel that rushes with high water in summer but, at this time of year, lies dry except for patches of bottom ice. I hadn’t visited this spot in quite a while.

Imagine my delight—and genuine astonishment—when I discovered artwork along our path.

Nearly hidden by tall rushes, the installation is clever and quietly playful. Someone—likely with help, and probably with large machinery—constructed a scene using only elements drawn from the surrounding landscape.

Have a seat. Pour some coffee. Let that gazing ball do what gazing balls have always done: invite reflection.

The rock furnishings are massive—the table, its seats, and that beautifully rounded sphere. Everything about the scene is compelling, and all its elements easily point to the inspiration behind the work.

These days, most of us are caught in the uncertainty of politics and economics. For many humans, the future feels cloudy. And yet, human society hasn’t lost faith, nor does it seem entirely unmoored. Instead, the moment appears to be encouraging something quieter: a steady stirring from our innermost selves, and a shared yearning for simpler, more basic ways of being.

Oh, for less population and more community.

That is why this rock art installation grabbed my imagination—and still does. It feels both powerful and genuine, a piece of art that asks nothing more than that we pause, sit down, and remember what matters.

— Diana

What The Distance Gave Me

Sunday, January 18, 2026

While walking with my camera in a familiar place—a small, local BLM parcel I’ve known for years—I noticed that a bird was perched high in a distant tree. The bird was far away, and my photograph turned out to be, at best, a suggestion—an image lacking crisp markings. Instead of offering a pleasing certainty, it yielded only a shape, a posture, and a presence.

At first glance, the image seemed to reveal the kind of bird it might be. But after trying to identify the type without much luck, I was doubting the possibilities.

This Central Oregon area hosts the wintering birds known as Townsend’s Solitaires—or anyway it used to. In my early years here, I often heard their clear, fluting calls, metallic-sounding, and carrying far across the cold air. In these later years, the Solitaires have seemed fewer—quieter.

Or maybe I’m simply recognizing that it’s easy to miss what doesn’t announce itself.

My first impulse was to identify the bird as a Townsend’s Solitaire—lots of evidence pointed there: its high perch, its stillness, its general outline. But looking again—more closely—didn’t stop my doubts. For instance, a little color spot on the bird’s chest, and a bill that looks long and slightly curved. Those really aren’t Solitaire-like.

Maybe it’s a Hermit Thrush. Thrushes sometimes stay throughout winter—quietly and almost invisibly. A Thrust might be a little rare, but not impossible. Or perhaps it’s a flicker—located far enough away that it appears only slightly so.

The longer I looked, the less certain I felt—and the more interesting I began finding this whole experience.

I often pause to consider something most of us learn early on—it’s a constant desire to name things quickly and be done with it. We’re taught to associate the speed of identification with success. Modern life encourages that habit.

That was my first objective here, too. But taking time to consider the distance of that tree and bird—and later reviewing my imperfect capture—let me start to accept that neither the image nor my memory of that moment offered enough certainty.

That’s when something different occurred to me: this is a photograph that doesn’t need certainty.

Instead, my moments of reflection—and that image itself—seemed to be asking for patience. They were asking for attention—for an observer’s willingness to stay without knowing answers.

I refocused and found that I could view the image differently. I began to sense there wasn’t a need for accurate identification. Already, instead, this image could feel complete. Now, I could see a bird, perched, watching—and entirely undisturbed by my internal debate. Any ambiguities belonged to me alone.

I am posting that photo simply because I like it, and can allow the bird to remain unnamed. Yes, it could have been identified as one type or another. But looking closely and letting myself become involved transformed the experience of seeing. I found another way to understand the whole point of that image’s existence.

This episode was another small learning event. I had seen something at a distance that reminded me of what once felt common; I’d recognized some elements that in general have grown quieter. I decided to allow my thinking-and-feeling processes to be enough—and to legitimize the image.

My work with the camera reminds me constantly of the value in pausing and “looking again.” That practice doesn’t always sharpen answers; sometimes, it serves as a companion, by encouraging a softening of the questions themselves.

— Diana