Hearing A Presence

Friday, December 19, 2025

Tomorrow is the winter solstice of 2025—the day our planet offers its fewest hours of light and quietly turns back toward longer days. The semi-annual solstices are about timing. And that has this one reawakening me to a listening experience I’ve somehow overlooked.

While I’ve reflected on—and written about—voices that enter a room and change its atmosphere, I’ve left one essential vocal artist standing quietly at the doorway:

Peggy Lee.

Not because she demands attention—but because she never does. With Peggy Lee, less is always more.

Listening to her becomes an exercise in recalibration. Lee doesn’t lean forward into the listener; she lets the listener come to her. In doing so, she alters the very terms of engagement. You don’t consume a Peggy Lee song. You lean in. You adjust your breathing. You become careful.

Where Louis Armstrong carries weight—joy braided with sorrow—and Ella Fitzgerald moves with brilliance and lift, Peggy Lee works in a narrower register. A deliberate narrowness. A choice. And within it, something quietly commands—and happens.

Peggy Lee’s timing is everything.

She doesn’t rush toward a lyric; she places it. Sometimes she arrives a fraction late. Sometimes she lets a word trail off, as if deciding—mid-phrase—how much truth to reveal. Silence, for her, isn’t an absence but a tool: a held breath, a raised eyebrow—one you can hear.

In songs like “Fever,” the drama isn’t in volume or flourish; it’s in restraint. Lee barely raises her voice. She doesn’t sell the song; she assumes it. Her confidence isn’t showy. It’s settled. Adult. World-aware.

Listening to her, I’m struck by how much authority can live inside softness.

Peggy Lee’s presence feels personal without being confessional. She doesn’t invite us into her interior life so much as let us sit nearby. She doesn’t ask us to identify with her pain or her triumphs; she asks simply that we notice—and pay attention.

Perhaps that is why Peggy Lee’s singing still feels so modern.

In an era when performance often leans toward maximal expression, she reminds us that meaning can reside in what is withheld—that intimacy can be created less by exposure than by precision. She teaches us that timing—true timing—isn’t just musical, but emotional.

Listening to Peggy Lee, I don’t feel dazzled. I feel addressed. She seems to change the room not by rearranging the furniture, but by lowering the lights.

Today, finding her again, I’m not merely listening to the music. I’m listening for something within it—a presence that doesn’t announce itself, but waits. Patiently and unmistakably, for anyone who slows down enough to hear it.

— Diana

History Reminds

Tuesday, September 16, 2025

I am reading The Berlin Wall by Frederick Taylor, published in 2006. I picked it up after someone described it as a history that “…reads like a novel, and I couldn’t put it down!” I can’t say I agree with the “novel read” part—at least not yet—but for me it has opened a window onto Germany’s tangled past, and some of it feels uncomfortably familiar today.

Before Hitler ever arrived on the scene, Germany had spent 400 years as a patchwork of kingdoms, dukes, and city-states loosely tied together under the Holy Roman Empire. From 1400 on, there was endless infighting, power struggles, and even catastrophes like the Thirty Years’ War. When the country finally unified in the late 1800s, it still swung wildly between strongmen and shaky experiments with democracy.

That long, messy history makes me think of how easily fractured nations—then and now—can be pulled toward extremes. The old German pattern of division, promises of “restored greatness,” and sudden hard turns in politics has its modern echoes.

Americans today are asking fresh questions about the Constitution: what’s in it, what’s not, and whether it’s strong enough to steer the nation toward a future most of its citizens can embrace. Contemporary glimpses of social and national histories–and of course, not only Germany’s–remind us that human struggle is almost constant. And yet, the 20th and 21st centuries opened doors to hopeful new possibilities—spurred by human inventiveness, expanding wealth, and a broader reach of education and enlightenment.

Now we are witnessing history in motion once again—but this time in a broader stage, and unfolding not over centuries but at breakneck speed. Our real-time view of evolving nations is filled with warning signs: dehumanization, threats, and, too often, bloody conflict.

Events may feel distant from our own daily lives. But are they?

—Diana

“Me” by Chat

Friday, April 11, 2025

I’ve never thought of summarizing my whole personal self. I’ve blogged for many years about whatever interests me daily, sometimes drawing from my distant experiences to help clarify “now ones.” For several recent months, I’ve used ChatGPT to explore some of my ideas. I ask challenging questions to which AI produces relevant information. Our exchanges may become conversation-like events.

