Record-Breaking Warmth

Wednesday, January 14, 2025

Monday, January 12th, broke a remarkable record. It was the warmest January day in Central Oregon since 1920. Yes—more than a century ago was the last time a mid-winter temperature matched Monday’s. That 100-plus-year-old record quietly fell, without much ceremony—no fanfare, just a few weather-related announcements. And there I was, feeling the mildness and sunlight, noticing the odd sensation of stepping outside without first bracing myself.

Probably like everyone else, I looked around and wondered what this warmth was doing to the season. Snow should still be lingering, but there was none. Ice should be stubborn over my chickens’ water bowls, but ditto. I scanned the nearby treetops—bird-watching is one of my everyday pleasures—and wondered about the birds. Were they even slightly confused? Were their internal calendars, like mine, a little out of sync? Even the air felt different—less like January, more like some invasive in-between month.

Part of me celebrated the comfort of that warm day. After all, comfort is comfort. But there was also a strange dissonance—another reminder that nature keeps its own counsel, and that the seasons might be shifting beneath our feet. The warmth was pleasant and unsettling all at once—belonging to January while feeling nothing like January.

Whenever something captures my attention, I tend to look for meaning tucked inside it. Yesterday’s record-breaking warmth nudged me to pay closer attention to the weather itself. One of my mantras is that pausing and looking twice often reminds me that whatever I thought I knew isn’t entirely the truth.

This photo—taken years ago, on a typical January 12—shows what our weather used to look like.

My “second look” on this new warmest January day offered a quiet insight: we are all changing, and constantly are adjusting to change, even when it arrives disguised as good weather.

Real weather records remind us of time. Monday’s warmth happened to us in real time, and on a real January day. And I found myself standing right on the margin—between time and reality—grateful to feel informed, and awed anew by nature’s power.

— Diana

Enduring Lights & Shadows

Tuesday, January 12, 2025

The ancient volcano in today’s header photo is Broken Top—my favorite among the Cascade Mountain profiles—and easily visible from my house. I love the whole range, but Broken Top feels extra special. I think that’s well deserved. Its peaks practically explode with personality. And many times, I’ve ridden horseback there. Broken Top is an old friend, even if it’s a mountain.

It’s also a teacher.

Broken Top is an ancient, spent volcano—its fire was gone long before any of us arrived. And yet, on a clear winter day like this, it feels alive to me, especially for the precision of its contrasts.

I’m fascinated by how the mountain holds light and dark at once. Snow burns bright along its slopes, while shattered rock catches shadows in every crevice and angle. The contrasts don’t compete—they belong to each other. One reveals the other. Without shadows, Broken Top’s lights would flatten; without lights, its darks would disappear.

Seeing Broken Top—whether in person or in my photographs—always pulls at something in me.

Maybe because I’m noticing similar interplays inside my own days. Aging has brightnesses—clarity, spaciousness. I’m surprised to find myself more patient, more observant, more willing to look twice. But aging also brings shadows—losses, changes, old urgencies cooling, and quiet reckonings with time.

Like Broken Top, I’m a terrain. And like that mountain, I’m shaped by experience.

It feels natural to accept vivid contrasts on a mountain. Yet I’m struck by how reluctant I am to accept unexpected contrasts within myself. Maybe because early in life, we’re taught to sort our experiences into clean categories: “good years” and “hard years,” “growing seasons” and “declining seasons.”

In contrast, Broken Top does no such sorting. On the mountain, erosion lives beside endurance. Sharp ridges beside soft snow. Light beside dark. Everything adds up to the shape of the thing.

From where I stand, Broken Top’s contrasts feel honest—less dramatic than simply true. They reflect what happens when something stops trying to be anything other than what time has made of it.

Staring at the mountain, I can catch meaning. It adds up to a life that, viewed from far enough away, doesn’t need smoothing. Its irregularities—fallen rocks, jagged silhouettes, deep cuts—are precisely what’s letting the light in.

