Thanksgiving 2025

Thursday, November 27, 2025

In the very early hours on this Thanksgiving Day—and somewhere between drifting out of sleep and deciding to get out of bed—I found myself thinking a great deal about my mother. Not about her holiday meals or the rituals of past Thanksgivings, but about something quieter and far more enduring: her creativity, especially as she expressed it, in her clothing choices.

She had a way of dressing that was a little unusual for “those days.” People might have called her overdressed or a touch too polished for everyday life. Yet if she were strolling into a department store today, she’d simply be called stylish—bold, intentional, and entirely herself.

My own style has wandered a long road. During my working years in the corporate world, I wore the expected uniform: suits—navy, brown, black—paired with conservative tops and sensible pumps. Nothing daring, nothing loud, nothing to draw a second glance. I wore a kind of professional armor—respectable, reliable, and utterly unremarkable.

When retirement arrived, I traded corporate life for horses—beautiful, messy, mud-slinging horses. My “style,” if one could call it that, became functional layers, dusty denim, barn jackets, and shirts no longer resembling their original colors. Horse life doesn’t care about fashion; it cares about surviving the elements and getting hay out of your clothing and hair. I spent years happily dressed in what was only describable as rags-with-purpose.

It wasn’t until much later, when I found a job in retail, that I realized how far I’d drifted from any real sense of style. Surrounded suddenly by fabrics, mannequins, new arrivals, and customers asking for advice, I felt nudged to re-engage—to look again, learn again, and find my footing in a world I had set aside.

And that’s when my long-past style influencers quietly began resurfacing.

I found myself drawn to earlier icons—especially the simplicity of Chanel, her confident elegance, and her refusal to apologize for beauty or individuality. I re-discovered that Chanel’s originality speaks to me, still, even after all my years of practicality and barn dust.

One of the more “interesting” designers who followed in Coco’s House of Chanel was Karl Lagerfeld. I discovered his bold creations after starting to work in retail. At first, I disliked them wholeheartedly. Karl loved to scrawl his name with messages from Paris all over his designs. I swore—loudly to myself—that I would never wear a garment plastered with an egotist’s name and scribbles.

Until, on a whim and unable to resist, I brought a pair of Karl’s Jeans—they had large and rhinestone-encrusted cuffs. I finally got up the courage to wear them in public—and found my jeans becoming noticed up and down the street—greeted not with laughter, but with appreciation. Real appreciation. For their sparkles, their boldness, and mostly, the humor of it all.

After that, I softened—began studying “the Karls.” I’d try on a piece or two and, after that, buy one and wear it in public. I discovered that being noticed could feel…fun. Beneath it all, though, my clothing choices always drifted back to clean and timeless Chanel lines—ones my mother would have admired.

So early today, my mind wandered to fashion—my mother appeared as my guide. At first, her presence confused my drowsy self, until I realized that she had been my guide—the style influencer that I never fully recognized, until now.

Here, in my later years. While reflecting sleepily on my recent journey in retail and hearing my customers ask, “What is my style?” (and asking myself, what’s mine?), I could see myself gradually viewing “something called style” differently. Most importantly, this morning, I understood how I’ve learned to appreciate what my mother quietly handed down to me.

Today, I’m thankful for all these—for the subtle inheritance of taste, for the courage to express myself, and for a mother whose sense of style found its way back to me—long after I thought I had left it behind.

Happy Thanksgiving!

— Diana

The “Third Thirty”

Wednesday, November 26, 2025

My advanced age has me thinking a lot about our aging years—and not as times of decline, but as times of progression. They’re another movement—and a series of choices we can make about who we’re becoming.

Recently, I listened as an “old friend,” Jane Fonda, spoke about believing that our lives unfold in three acts—and emphasized that each act lasts 30 years. Her ideas struck me immediately, both for their simplicity and for their accuracy.

In Fonda’s model, our first thirty years are a period of discovery, in which we figure out how to live, work, love, and become thoughtful about ways to survive our mistakes. Our second thirty years are a period of responsibility, in which we build careers, raise families, create homes, deepen commitments, and steady ourselves. And then—if we’re fortunate—we enter our third thirty years. Then, after sixty, we can finally look backward with clarity and also look forward with intention.