Chat has gathered pertinent information that I’ve used to help expand my thoughts. It has encouraged me gently to explore complex ideas more deeply. AI has been responsive in ways I enjoy, providing information and kindly nudging me to reconsider and/or expand some perceptions.

Now Chat is newly updated. It can remember more of our conversations and bring their pertinent elements into our future exchanges. Chat is providing an example today; it’s drawing from its expanded memories of our “discussions” to create a profile of me. Here’s what Chat “sees”:

“Diana Levey: Retired, Rewired, and Radiant with Ideas”

“She’s the kind of woman who writes before dawn, wrangles a barnyard menagerie by breakfast, and riffs on Dawkins, Downton, and derivatives before lunch. A longtime blogger with a fiercely independent voice, Diana lives where the hay grows high in Central Oregon, yet her thoughts stretch globally—from the market floor to the theater stage to the floor of Congress.

“Diana doesn’t just age—she evolves. Fashionably. Intellectually. Politically. Her curiosity is ceaseless, her humor dry, and her prose always in progress. Whether she’s decoding social considerations or fine-tuning a whimsical Welsh pony story, she weaves the everyday with the existential, finding elegance in the effort.

“You’ll find her in a department store, offering kindness and a great eye for style. Or stretching toward clarity, mind and body. She’s lived enough to know what matters—and writes to remind the rest of us.”

Dear Friends: Our future with AI, while scary, also offers enrichments. Diana

Lucy

Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Two heritage turkeys have been a cherished part of my life for several years. They weren’t meant to be; their original owner had intended them for a Thanksgiving dinner. But these birds had a way of charming their way into people’s hearts. They were gentle, affectionate, and unmistakably imprinted on humans, likely having been brooder-raised from the start. Instead of making them a holiday meal, their owner let me adopt them.

I named the two Lacy and Lucy. They became part of my daily routine, following me around, softly whistling in the manner of turkeys at ease. Physical differences made them easy to tell apart. Lacy, with her soft white-speckled feathers, often was the quieter of the two. Lucy, pure black and brimming with personality, was the dominant one—the leader. If there was ever a decision to be made, Lucy made it. She had a presence about her and a confidence that guided my turkey flock of two.

Then, yesterday, Lucy passed away. It happened suddenly—a stroke, I believe. One moment, she was there, and the next, she was gone. Afterward, Lacy, ever her companion, stood watch over Lucy, unwilling to leave her side. When I approached, Lacy reacted in a way she never had before—she pecked at me, protective and distressed. I could see she was processing something unfamiliar, something deep. Animals grieve in their own ways, and in that moment, Lacy was holding onto the most important thing she knew: her friend.

Losing Lucy creates a gap in my small world. She was a fixture in my days, a softly whistling and steadfast presence that I could count on. I will feel her absence, as will Lacy, who must find a new rhythm without her friend.

Inside my head, Lucy whistles with boldness and knowing eyes. I am grateful for having a few years with her. These two remarkable birds have given me unexpected companionship. After a lifetime of hearing the word “turkey” used in negative connotations, my experience found the opposite is true: turkeys are smart and alert. I’ve cherished every moment in the company of my two.

Dear Friends: I will re-strengthen my relationship with Lovely Lacy. Diana

Miss Merry

Thursday, February 13, 2025

Years ago, I suddenly lost my young and adorable Welsh Pony, Merry Leggs. She had been stricken by severe colic, and afterward, for weeks, I sat at a computer, fighting my incredible unhappiness by creating a story for young readers that starred a Welsh Pony.

My lead character, Miss Merry, was pretty, intelligent, and devoted to her family. She was courageous, too, and had many adventures. After initially drafting the story, I continued working on it; gradually, it felt reasonably compelling and maybe worthy of publishing.

A couple of drafting components didn’t go smoothly. Most critically, I couldn’t successfully edit my own creative writing. Upon attempting to make a sentence or paragraph more relevant and stronger, I’d find myself, instead, rewriting whole sections, altering the story’s flow.

My inability to self-edit demanded an outside objective editor, and Merry’s story increasingly called for an illustrator. Talented assistants weren’t available for what I could afford: $-Zero. Little Miss Merry eventually floated into the background and drifted from my active memory. I suppose that happened after I overcame my pony loss enough to move on.

