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

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

Tuesday, May 27, 2025

A pair of robins recently began nesting on a beam in my barn’s hay storage area. Their nest sits about twice my height above the ground. I pass near it several times daily to gather hay and fill feeding nets for my equines. I’m always aware now of a robin watching me intently from above. I try to avoid disturbing them too much—I want them to stay. In my heart, I secretly hope that one of these birds is my robin. It’s wishful thinking, I know—but it speaks to a very human need to reconnect with something we’ve loved.

My robin was real. A fledgling that had fallen from a tree in my dogs’ area. Its parents were nearby, agitated and noisy—enough to draw my attention. Fearing for its safety, I scooped up the little bird and moved it to a safer, dog-free part of the property. Its parents would continue to feed it for a while, but that baby was still vulnerable to hawks and other predators. I relocated it again to protect it more, but this time, the parents gave up. And so, I became its guardian.

That was during the waning days of the COVID pandemic, when supply chain issues made it nearly impossible to find live mealworms—essential for a young robin’s diet. Determined, I finally tracked down living night crawlers from a fishing supplier. I’d snip the crawlers into pieces, dunk them in water for hydration, and feed them to my little one, who lived in the garage and began to thrive.

As the fledgling grew, I started setting it between feedings on the lower branches of a mature pine tree. Upon my return, it would flutter onto my shoulder, ready for another meal. Before long, it began flying to me from higher and farther branches. The bird was maturing—and I knew it might leave me.

Still, I hoped. I dreamed that it would return someday with a mate and nest nearby.

Then one day, it was gone. I called and searched, heart heavy. The loss was immense. I still hold on to the hope that it survived—that it found its place in the world.

Every summer since, I’ve watched the robins around me more closely, wondering if any of them might be the one. None have been. But now, this new nesting pair shows no fear of me. One watches quietly as I pass, not alarmed enough to flee. Could it be my bird? I’ll never know—but I can hope.

Dear friends: The emotional connections we form—especially with those we’ve nurtured—run deep. And they last. Diana

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

My camera captured this watching bird from a great distance. The image is good but surprising because I couldn’t recognize the bird type. Its coloring suggests a woodpecker, but it has a seed-eater’s beak. This probably is of a common variety, and wanting to know has encouraged me to download an app that identifies birds from photos. I will learn the answer after uploading this photo from my computer to the phone app.

I love photographing birds, and they can be challenging. They’re fast movers and can test a photographer’s skills. There are thousands of species, each with a unique appearance and behavior. Some are incredibly beautiful, and it’s thrilling to capture their assets.

Photographing wild birds, even on or around my property, connects me with nature. Spending time observing and appreciating brings peace, relaxation, and inspiration. Plus, I’m learning, about different bird species, their behaviors and habits.

Bird photography is educational and enriching; there’s always something new to discover and capture. Bird photography and bird-watching teach lots and inspire sharing because almost everybody loves birds. And in the world of birds, there’s much to love.

Dear Friends: A bundle of challenge, diversity, beauty, learning, and sharing. Diana

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

My house is under siege by two tiny birds, apparently mates, taking turns tapping unendingly into a lower corner of a high window. They’re working too high for wingless me to reach them without a 20-foot ladder. Little by little a hole grows. The birds are tiny—chickadees or nuthatches—but determined. I watch and yell to no advantage.

Their chosen window is precisely where a Northern Flicker drilled a large hole years ago. Apparently, birds are attracted to high spots protected by an eve. I love birds but would drive away these littles. I yell and threaten, but they ignore me. The long-ago Flicker left an unsightly hole that, finally, a house painter made to disappear.

Now, here we go again. This time, it’s a bird tiny enough to leave space in my palm.

They’re so high up it’s hard to tell, but I think a Chickadee bird pair is tapping into my house. My first impression was that the birds were Juncos, but a Junco doesn’t drill unendingly.

It’s a wonder seeing these tiny birds pecking into my house siding, determined to create a nesting space. A little research says that they can and won’t give up until they do.

Dear Friends: I’m becoming an unwilling nest host to bitty birds. Diana