I am adopting Fonda’s view. She’s refusing to “get old” in any traditional sense. She doesn’t deny the body’s changes or the brevity of time ahead, but instead, suggests that by sixty, we’ve gathered enough wisdom to see our remaining years as something like a design project. That’s a new span of years for us to use, to edit, refresh, and refine—much like a cherished home or garden—which we finally have time to tend properly.

I agree with her, and I get her point—that each of us arrives at our third thirty carrying the sum of our experiences. She says that point represents our lessons learned: the habits that kept us going, the relationships that shaped us, and the courage we’ve gained the hard way.

What’s remarkable about our third stage is the sense that we’re not simply living out our remaining years—but actively shaping them. We’re deciding who we want to be in our third act. We might want to be identifiable—and thus, stylish or invisible, curious or complacent, engaged or withdrawn.

The old ideas about “not getting old” harken back to times when people tried to pretend they were younger than they were. Instead, new ideas about getting old have everything to do with staying current, interested, and actively in one’s own life.

Like Fonda, I want my style to say I’m still here. I want my choices to reflect a mind that’s awake. I want to use what I’ve learned from my first sixty—or eighty—years in ways that open and make my third stretch feel richer and more spacious—and maybe even more joyful.

It’s a relief to find myself thinking this way! To be imagining my third-thirty as not needing to be a “fading-out,” but instead be a revision—a reinvention—and a “creative third act.”

How extraordinary that the cycles of aging can lead to and allow us this—a moment when we have finally shed enough expectations to become more fully ourselves.

I sense others around my age feel similar rumblings. A sense of not being finished—not even close. Jane’s view captures what our third-thirties are meant to be—a time to show up dressed, interested, and ready to be the next version of ourselves.

— Diana

A “New Aging” Conversation Circle

Saturday, November 22, 2025

Imagining The Circle

In my mind, the group isn’t large. Maybe six to twelve people—enough for richness, but small.

I’ve written recently that those of us in our 70s, 80s, and 90s may be discovering that we’re living in moments no one could ever have prepared us for. These days, we find ourselves living healthier longer, staying mentally alert longer, and remaining deeply engaged with the world longer—way beyond what earlier generations ever imagined. Our younger society hasn’t yet recognized all the changes affecting its oldest population. These changes are personal, complex, sometimes isolating, and often surprisingly similar among people of advanced ages.

Writing has made me consider such “elderly biological and cultural shifts” more deeply. I’m even imagining what it might “look like” to gather with others also navigating the new territories of aging. I’m not visualizing a formal club or a structured workshop—just a thoughtful, recurring space to talk about our “inner lives of growing older” in today’s world.

What A Group Might Feel Like

In my mind, such a group isn’t large. Maybe six to twelve people—enough for richness, but small enough for real conversation. A circle of chairs, not rows. A living-room feel, not a classroom. Perhaps it would meet monthly or every few weeks, with no obligation beyond showing up and being oneself.

There needn’t be a leader in the traditional sense—it’s more of a shared stewardship. A group that could gently guide itself, the way good conversations naturally do. Meetings might center on topics. One might be the surprise of still feeling young inside. Others might explore purpose, or changing friendships, or the odd friction between staying capable and being treated as fragile.

The group wouldn’t represent therapy, nor serve as a complaint circle. It’d be a place to name what today’s aging really feels like—and to hear others say, “I’ve felt that too.”

This Matters Because

We’re the first aging generation to find that, while living this chapter of life, we’re also having to invent this chapter. We’re the first generation to be alive for decades of healthy years beyond traditional retirement. And we’re the first generation needing to reconcile our longer lives against an outdated cultural script that still imagines “old age” as it looked fifty years ago.

Our task—to pioneer and modernize the aging experience, may feel easier—and richer—when it’s shared.

This is a suggested “conversation circle” of elderly participants—not a way to solve the larger social issues of aging. It could, however, illuminate them, while also offering grounding, connection, humor, and clarity. It could help participants understand ourselves in ways we don’t always get to while navigating the advanced years alone.

For now, it’s just an idea I am sketching—an outline—a possibility. If others feel the same pull, perhaps it will take shape. As with most meaningful things in life, maybe energy will start to gather around it.

