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

Listening in Country Silence

Saturday, March 07, 2026

Mostly, my mornings begin quietly, but here in Oregon’s high desert, no early hours are ever completely silent.

First, I hear not-too-distant highway sounds from early traffic. Sometimes, too, a hospital helicopter thunders overhead. They’re normal sounds, reminding me that a larger world is already awake. Most of my mornings begin that way—with everyday noises easily tucking themselves into the back of my mind.

But early on, and also this morning, something finer arrives—a feeling—a sort of country silence. Oddly so, since there’s never any real silence. I’ve tuned out distant and overhead noise, but from somewhere in the nearby trees I hear birds calling—already busy—their calls breaking the air from various heights and directions. I love seeing birds and always look for them, but they’re mostly invisible.

Depending on the hour, even the most common birds are nearly impossible for me to spot. The mature junipers all around may help deflect their sounds just enough to make locating them difficult. Many mornings with my camera at the ready have proved that the noisiest birds can remain completely hidden from me.

It’s very early as I walk downhill toward the barn. I’m distracted from the usual silence breakers by my dogs—fenced, though that hardly makes a difference—now racing along the fence line beside me, all three determinedly escorting my morning travel.

The horses notice me and greet me with the quiet acknowledgment horses show to those who feed them. I pause and say hello, enjoying their eagerness for apple pieces from my pocket. Before long, I hear turkey greetings—Lacey’s special whistle-like, unique sounds. They delight me.

After these first moments, I pause and pay attention to this morning’s weather by looking west toward the Cascade Mountains. They announce what’s happening now and hint at the weather ahead. This Central Oregon winter has been strange—too warm and too dry. This morning, clouds obscure all but the mountain tops, making me think that sprinkles might fall soon.

Weather watching matters for anyone who keeps large animals. Weather isn’t just background—it’s everything. It determines what work must be done and how to do it, all for the comfort of the animals. Years here have taught me to look as far ahead as possible, thinking about seasonal impacts. For me, that includes wondering about hay prices when harvesting time arrives. Drought conditions can make hay scarce—hard to find and expensive when it does appear.

After years of experience, I expect most mornings to begin the same way. First I listen. Then I look. Finally, I assess what today—and tomorrow—might offer, searching for hints of what lies ahead.

Until tomorrow’s change—when Daylight Saving Time returns—one hour’s difference, blowing holes in early perceptions.

— Diana

Birthday, “On The Town”

Sunday, February 22, 2026

Yesterday was my friend Susie’s birthday! We celebrated by going out on the town—Central Oregon style—for dinner and a movie. Dinner was Japanese—sushi and a California roll. Then we headed to the Tin Pan Theater, tucked away in an alley and showcasing art films. Last night’s feature was a selection of Oscar-nominated short films.

Our favorite short, Perfectly a Strangeness, followed three donkeys meandering through the Atacama Desert, eventually making their way to an observatory. The donkeys wandered through a barren, futuristic landscape, but they seemed familiar with their surroundings, even when encountering a wild, beautiful coyote. What stood out most was the film’s poetic and visually stunning style.

The movie conveyed a theme (at least, if I “got it” right) that’s a bit unsettling. The donkeys—perhaps representing an ancient life form—seemed out of place in the industrial, mechanized world of the observatory. Watching this lovely yet thought-provoking film, I couldn’t help but think of Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times. Both films deliver strong, poignant messages about the clash between nature and the modern world.

Susie’s birthday gave us the perfect excuse to hang out together. It had been a while since we’d caught up, mainly because she’s always so busy with her family’s business. Our “date” was special, though, since she’s leaving soon to travel east for a family wedding and to handle some business matters.

As always, we spent part of the evening capturing memories with photos. My fun, busy jacket was a hit!

After the theater, while heading to our car, nobody ever could have guessed what we’d be bumping into!

Thanks to Karl Lagerfeld for creating such iconic, always fun designs.

Thanks for sharing your birthday with me, Susie, my dear friend. And for the lovely evening—full of learning and surprises.

— Diana

My Return to The Physical World

Saturday. February 21, 2026

Surprised & Delighted—By Rediscovering Geography

Studying geography is deepening my understanding of world politics by revealing the physical realities that sit beneath international relations. I’ve found that while historical events and charismatic leaders capture our attention, it is the unchanging—or very slowly changing—physical conditions of the Earth that constantly factor into major decisions.

I’m enjoying relearning what I first encountered in grade school. Re-experiencing why a mountain range or a deep-water port clarifies a news story makes my understanding of the world feel more grounded and, importantly, more real.

My most impactful readings so far are Zbigniew Brzeziński’s The Grand Chessboard (1997) and Hal Brands’ The Eurasian Century (2025). Brzeziński sets the geopolitical stage of the 90s, while Brands carries that vision into today’s world. My long-ignored world globe, now dusted off, constantly clarifies texts.

A stack of similarly intelligent books awaits me, and the more I learn, the more I want to share this widened lens.

Why Geography Disappeared

If you are rediscovering geography and are surprised by its relevance, it isn’t because the world changed—it’s our way of seeing it.

Many of us left geography behind in the fifth grade, filed away with pull-down maps and memorized capitals. As curricula shifted toward civics, ideology, and economics, geography faded. Later, the rise of 24-hour streaming news further sidelined our loss by favoring vivid, emotional storytelling over the slow-moving realities of terrain and distance.