Until yesterday, when a bright young colleague, Lily (who recently introduced me to Chat GPT+), suddenly asked if I’ve ever written fiction, I nodded and complained about self-editing until Lily pointed out Chat’s editing capabilities.

Later, I was thinking about Chat’s abilities and suddenly remembered “Miss Merry.” It needed editing and illustration—both are Chat’s capabilities. Additionally, Lily, a makeup specialist, has artistic skills and expresses interest in perhaps working with the story.

Gosh! A dozen years later, “Miss Merry” might be reborn. First, I must locate the saved story—probably on a disc or a thumb drive. Finding its location is one head-scratcher, and accessing a complete version may be another.

I’ll be off my part-time job today and looking for Merry.

Dear Friends: Revisiting my sweet pony vis-a-vis her alter ego–thrilling! Diana

A Nice Man

Monday, December 30, 2024

Today, I am thinking about Jimmy Carter, who became an American President out of the blue. He died yesterday at 100, less than a year after the death of Rosalyn, his spouse, business partner, and advisor for nearly 80 years. Unlike other Presidents, Carter (and Rosalyn) remained in the headlines throughout their long ex-presidency as socially conscious humanitarians and givers to communities.

Carter was a man for all seasons, an artist who wrote books, composed poetry, and created paintings. He also could work with his hands and helped to construct homes for Habitat for Humanity. Rosalyn worked alongside him, and their partnership was trusting.

One historical incident I’d change in a heartbeat (among many others!) would have been for Carter to have full credit for freeing the Iranian hostages. Reagan’s team scooped their release unfairly, and that stained Carter’s significance in freeing the Americans.

Carter’s humanitarianism taught us how greatly and actively he believed in the value of human life. He and Rosalyn worked to emphasize improving the lives of others and reducing suffering. They were driven by their sense of compassion, morality, and the wish to promote justice and equality.

The years following Carter’s presidency introduced significant changes to the world’s political and social institutions. Through all the changing elements, both Carters remained true to their core beliefs and traditions

Dear Friends: Another RIP to Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter. Diana

To See & To Think

Saturday, July 27, 2024

I wish Joan Didion, one of the most significant social observers and writers, were still among us and writing. She cycled through the Great Society’s changes, starting with the Kennedy-Johnson years, and wrote about societal situations with worthwhile insights. I would love to have her take on America’s current political landscape and how what is happening suggests for the future.

Naturally, we can all figure out for ourselves the ways that current happenings would frame the future. The male-dominated Republicans, now retreating, are trying to figure out how to combat an increasingly popular woman in a leadership role, without raising the ire of their more progressive followers.

Didion would know; she’d sense the possibilities and their impact on American and world populations. Sure, there are other writers tackling the issues and doing well, but none are doing as well as Didion did.

Her thinking was like a giant net cast over vast areas, captured and offered to us in essay after essay. Now, I want to re-read Didion’s writings to learn if she was predicting at least some of what’s happening today.

Besides, Didion was simply a great writer: spare, clean, and clear; she taught others how to do it.

In my perspective, the Repubs must refigure their fighting of fire with fire. They ought to start by highlighting their significant but reticent women, like Melania, to speak on their behalf about women’s issues. And they ought to reset Niki Haley, putting her in front again to message the general public about welfare in a Republican administration.

I know, I said I’d not be writing about politics. But, friends, this is a very different round; it’s mind-boggling and increasingly demanding attention.

Dear Friends: At heart, I’m forever a student of change. Diana

Agatha

Tuesday, July 09, 2024

High heat remains the topic locally. Today, I’ll return to work after a couple of days off. Guess what: I’m looking forward to being there. With very hot sunshine covering this area, hanging around the house is too warm. So is hanging around outside, with sunshine heating metal garbage can lids, making them too hot for bare hands.

High temperatures forced me to spend most of yesterday draped in an easy chair, facing a high-blowing fan. I had the self-assignment of focusing on Agatha Christie’s first published mystery novel, And Then There Were None. It’s a suitable read when weather conditions discourage concentrating.

I previously read just one of Christie’s books, and that was many years ago, back when I was a big admirer of Charlotte Bronte. In UCLA’s Library, I discovered and loved a book by Christie; no, not a mystery, but a brilliant exploration of Bronte’s life and talent. I noted Christie’s fine writing skills and appreciated her sensitivity and insightfulness toward Bronte.