For The “Interested Some”

What’s this group about?

It’s a small, recurring conversation circle for people in their 70s, 80s, and 90s who want to talk about the inner experience of aging in today’s world—identity, purpose, vitality, ageism, relationships, curiosity, and what it means to be living longer and healthier than previous generations. (Okay, too, if people in their 60s wish to participate.)

Is this a support group or therapy?

No. It’s not a therapy or counseling group. It’s a thoughtful discussion circle—more like a gathering of peers who want to explore life’s later years with honesty, humor, and insight.

How big will the group be?

Small—ideally 6–12 participants. Big enough for varied perspectives, small enough for everyone to speak and feel comfortable.

Who leads the group?

There is no formal “leader.” The group guides itself. One person may help keep time or open the meeting, but the conversation belongs to everyone.

What kinds of topics will we discuss?

Topics may include:

staying healthy and active
experiences with ageism
identity shifts and reinvention
loneliness, friendship, connection
unexpected confidence or creativity
memories that take on new meaning
the realities of energy, motivation, and purpose
navigating losses while also discovering new growth

Every meeting may have a theme, but there will always be room for whatever people bring that day.

How often will the group meet?

Most likely once a month or every few weeks, depending on what the group decides.

Is there a cost or commitment?

No cost. No long-term commitment. Just come when you feel drawn to the conversation.

Do I have to talk?

You’re welcome to speak as much or as little as you wish. Listening is also a valuable form of participation.

What would the atmosphere be like?

Warm, respectful, curious, confidential, and welcoming. A place where no one is judged for aging in their own way. A place where humor is welcome and honesty is valued.

I’m interested and a Central Oregonian; so, what now?

Simply share your name and contact information to let me know you’d like to be included as the idea takes shape. Once enough people express interest, we’ll choose a meeting time and place.

— Diana

A Space For The “New Aging”

Friday, November 21, 2025 (DRAFT)

Thoughts About Community

In my last post, I wrote about what it feels like to live in my mid-80s with health, clarity, and purpose—something I never imagined experiencing decades ago. The more I reflect on this unexpected stage of life, the more I notice something important: people my age are living through a transition that no generation before us has experienced.

We are healthy longer.
We are active longer.
We are present in the world longer.

And yet, it seems that almost no one talks about what this actually feels like.

A Missing Conversation

In recent months, I’ve noticed how often folks around my age quietly share stories with me that echo my own:

being underestimated because of age
feeling “out of sync” with stereotypes
balancing independence with shifting social expectations
managing losses while also discovering new energy
feeling invisible and visible at the same time

These conversations usually happen in corners—in my retail job while speaking with customers, or spontaneously during errands or in spaces between tasks. They’re brief, spontaneous exchanges that end with, “I’m glad we talked about this.”

I’ve been wondering why there isn’t a regular place for people in their 70+ years to have such deeper conversations openly. Not about illnesses or medications—that’s already been done. I mean about the life side of aging: identity, purpose, invisibility, curiosity, grief, reinvention, and the strange thrill of still being very much here.

A Thought That Keeps Returning

What if there were a small group that gathered—say, weekly or monthly—simply to talk about what it’s like to live in these later years with awareness and vitality? That would be creating a setting where age isn’t the topic so much as the lens.

This could be a group that sees aging not as retreat, but as a frontier.

This idea isn’t about therapy or advice-giving. It’s more like a conversation circle—thoughtful, warm, respectful, and open. A place where people who are navigating this unfamiliar terrain can compare notes, share insights, and feel understood.

But Here’s the Truth

The thought of organizing such a group overwhelms me a bit. Maybe that’s because it feels larger than one person. It feels like something that should grow naturally, not through pressure or obligation.

Yet the need keeps nudging me. It’s as if something in our culture is waiting to be named—and conversation is often how naming begins.

Maybe the Group Begins Here

So for now, I’m simply writing about it—opening the idea—to the air—to see if it wants to take a shape and what that might be like. Perhaps others will feel the same pull, and maybe a few voices will gather. Maybe such a group will form itself, slowly and organically, the way meaningful things often do.