Looking longer increasingly matters to me. My first look gathers an outline—giving certainty. My second, longer look gathers depth. It shows me light gathering on one slope while darkness settles on another. Staying with the view lets its “true story” come through. And I’m touched by a mountain long past its fire and entirely at peace with that.

Broken Top never tries to impress. It simply stands there—weathered and luminous—letting the day draw its shadows where it will.

And in its very quiet way, Broken Top reassures that: we don’t lose our shape as we age; we reveal it.

— Diana

Jay Birds

Monday, January 12, 2026

Yesterday’s weather was mild and beautiful here in Central Oregon. That gifted me with two versions of the same bird (and two versions of my attention span). The gifts were a couple of Woodhouse’s Scrub-Jays (known also as “California Jay”) making themselves known.

My first sighting (the header photo) was almost theatrical. The jay, perched high in a juniper, was lit cleanly by winter sun. Its soft blues and pale throat were fully visible. That bird seemed to be allowing me a proper look. It sat still for a surprisingly long time (for that very active type), and was well composed against the light wind that rocked its branch.

In the clear light, the bird’s shape was unmistakable. A quick glance said I might be seeing a scrub-jay—if so, familiar, and nothing unusual. It teetered on that waving branch long enough for me to wait. I took a second, longer look before snapping my camera lens. I could see more of the bird emerging: its muted blues, the gentle edging of its throat feathers, and an intelligence in its posture and focus.

By letting my eye stay a little longer, I saw more than what I had first assumed. The details helped me recognize, in my lens, for sure, a jay. I snapped the header photo just before it flew.

A little later, I spotted what might be the same bird species, perhaps even the same jay—but this time it appeared in silhouette, completely backlit. It appeared almost as a sketch, with a long tail, a dark head, a pale underside catching only the faintest wash of sun.

No color, no detail, just an outline against the sky. Yet something about this stripped-down version was compelling. Even without color, the bird’s identity was clear–another jay.

I studied the two images and their contrasts. One offered detail; the other offered reduction. One was about color; the other, about shape. The bird type doesn’t change—but the angle and the light do.

These two captures show that it’s easy to “assume what we’re seeing.” Usually, however, that assumption makes us aware of perhaps only one of many possible perspectives.

These images of two scrub-jays, separated by just minutes and a slight shift in light, are reminders that spending more time to “see the familiar” adds to our information. Comparing these images made me feel that, if I chose to, it would be fun to study individuals of this species and learn to recognize more of their subtleties, silhouettes, and ways of carrying themselves.

Often, there are times when “we know,” and quickly, because the world has handed us details. At other times, we’re given only outlines. Either way, “getting to know” comes from studying — by being willing to pause and look again.

These images are proof of the value in taking a pause. By looking again, we give each sighting enough time to reveal itself, and on its own terms. Essentially, noticing—and especially something essential, like maybe a shift in the lighting—pulls us closer.

Time and attention create a story.

— Diana

Revisiting A Darkened Room

Sunday, January 11, 2026

I always used to rely on movies—not just for entertainment, but for guidance, inspiration, and small lessons in “being human.” Throughout my growing-up years, films were a kind of companion.

The early ones—Hollywood standards of the 40s and 50s—taught me about glamour, timing, and emotion, and that stories can move with an almost musical rhythm. Later, I gravitated toward the New Age filmmakers of Italy, England, and the independent Americans who emerged in the ’60s and beyond. The emerging works felt looser, freer, more searching. They offered complexity instead of polish. They lingered in ambiguity. They asked viewers to stay longer, look again, and participate.

Eventually, as with so many things, the growing internet altered my habits. I stopped going to theaters. I became a streamer—at first enthusiastically. Art houses were becoming harder to find, and searching for them was tiresome. Over time, I watched fewer movies and watched less attentively. Eventually, part of myself drifted. One that used to feel essential, that welcomed art as nourishment.