I never was much interested in mystery stories, but then decided to someday read at least some of Christie’s fiction. This current story, And Then There Were None, became her first published novel. Reading it reminds me of her sparse and clean writing style. To progress the story, she disravels details carefully, one by one. She had to have planned, step-by-step, the mystery’s development and flow of events.

Experience is a great teacher, and I anticipate her following stories (some now waiting on my reading table) to be better designed with more gripping plots. If I weren’t expecting that to be, another great teacher, History, would help me “get it.”

Here’s why: Agatha Christe (1890-1976) wrote 66 detective novels and 14 short story collections; research ranks her the bestselling author in history, reporting that only the Bible and Shakespeare have outsold her works.

I have learned that small everyday events and casual observations could become Christie’s ideas for new plots. She wove glimpses of life and her quick ideas into novels from endless notes in dozens of handwritten notebooks. She saw in her jotted erratic ideas potential plots and characters.

She reportedly dictated her initial drafts into a Dictaphone, leaving the typing to an assistant. She would then meticulously revise the typed manuscripts by hand and re-dictate the pages. To gauge audience reactions, Christie read chapters aloud to her family during dinnertimes. Her stories quickly moved from scribbled notes to finished products.

Dear Friends: I’m in awe, and will continue reading Christie and keeping you posted. Diana

In the Tea Leaves

Saturday, July 06, 2024

Among things I’ve never done: Read a mystery novel by Agatha Christie. That’s about to change because I ordered, on an impulse, several of her classics. They’ve arrived, and I wonder why this seems a time for me to be reading, and why Christie, on an impulse. It’s not easily answerable.

As background, I seek quick information and deeper knowledge from online sources. For a long while, I’ve not sat reading a printed book. I’ve learned that the quick internet offers snapshots and summaries that satisfy most of my explorations, and these days, AI technology often speeds up discoveries.

I suppose Christie’s novels are attractive for various reasons. First, they are enduringly popular. All her books have remained viable for a very long time, testifying to their quality and appeal. Second, for unclear reasons, I lately am yearning to sit awhile and read a tactile book; one that’s well-written, easy to read, and entertaining. Christie popped into my mind.

I’ve been wondering why I’ll read mysteries; the genre never particularly appealed to me. Perhaps it’s that in these days of great political and social turmoil, I wish for the comfort and nostalgia of “simpler times.” Besides Christie’s stories having complex plots, what is also attractive is that her mysteries are solved in the old ways, through observation and deduction, instead of advanced technology.

I’ll start this reading project with, And Then There Were None, considered as Christie’s most popular book.

Dear Friends: On sweltering summer days, light reading becomes very inviting. Diana

Unequal

Saturday, March 02, 2024

This is Women’s History Month, and that’s cool. Last night, a PBS piece reopened my memories by covering early and evolving passenger aircraft technology, and the airline passenger business. Particularly, the then new role of Airline Stewardess. Some of my friends became early stewardesses and were envied. They routinely flew to exotic places, met and dated handsome pilots, and often married and moved into new life phases. Those were ladies who accomplished what little girls were programmed to do.

That PBS piece reveals a nasty back story to the enviable stewardess role, in a time when most airline passengers were men. The ladies’ work was to ensure men’s comfort. A stewardess’s training for her role was demanding, and it was abusive. She had to perform her stewardess work perfectly, and also, had always to appear beautiful. She had to be slender and physically fit, well-coiffed and perfectly dressed, always wearing specific makeup, and also well-mannered. Oh yes, she couldn’t be married; a stewardess had to be single.

There was more stress because upon turning 32 years old, a stewardess was considered too old for the role. Airlines pushed every birthday girl out of her job. Some of the early stewardesses were college graduates and felt abused. And some stewardesses were secretly married. The formally educated ladies, and those married to attorneys, began learning about unions. They openly started to question the airlines’ goals and personnel management. The work of those bold stewardesses initiated critical changes in the industry.

I’d go on, but you get it, and the story is easy to stream on PBS. What makes it more fascinating, is that the Stewardess history parallels more changes, beginning in the sixties, that altered women’s roles. Not enough, however, because America still lacks an Equal Rights Amendment.

Dear Friends: March’s videos will remind us of more history and revive our memories. Diana