I’m not ready to declare myself the leader of anything. But I am ready to acknowledge that many of us—living longer, living differently—are hungry—for a place to speak, to listen, and to understand this unexpected chapter together.

This post is simply a beginning.
A seed.
A space held open.

And we’ll see what grows from it.

— Diana

In My 80s: A New Kind of Frontier

Thursday, November 20, 2925

I’ve been thinking about what it means to be in my mid-80s—healthy, clear-minded, deeply involved in daily life—and how strange and surprising this stage feels compared to what I imagined many years ago.

The truth is, I never pictured myself “here.” Growing up, I didn’t know a single person in their 80s who was still vibrant, working, and engaged. Most older people I saw (even in their 60s) were frail or withdrawn, already living in the narrow, expected lane that society has quietly painted for “seniors.”

But today’s medicine has changed dramatically. So has nutrition, lifestyle science, and our understanding of the mind. Something new is happening: people are living longer and staying healthier. We’re extending not just lifespan, but healthspan. And those of us who find ourselves active and well in our 80s are, in a way, pioneers. We’re the first generation who must learn how to inhabit this expanded stage of life—because there is no blueprint yet.

The Question I Keep Getting

In my retail work, where I interact with countless customers, I am asked about my age more than ever. And I don’t answer. Not because I’m ashamed—far from it—but because the question usually comes with something else: an immediate rush of unsolicited expectations.

People seem eager to explain what they think someone my age should be doing. Resting. Retiring. Slowing down. Disappearing from the working world.

What they’re really telling me is that they can’t imagine being my age any more than I once could. They’re trying to match the person they see—present, engaged, competent, and curious—with the outdated stereotype of an “elder” that they still carry. That mismatch unsettles them, and age questions become a way to resolve the puzzle.

I’ve come to understand this as a soft, reflexive form of ageism. Not cruel or intentional—just unexamined. A product of our culture’s old mental images about aging, images that many people haven’t updated yet.

A Quiet but Powerful Shift

But here’s the interesting part: every time someone encounters a healthy, active, eighty-something, their internal map of aging shifts—just a little. They’re being stretched into acknowledging a new possibility: that older age can look very different from the images they grew up with.

When I decline to answer age questions, I’m setting a boundary, but I’m also doing something else. I’m reminding people that age is neither a credential nor a limitation. My value—in work, in conversation, in life—comes from who I am right now, not the number attached to my birth year.

What Comes Next

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how many people around my age are experiencing these same shifts, these same mismatches between who we are and how the world imagines us. Our generation is living through an evolution that society hasn’t fully named.

There’s a bigger conversation to be had about aging today—about identity, purpose, mental and physical vitality, boundaries, curiosity, and what it means to live longer and healthier than we ever expected.

That conversation is brewing inside me. Perhaps it will grow into something more structured—a regular discussion, a gathering, a community space for people in their seventies and eighties to share experiences and observations. Perhaps it will simply unfold one piece at a time.

For now, this is just the beginning.

And I’m curious where it will lead.

— Diana

A New Rhythm

Sunday, October 26, 2025

I’m planning to step away from my full-time position in Fine Jewelry by transitioning to part-time and working across various departments in the same store. By working fewer hours and fewer days, I’ll have more time — for home, animals, and an ever-growing list of “small things” that rarely feel optional.

After months of the steady, clock-driven pace of full-time work, this change feels a bit jolting. My brain and body are still tuned to the structured, predictable rhythm of getting up, getting ready, and heading out the door. But now, I’m starting to anticipate having new rhythms filling my mornings — and that feels expansive, less about tight schedules and more about open, unhurried time. More daylight to enjoy will have me more attentive to the familiar sounds of paws, hooves, and feathers wanting my attention.

I’ll add quotes around “free” time, because much of it will actually be spent working. The days ahead will be filled with fences to check, water troughs to keep from freezing, and growing concerns about winter — it’s not just whispering anymore; it’s been shouting its imminent arrival for the last couple of days and insisting that I handle some essential tasks. These tasks might seem a bit daunting, but I’m also looking forward to cozy winter days ahead.