Right now, considering the year ahead, I’ve started noticing that absence. Not dramatically—but more like realizing a room has gone quiet. I miss great movies. I miss the feeling of settling into a seat, lights dimming, a subtle sense that something meaningful might happen. I miss my own alertness, my old curiosity, my willingness to follow a director’s point of view.

I’ve done a little exploring and learned something surprising. There is an art movie house in this Central Oregon city. And “just like that,” something old and familiar stirred in me.

Today’s header photo represents today’s matinee, and I’ll be attending.

Not from nostalgia or needing to reclaim some earlier version of myself. I’m going because sitting inside a darkened room—surrounded by strangers, facing a screen larger than life—once held great purpose for me. And purpose, even if lost for a while, can return in surprising ways. Sometimes renewal begins by doing something small, but true. Something once beloved.

I’ll be watching a very modern American art film. I’ve no idea if it’ll be extraordinary or forgettable. (As a note, this film also might be streaming now, and I’m avoiding that.) Because today I will join a live audience. I will return to a first theatrical experience after many years.

This might renew more than a habit. It might refresh my relationships with attention and imagination. There is a possibility that art can still shift me, nudging me and inviting me into a “different room” than the one I walked into.

Entering this new year has made me think about purpose. Somehow, today’s adventure seems a small re-beginning. I will re-explore a once-significant source of learning. And most importantly, this could be a new beginning.

Later, I’ll know more. About the film itself, and about how it feels to sit, again, in a darkened room with emotional potential. For now, it’s feeling great simply for having decided to go.

— Diana

My Miles

Sunday, January 04, 2026

My Border Collie, Miles, turned fifteen this year. Yesterday, he crossed the Rainbow Bridge. I cannot say enough about how special he was.

Miles was a big boy. His beautiful double coat made him appear larger than his fifty pounds—all of them slim, flexible, and fast across countless horse trails, with me and the rest of our entourage. He never passed up an opportunity to swim in water holes or wallow in mud.

He was an independent fellow. He didn’t push other dogs around, nor did he allow others to push him. During our many trail adventures, there were long stretches when I couldn’t see Miles, but I always knew he was tracking—and before long, he’d appear ahead of us on the trail.

The dogs and I often hiked a small BLM parcel alongside an irrigation canal. Miles adored that canal. He swam in it, snorkeled in it, and leaped from one side to the other. He also loved the area’s high, rocky peaks, his flexible body handling even the toughest terrain with ease.

Miles was a true Border Collie. His herding instinct was immense. The one thing that might have made his life even more complete would have been a herd—sheep, cattle, or any group of critters needing a decision-maker to help guide them.

Even without that, Miles had a lifetime full of joy. He fairly earned the arthritis that gradually overtook his once-extraordinary flexibility. His mind, however, never accepted those physical limits. Miles insisted on going everywhere with me—and always insisted on being off-leash. Eventually, his safety required otherwise, when his body could no longer support his free-ranging spirit.

I loved Miles. That big Border Collie was a gift for many years. I miss him now—and will forever—because he was one of a kind, irreplaceable.

— Diana

Pause & Reflect

Saturday, January 03, 2026

I’m still thinking about the activity of looking again and wondering why it feels so striking—why it seems newly available to me, and why it matters now.

In my writing, reflecting, and observing—and in noticing changes in my own behavior—I’m beginning to think that looking again isn’t accidental. Perhaps slowing down and taking a second look has something to do with getting older. As I am.

When I was younger, I remember being purposeful—looking, scanning, evaluating—quickly, in order to decide. In my workplaces, speed mattered. Quick looking was essential in order to choose, advance, improve, protect ourselves, and move on. Confidence mattered. Being right mattered. First impressions were treated as efficiency—back when efficiency felt necessary.

Experience is teaching me that aging can quietly change that behavior.