Maps vs. Movements

Modern news often favors people over places—focusing on leadership personalities, voter blocs, and moral claims. These stories are intended to capture attention quickly, but they often lack depth.

I have found a few political storytellers who work differently. They explain events by first studying an area’s strategic position, climate, and access. Because geographical conditions move slowly, understanding them requires a level of patience that modern news rhythms rarely allow. We’ve been trained to think of politics through the lens of belief—who is “right” or “wrong”—while the physical world is treated as mere background scenery.

But geography is more than scenery; it’s an active, ongoing force.

The Comfort of Narrative

Geography introduces stubborn realities that can be uncomfortable. Conflicts are often simpler to frame as “bad leaders vs. good values.” That provides senses of clarity and emotional satisfaction.

By contrast, geography focuses on chokepoints, climate, and resource scarcity—complex factors that don’t yield to elections or diplomacy. This reality can feel unsettling because it challenges the comforting notion that history will naturally bend toward a peaceful resolution. It reminds us that persistent conflicts often stem from the Earth’s physical constraints and human struggles to sustain growing populations.

Geography is Returning

Globalization once promised a world where ideas and goods would move seamlessly across borders. But recent years have taught us otherwise. We’ve seen supply chains fracture and energy sources remain unevenly distributed. Technology can compress time, but so far, it cannot eliminate distance.

We are relearning under pressure what earlier generations understood almost intuitively: that ports, islands, and frozen corridors matter. The Earth has unarguable physical conditions, and we are simply the humans debating within them.

Reading the World Again

Returning to geography doesn’t replace my moral concerns; it adds depth to them. I’m slowing down, examining world maps, and asking:

  • Where exactly is this happening?
  • What physical constraints are shaping these choices?
  • Does this mapped position produce courage—or fear?

These questions offset the frustration caused by incomplete news stories. Geography doesn’t belong solely in a child’s classroom; it is a vital lens for refining our understanding of power, conflict, and human behavior. It isn’t a nostalgic return to the past—it is a way to finally see the world we actually live in.

— Diana

Small Places, Heavy Weights

Monday, February 09, 20-26

Geography’s “Quiet Pressure” Points

Continuing my long look at the geographic world, I see that certain places repeatedly surface—glowing, though small on the map. Taiwan and Greenland. Neither is large nor loud—yet each carries geographic weight—pressing heavily on the ambitions of powerful leaders.

Taiwan: An Island That Blocks A Giant

Taiwan commands political attention—as a symbol—democracy versus authoritarianism, and independence versus reunification. Geographically, however, its meaning runs deeper and is far less negotiable.

Taiwan—historically known as Formosa—sits just off China’s coast, anchoring what strategists call the first island chain. This chain of islands stretches from Japan, through Taiwan, and south toward Southeast Asia. It forms a natural barrier—it limits China’s direct access to the open Pacific Ocean. In this sense, Taiwan isn’t merely an island—it’s a gate.

China’s eastern coastline faces the Pacific, one of the world’s most economically vital seas. Unrestricted access to that ocean matters commercially, militarily, and psychologically. Taiwan’s location complicates China’s access. As long as Taiwan remains separate—and especially if it’s aligned with Western powers—China faces persistent geographic constraints.

Absorbing Taiwan, therefore, isn’t a passing political goal; it’s near the center of long-term Chinese strategic thinking. Control of Taiwan would transform China from a regionally constrained power into a fully Pacific one. Geography explains why that objective has survived leadership changes and rhetorical shifts. Taiwan’s position makes it an enduring prize.

This is what makes geography strategically persistent. It does not impose deadlines. Instead, it creates patience.

Greenland: Ice, Distance, and “Future Mapping”

Greenland usually appears on maps as vast, frozen remoteness—far removed from daily concerns. But its geography suggests otherwise.

Greenland’s position, astride the Arctic, is where rapid climate change is redrawing the map. As the ice recedes, new shipping routes are emerging—and shortening distances between Asia, Europe, and North America. Beneath Greenland’s ice lie rare earth minerals—critical to modern technologies and military systems. Above it lies airspace essential to missile detection and early-warning systems.

Geographically, Greenland is becoming less peripheral. Climate change is making it central to future power balances. Major powers—the United States, Russia, and China—increasingly are attentive to the Arctic.

Greenland’s geographic position offers strategic advantages—emerging trade lanes and defense systems—drawing sustained interest, regardless of political intentions or stated values.

Its population is small, and its voice often overshadowed—but its geography refuses to be ignored.

Geography Outlives Beliefs

Taiwan and Greenland illustrate an uncomfortable truth: ideologies rise and fall—geography does not. Leaders change, slogans evolve, and moral frameworks shift—but landforms, coastlines, choke points, and distances remain largely fixed across generations.

Ambitious and aggressive states “hear” geography as a constant reminder—both of opportunity and vulnerability. Over time, repeated geographic pressures can harden into conviction—and conviction, when paired with power, tends toward action. Even when war feels unthinkable, it remains possible. Geography helps explain why.

Studying geographic conditions will not make us safer. But it can reduce surprise. It can help us sense building pressures before they erupt—and understand why certain places, no matter how small or remote, glow steadily on the map.

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

— Diana

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