The goodness of adjusting my schedule isn’t just about managing responsibilities. It’s also a tip of the hat to something more personal: the crucial value of having time to simply think, breathe, and rebalance. It will give my mind and body space to find new opportunities for experience and growth.

I’m curious as to how my days may reshape themselves — where the hours will go once they’re no longer so tightly claimed by a time clock. Maybe into the barn. Maybe into the quiet. Maybe back into reading and blogging regularly.

This season, as days grow shorter, reminds me that every shift in weather or in work offers something new. Right now, I’m being invited to slow down and listen more closely to the small rhythms that keep my life steady: soft nickers from the barn, the hush before dawn, the impulse to lift my camera again and capture what feels special about the world around me.

Mostly, I’m grateful for the comfort of having more time to simply be—and to notice.

— Diana

Different Realities

Friday, October 17, 2025

I grew up in a small Oklahoma town during a time when social norms encouraged people to reconcile their differing versions of the world by searching for and settling on common viewpoints. The best solution for conflicting opinions was usually to satisfy the “commonly held” middle ground. Such viewpoints tended to reflect the widely accepted and “popular truths” that most people—before the internet and modern technology—generally agreed upon.

As a young person, I found the differing versions of reality unsettling. I struggled to make sense of them before eventually realizing that many forces shape people’s perceptions—one’s upbringing, information sources, fears, hopes, and fatigue. Other influences too—culture, personal experience, and cognitive biases—play powerful roles in shaping how we each perceive truth and reality.

Even now, I’m sometimes taken aback when long-time or new friends express opinions or wishes that seem to belong to an alternate reality. Some might find such moments reassuring, as evidence of progress, while others might see them as signs of decline. I’ve come to sense that some people find comfort in tradition while others draw inspiration from innovation. Recognizing that helps me accept our differing realities.

I often imagine us all standing in the same landscape, each looking up at the same vast sky but through different filters—some perhaps tinting it with unusual colors. Each of us navigates life through a private, learned lens, one that has either been refined over time or obscured by it.

In my more mature years, I try to respond gently to others’ realities. I no longer attempt to reconcile their perspectives with mine—or mine with theirs. As others speak from their own worlds, sometimes so different from my own, I try to listen for the heartbeat beneath their words—for the universal emotions of worry, pride, love, or loss. It’s there, in those shared emotional spaces, that our realities overlap and understanding becomes possible.

These days, I keep my focus on what’s directly before me—my own, very real world. That includes my dogs at dawn, the fall season’s newly chilled air, and the always-marvelous scent of early morning coffee. These rhythms mark the beginning of my days; they are among my certain truths.

We often hear that our shared world is fracturing. That notion is open to many interpretations. Yet despite our differences, many of us still believe in shared ground—the small, tangible things we can all see and touch.

We may never fully align others’ realities with our own, but we can remain faithful to the core values that most people strive to live by and nurture in their daily lives.

After all, we are remarkable beings—capable of rising to the challenges of caring for one another.

— Diana

Falling Back With The Pack

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

Every fall, when the clocks are about to “fall back,” I find myself thinking about the ways this time change will ripple through the rhythm of my household. For one thing, there are my early mornings—I’m an early riser, usually awake by five. Very often, I’m reminded it’s “getting-up time” by the gentle tapping of paws on the hardwood floor, heading my way.

After saying hello to my dogs and getting on my feet, I love being awake in that early hour. The world is still quiet, the coffee is strong, and for a few quality moments, I have no obligations.

It amazes me how precisely my dogs seem to know when it’s five o’clock. I hear their toes tapping down the hallway, sense their hesitation, and then find them beside my bed—tails wagging, eyes bright. My projection clock says it’s five o’clock, and I wonder how they tune into some invisible clock that runs on instinct instead of batteries.

In a few short weeks, their invisible clock will clash with the one on my wall. When daylight saving time ends, will they still wake me at what their bodies think is five a.m.—while my clock insists it’s four? How long will it take them to adjust to the new rhythm? I suspect they’ll manage faster than I do.

I’ve gone through this annual shift many times and know what’s ahead. Yet every autumn’s time change feels like a new game. I can already anticipate my confusion, mild grumpiness, and the faint irritation that comes with every mandatory reset of the clock.