It’s not a change that happens all at once, nor does it arrive with any announcement. Over time, and by living differently, urgency begins to loosen its grip. I experience this as a softening of the need to prove competence. The pressure to reach conclusions is fading. That change creates new spaces, and something else becomes possible—a willingness to stay longer and have another look.

That longer look requires pausing. And pausing becomes most available when one is no longer rushed to decide the reality or worth of something.

I’m not worried about diminished acuity or curiosity. If anything, looking again feels like a refinement. I don’t find that aging dulls perception; instead, it alters the terms of attention. It becomes easier to tolerate ambiguity, to be less invested in categorizing, and more interested in noticing.

If we can stop asking, Is this impressive? we can begin asking, What is actually here? That shift matters.

Cultural norms teach us to associate renewal with reinvention—with starting over, becoming new, replacing what’s old with something brighter or sharper. In later life, however, lived renewal often moves in the opposite direction. I find myself pausing, returning, re-seeing, and allowing familiar things to reveal aspects that are easily missed when we’re intent on moving fast.

Looking again doesn’t erase age, deny loss, or chase youth. It doesn’t dismiss what has been. Instead, it notices that as detail fades, form becomes clearer. As sharpness diminishes, balance stands out. As noise recedes, presence becomes easier to recognize.

That’s true when evaluating photographs and music. And it’s true in how we perceive one another.

Aging invites a softening—and with it, a second way of seeing. This means less accumulating and more subtracting. When urgency eases, assumptions lighten, and the need for resolution loosens, intrinsic elements come forward: gesture, weight, timing, presence.

Maturing makes ordinary things hold our attention more fully. A bird on a branch. A familiar voice. A routine walk. These moments don’t announce themselves as important. They ask us, instead, to recognize them quietly and without hurry.

Looking again isn’t nostalgia. It isn’t longing for what’s past. It’s a form of attention shaped by experience—an understanding that essential meaning rarely arrives dramatically.

Experience is teaching me that aging doesn’t close the world down. It seems, instead, to be opening it. And this time, I see differently.

Looking again combines seeing and renewal. Finally—at last—I’m seeing more of what’s been available all along.

— Diana

My Second Look

Friday, December 02, 2026

At first, I thought I was photographing a hawk.

That was my quick naming reflex—efficient, tidy, and not particularly curious. Hawk was close enough. But after looking at the image longer, my certainty loosened. I saw the bird’s compact weight. The way it was holding itself—contained, almost coiled. There was the bright grip of its feet against the bare branch. Those visuals weren’t exactly matching a hawk.

I started looking again. This time, not asking what category might this creature of flight belong to? Instead, what did it actually feel like to encounter this bird? The shift mattered, changed my perspective. Simply staying longer with the image made me reevaluate.

I recalled a moment of surprise upon spotting the bird, to see it staring straight down–directly back at me–alert and strong-looking. Remembering that stare and looking more closely at my image made me unsure about a hawk. Searching on my phone revealed something else: a Merlin–a small falcon, perched securely, holding very still, and wintering quietly under Central Oregon’s pale sky.

This correction was about paying attention and resisting the rush to name and move on. Looking again, more closely, did more than refine identification—it deepened the encounter. It made that bird less a specimen and more a presence–a compact, deliberate, Merlin, utterly sufficient to itself.

A small act of correction—caused by the bird’s stare made me realize I wasn’t seeing a hawk at all. That stays with me as another moment of learning. I had misidentified the bird because my first impression was nearly satisfactory. By pausing and correcting, I thought of how often we simply accept our initial impressions, because they arrive quickly and let us move on.

I’m discovering that maturing, or aging, can alter our learned, habitual grabbing for answers.

The urgency to name things immediately loosens over time. Needing to arrive quickly at conclusions—to decide what something is, and what it means, and what it’s for—softens. Something quieter replaces it: patience. Unlike an impatience for resolution—it’s another kind toally, that lets uncertainty linger without causing discomfort.