The dogs, like me, will need some time to sort things out. Meanwhile, it’ll be on me alone to get up around five—while they sleep in, waiting for what feels right to them. Soon enough, they’ll catch on. Dogs are practical; they read a household’s energy for meaning beyond the numbers on a clock.

My notions of falling back with the pack make the upcoming change feel less mechanical and more communal—as if we’ll all be adjusting together through the darker mornings, each in our own way.

Our human world may be run by clocks and calendars, but the dogs might have it right: when the rhythm changes, don’t fight it. Just stretch, yawn, and greet every new wrinkle with a wag.

Essentially, time itself has its moods.

— Diana

In The Story

Saturday, October 04, 2025

I grew up in the 1950s and ’60s, when life expectancies were shorter than they are today. Back then, reaching eighty-five seemed almost mythical — something that happened to “very old people,” but not to all of them.

Yet here I am, at eighty-five, still alive, active, and managing the daily demands of home life while also working a full-time job outside my home. Over the past few years, as I’ve learned how to work in retail environments, I’ve encountered ageism — sometimes subtle, sometimes not. People have told me outright: “You shouldn’t be working, you should be enjoying your twilight years!” or “You’ve earned your rest — why are you here working?”

My life lessons and learning are that staying engaged, helpful, and connected is my way of enjoying and making the most of them.

After experiencing uninvited confrontations related to aging, I have elected not to answer when people ask about my age. Let them look. Let them guess. I’ll let my energy and presence speak for me. Age is only a number; contribution is a choice.

I’m now rethinking somewhat, for Jane Fonda has begun resurfacing in the public eye again. And, I find myself noticing her with renewed interest. She has always been bold — both in her career and in her willingness to age openly, in plain view of the world. Now, while approaching eighty-eight, she is again speaking out, supporting free speech and democracy — still active, still fearless, still herself.

Her appearance has changed, naturally, but not in ways that erase her. She’s slender, stylish, and poised. If she’s had work done, it’s subtle. She lets her neck, however, tell the truth of her years — and to me, that’s oddly comforting. I see her as not hiding from the passage of time.

To me, Jane Fonda has become more than just an actress or an activist. She is a symbol of endurance. Her journey, which we have witnessed growing up alongside her, is a testament to her resilience and strength. She symbolizes the permission to remain visible, to express opinions, to care deeply, and to stay part of the ongoing conversation. She shows that relevance is not confined to youth.

At eighty-five, my private reality is a testament to the meaningfulness that comes with caring for animals and responsibilities. I never expected to live this long, feel this alive, or be this responsible. The unexpectedness of my current situation keeps life interesting. Yet, I still work full-time, on my feet, solving problems and engaging with people. And when the day is done, I return home to care for my animals and keep my world running. It’s not easy, but it brings a profound sense of purpose.

To people who suggest I should slow down, relax, and “enjoy life,” it’s my work and routines that bring me joy — they give shape and purpose to my days. I’ve never had cosmetic surgery and don’t want it. Instead, I take pride in how I present myself: in my clothing, my interests, my energy. My mind is clear, my curiosity intact.

Without family nearby, my workplace provides me a sense of belonging — through friendly interactions, shared goals, and the simple recognition that I am still making a contribution. Those exchanges keep me grounded.

And now, to my surprise, Jane Fonda is becoming a role model, not for her fame or glamour, but for her persistence and grace. She reminds me that aging isn’t about looking young — it’s about staying in the story.

Maybe that’s what aging is teaching us: not how to fade away, but how to keep showing up. Jane Fonda illustrates that we can grow into our later selves with intention, not apology. She is still visible, still learning, still engaged — and so am I, in my own way.

Inside, I don’t feel old. I think seasoned — aware, shaped, and, in many ways, more certain than ever. My work keeps me connected; my mind keeps me company. And if I find a mirror in Jane Fonda, it isn’t in her polish or fame — it’s in her refusal to disappear.

At eighty-five, I’m not winding down. I’m still becoming — quieter, perhaps, but clearer. Still part of the conversation. Still in the story.