To me, “looking again” has become a shifting away from haste.

When I was younger and usually employed in complex organizations, decision speed often passed for competence. Quick recognition, quick decisions, quick judgments—all felt necessary. Now, as a retiree, I’m willing to let first impressions revise themselves. I stay with first impressions long enough to let subtleties emerge. Truly, first assumptions can be incomplete.

This Merlin didn’t change. I changed. On looking again and remembering the circumstances, I felt willing to linger with the vision, to give the experience time to clarify itself. As I age, this pausing to look again becomes increasingly familiar. Less “rushings toward certainty” invite better quiet unfoldings.

One of aging’s gifts isn’t sharper vision — it’s longer looking. Less loud insight and more steady attention. Patience is less a virtue of quick performance and more a natural outcome of learning. As we evolved, didn’t we already do enough rushing?

More patience gives time to “the ordinary” (e.g., a cool-looking bird on a wintery branch)—to reveal its particularities. My subjects might not actively be demanding special attention, but increasingly I’m willing to slow down and offer it.

— Diana

Looking Again

Thursday, January 01, 2026

“Happy New Year!”

I’m outside on this very chilly first morning of the year, along with the pictured brave House Sparrow (a male, I believe). My camera isn’t yet capturing the light correctly, but today’s photograph is pleasingly straightforward and clear, with a strong graphic shape and a compelling composition.

While it isn’t perfect, it’s a good photograph—one that rewards attention, though lacking technical polish. For my purposes this morning, the image speaks to looking again, which is very much aligned with what I’ve been thinking and writing about lately.

“Looking again” isn’t so much a technique as a shift in stance. It’s not about better equipment, sharper focus, getting the right answer faster, or proving competence. Those habits are useful, but they can be shallow.

Looking again means staying after the initial judgment.

Take today’s header photo. At first glance—my reflexive response—it seemed too dark, not sharp enough, and frankly, disappointing. Fortunately, I didn’t stop there. I looked again. And with that second look, something changed.

The first look asked, Is this good enough?
The second look asked, What’s actually here?

Those are entirely different questions.

Suddenly, I began to see the bird less as a detail and more as a presence: a small weight on a branch, a balance point, a pause in winter—as a life holding still against a pale sky. These impressions appeared only after I quit scanning for what was “wrong.”

This is reminding me of my recent blog series about listening to music. In those posts, I wasn’t categorizing voices by genre, ranking them by power or novelty, or asking what they were trying to accomplish. Instead, I stayed. I listened long enough to feel how those voices inhabit sound. That was me “listening again”—a nonvisual equivalent of looking again.

This header photograph of an ordinary bird matters—not because it’s exotic, rare, or dramatic—but matters because I paused. I noticed. I asked. I stayed. Our contemporary world pushes us to move on instantly, but pausing and looking again turns paying attention into a quiet form of resistance.

And that kind of attention calls for some courage.

Looking—or listening—again represents a decision. It’s to pause and allow what seems ordinary to reveal more of itself. These days, I find myself doing less dismissing of what initially appears unremarkable, and doing more walking with it—slowly, thoughtfully—letting it deepen rather than resolving it too quickly.

Those impressions draw me, again and again, back to other worlds, offered even by the simplest of cameras. And that might be why so many of us—including those who are only minimally technically inclined—are finding something essential to our inner selves there.

I’m thinking about drafting another blog to explore looking again, more deeply, which I often associate with wishing to understand—not faster, but better. Maybe that’s something having to do with aging. Perhaps “looking again” is an emerging trait, one that gently offsets our earlier need for urgency—maybe that need is often softened by time.

Looking again, like aging itself, can blur edges and soften details—and thus, let form, balance, and essence come into our clearer view.

Hang in with me for the rest of this journey.