— Diana

Hearing the Calling

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

For several days, and again this morning over coffee, I’ve had my mind on an old movie that I’ve chosen to watch more than once: Bagdad Café (1987). Like Sounder, which I recently wrote about, it’s stayed with me longer than most films. Maybe because of the quiet desert roads, which feel oddly familiar against my own Central Oregon landscape—wide spaces, moments of isolation, and the surprising ways “connection can arrive.”

Each time I’ve watched, I’ve sensed there’s more going on beneath the story’s surface. At first glance, it appears to be a lighthearted, eccentric comedy with superb acting. However, upon reflecting on its story and characters, I’m convinced that it’s an allegory—and one worth sharing.

On its surface, Bagdad Café is quirky and offbeat, full of small mishaps and comic misunderstandings. Yet behind the humor lies something larger. The setting is a dusty, broken-down café in the Mojave Desert, the sort of place most would drive past without stopping. Into this place come two women: Jasmin, a German tourist, after suddenly being abandoned by her husband, and Brenda, the café’s owner, after being left behind by her husband. Both women are prickly, suspicious, and in their own ways exiled and alone.

At first, the café is a mess—disordered, tired, going nowhere. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, Jasmin’s presence begins to change it. She cleans, she listens, she performs small acts of magic. Brenda resists at first, then softens. Before long, the café is transformed from a tired outpost into a place of beauty, music, and connection.

One image that lingers with me is of Brenda’s husband, who, after leaving, keeps watching the café through binoculars. He has walked away, yet can’t resist observing from a distance. To me, this is part of the allegory. He represents those who see but never engage—hovering on the edge of transformation but unwilling to step into it. His gaze is controlling, even possessive, yet powerless. In contrast, Jasmin—the German, or true outsider—enters fully and brings renewal. The binoculars make the husband an emblem of distance, without connection, reminding us that healing comes only when we dare to join in, not when we stand back and watch.

The cast itself reinforces this sense of something larger: a German tourist, a Black American café owner (played by a British actress), an American painter (played by a once-famous film star), and an assortment of desert drifters. This gathering suggests more than coincidence—it’s also a picture of cultures meeting, colliding, and creating something new together. In that sense, the movie’s haunting refrain “I am calling you” can also be heard as a call across borders, an invitation to connection that transcends nationality, language, and race.

Other details I can’t shake involve Brenda’s children. One is a young father determinedly practicing classical piano in that unlikely setting. His grand piano in that battered desert café feels almost surreal, yet it deepens the allegory: aspiration in unlikely soil. His music insists that beauty and culture belong everywhere—not just in gilded concert halls, but even in a dusty roadside outpost, if someone dares to press the keys.

Then there’s Brenda’s teenage daughter, restless and intent on leaving. She represents another answer to the calling: not to stay and transform, but to escape in search of something better. Her choice is human and understandable, yet it contrasts with Jasmine’s quiet decision to remain and renew. Together, the piano player and the daughter remind us that when the call comes, each of us must answer in our own way—by staying and creating, or by moving on. Either way, the call cannot be ignored. Both children become transformed by the café’s changed atmosphere and remain connected to it.

The more I think about it, the more Bagdad Café feels like a parable of renewal. The café isn’t just a diner—it stands for the barren places we all sometimes inhabit, whether in spirit or in life. Jasmin, the German stranger, becomes an unexpected redeemer, bringing grace without asking for much in return. Brenda, toughened and skeptical, is the everywoman—ready for renewal if she dares to trust.

Threading through it all is the film’s haunting song, Calling You. The lyrics drift in like a voice from beyond:

A desert road from Vegas to nowhere … I am calling you.

For me, that refrain is the heart of the film—maybe hope itself speaking, maybe spirit, or simply the mysterious force that draws us toward one another when we feel lost. Whatever its source, the call is unmistakable. It reminds us that life doesn’t end in the wasteland. Something new can bloom, even in the dust.

These days, I am struggling to find my footing in a competitive environment among strong coworkers. I’m recalling this movie and its message, likely because it’s calling me to stay open to the possibility of renewal, even though I sometimes feel inclined to shut down.

Maybe the movie’s refrain—I am calling you—and its use of magic, aren’t just for the characters in a quirky old film. Perhaps those are calling all of us, tugging gently, if only we allow ourselves quiet moments to hear.

—Diana