— Diana

Re-Beginning — Paying Attention

Tuesday, December 29, 2025

This header image features a Red-tailed Hawk—my first bird capture in a long while—and it’s clear enough to count. I seized this opportunity to capture on December’s coldest day, working quickly and efficiently as my camera resisted doing its job. Its body felt cold, uncooperative, and proved that by refusing to take more than a single shot.

Back home, I reviewed the image, thought it initially disappointing—soft, unclear, not what I’d hoped for. But closer, more patient attention began turning the capture into something else: more engaging, even compelling. On seeing the watchful predator perched among bare branches beneath an icy blue sky, I suddenly understood this image as a beginning.

This capture symbolizes the start of engaging with one of my key resolutions for the New Year: I will make time to have fun with photography.

That thought naturally turns my attention toward the almost-here New Year itself. I want to wish everyone a Happy New Year, although recognizing that 2026 will likely continue many of the same uncomfortable dynamics and struggles we recognized throughout 2025. Because of that, the responsibility falls to each of us—individually—to locate and protect moments offering personal enjoyment.

Finding those moments requires looking inward first: to know what genuinely engages us, what rewards us, what leaves us feeling satisfied when effort meets intention. Daily stresses that keep us moving can also flatten us, unless we deliberately choose the activities that restore motivation and curiosity.

I’m beginning very simply. A new planning book, a clean 2026 calendar, and a large notebook, all sitting ready. They’ll capture my goals, notes, impressions, and—hopefully—evidence of progress. Like that hawk on its winter perch, I’m starting the year alert, attentive, and willing to stay so, and long enough to gain what’s possible.

Here’s to beginnings—including the quiet ones.

— Diana

Goals In 2026

Saturday, December 27, 2025

I usually fail at traditional goal-setting. Not because I lack interests—quite the opposite—it’s because I can’t seem to choose just one direction.

Goal setting has always felt artificial to me. I try, but my beginnings drift toward their endings quickly. Time has taught me that my mind works best when I am noticing, listening, and following threads. My lists of desired outcomes tend to harden too quickly into expectations—and expectations often drain my energy rather than organize it.

So in setting goals for 2026, I’m applying personal insights gained over many years. Instead of declaring ambitions, I’m taking another approach: naming practices—ways of living that support curiosity without turning it into a series of obligations.

These are my plans for the new year.

I will take steps to learn basic Spanish, gently—mostly by listening. There will be no fluency deadline and no pressure to perform. I’ll choose programs that allow me to hear the language without strain and give me enough time to absorb vocabulary naturally.

I will keep writing my blog, but with clearer boundaries. I want to practice blogging from multiple perspectives rather than maintaining a single voice that tries to cover everything. A friend has suggested that I experiment with Substack, and I may—using a time-limited trial. Clarity matters more to me than reach.

I will work more with my camera and focus on small, coherent projects—one subject at a time. I won’t try to build a portfolio. What I want is to learn how to see more carefully.

I will do physical core exercises daily for 10 or 15 minutes. My focus will be continuity, not intensity.

Retail work will remain part of my life—not as identity, but as social engagement. I’ve learned that being among people matters, even when the work itself is ordinary.

Property care will continue, emphasizing seasonal, more realistic goals. One improvement per season is enough. I will aim for stewardship, not perfection.

I will finish a back-shelf creative project—Little Miss Merry—which has stayed with me. Finish it this year. Not expand it. Finish it.

I will invest in the stock market by employing a simple strategy: I’ll remain calm. And continue learning how to evaluate possibilities more clearly, stay steady, and avoid reactive moves.

I intend to strengthen my “mental core” by making regular room for intellectual experimentation—reading, listening, thinking—and release any feelings that I must carry everything forward. I will be an interested visitor, not a collector.

Finally, I’m adopting a simple rule to keep my 2026 plans viable:
If a goal or intention begins to demand urgency—something that must be proven, measured, or justified—it’s likely unaligned with how I want to live now.

None of that’s a retreat.
It’s refinement.

— Diana