What The Morning Asks

Thursday, January 22, 2026

This morning feels like a quiet weight. Central Oregon still is hushed beneath a thick inversion layer—and my small world seems held in suspension—deeply still. I almost hear the air breathing as it freezes. I know that heavy fog will erase the Cascade Mountains from the horizon and leave my few acres monochromatic. I know that now the junipers are shadowy sentinels, half-seen and half-imagined.

I’m standing at a window and holding a cup of steaming coffee—and, almost seeing the stubbornly cold air. Frost coats juniper branches and grass blades, and soon, the sun will struggle to rise—pale and ghost-like—trying to burn through the low mist.

Despite this chill, there’s a necessary routine of feeding my horses. In this still darkness, layered in snow pants, a thick sweater, and my heaviest coat, I step outside—into a muffled world. The usual neighborhood sounds are absent; there is only the sharp, rhythmic crunch of frozen earth beneath my boots. I move slowly through this morning’s blurred edges.

The horses are waiting, their whiskers white with ice and their patience thinned by hunger. I hurry through the usual labor—cleaning stalls, filling water buckets, and hauling fresh, sweet hay into the barn. It is work, but offers a few brief, pleasant moments of focus, too. Free of other concerns for the moment, I’m considering this weather inversion, hoping the fog will lift soon and normal clouds return.

Once I have settled the horses, I pause awhile. I listen. Few sounds are as satisfying as the steady, rhythmic grinding of horses chewing—watching them, wholly relishing their meal, is fun, too.

It’s time to turn back toward the house. I crunch across the frozen ground. My dogs, cat, and birds are waiting for their breakfast. Only after caring for them will I prepare for my part-time job.

This is how most of my days begin—as dependably as our January freezes—and regardless of any other weather conditions.

— Diana

What The Distance Gave Me

Sunday, January 18, 2026

While walking with my camera in a familiar place—a small, local BLM parcel I’ve known for years—I noticed that a bird was perched high in a distant tree. The bird was far away, and my photograph turned out to be, at best, a suggestion—an image lacking crisp markings. Instead of offering a pleasing certainty, it yielded only a shape, a posture, and a presence.

At first glance, the image seemed to reveal the kind of bird it might be. But after trying to identify the type without much luck, I was doubting the possibilities.

This Central Oregon area hosts the wintering birds known as Townsend’s Solitaires—or anyway it used to. In my early years here, I often heard their clear, fluting calls, metallic-sounding, and carrying far across the cold air. In these later years, the Solitaires have seemed fewer—quieter.

Or maybe I’m simply recognizing that it’s easy to miss what doesn’t announce itself.

My first impulse was to identify the bird as a Townsend’s Solitaire—lots of evidence pointed there: its high perch, its stillness, its general outline. But looking again—more closely—didn’t stop my doubts. For instance, a little color spot on the bird’s chest, and a bill that looks long and slightly curved. Those really aren’t Solitaire-like.

Maybe it’s a Hermit Thrush. Thrushes sometimes stay throughout winter—quietly and almost invisibly. A Thrust might be a little rare, but not impossible. Or perhaps it’s a flicker—located far enough away that it appears only slightly so.

The longer I looked, the less certain I felt—and the more interesting I began finding this whole experience.

I often pause to consider something most of us learn early on—it’s a constant desire to name things quickly and be done with it. We’re taught to associate the speed of identification with success. Modern life encourages that habit.

That was my first objective here, too. But taking time to consider the distance of that tree and bird—and later reviewing my imperfect capture—let me start to accept that neither the image nor my memory of that moment offered enough certainty.

That’s when something different occurred to me: this is a photograph that doesn’t need certainty.

Instead, my moments of reflection—and that image itself—seemed to be asking for patience. They were asking for attention—for an observer’s willingness to stay without knowing answers.

I refocused and found that I could view the image differently. I began to sense there wasn’t a need for accurate identification. Already, instead, this image could feel complete. Now, I could see a bird, perched, watching—and entirely undisturbed by my internal debate. Any ambiguities belonged to me alone.

I am posting that photo simply because I like it, and can allow the bird to remain unnamed. Yes, it could have been identified as one type or another. But looking closely and letting myself become involved transformed the experience of seeing. I found another way to understand the whole point of that image’s existence.

This episode was another small learning event. I had seen something at a distance that reminded me of what once felt common; I’d recognized some elements that in general have grown quieter. I decided to allow my thinking-and-feeling processes to be enough—and to legitimize the image.

My work with the camera reminds me constantly of the value in pausing and “looking again.” That practice doesn’t always sharpen answers; sometimes, it serves as a companion, by encouraging a softening of the questions themselves.

— Diana

Feathers & Footsteps

Friday, January 16, 2026

The other afternoon, Peaches and I went for a walk. The day was lovely and warm; I didn’t even need a jacket. He perched on my shoulder—a heavenly lookout post—greeting anyone nearby with “Hello, hello!” or “Goodbye, goodbye!” Or he simply screamed, unrestrained and joyous, resisting every attempt I made to quiet him. (If your ears had ever been on the receiving end of his screams, you’d understand.)

Peaches, my Cockatoo, loves going on walks, and on this one he was especially delighted. I’d been promising him an outing for a long time. But I’ve been busy—winterizing the house and barn, and, rather suddenly, starting a new part-time job. Short winter days haven’t helped either, with daylight disappearing before it ought to.

But now, no more promises. We’re finally out and about.

Peaches is quite an attention-getter. People, seeing him for the first time, doubt their eyes: a large, white, very alive bird on someone’s shoulder (or arm, or head—if the wind isn’t too strong—or essentially anywhere he decides to perch). Walkers stop to ask about him. Drivers roll down their windows. Everyone wants to hear him talk. And does he, when they ask? Of course not—he waits until they’re out of earshot, and then he suddenly won’t shut up.

This year, Peaches turns twenty. All wonderful, except for the fact that a healthy parrot can live to be seventy. I’ve always known that someday he’ll need another home. Finding the right one for him weighs on me. Deciding to keep a parrot means making a long-term commitment to a bird who is no shrinking violet.

What makes it easier is that parrots are fun, companionable creatures. My Peaches sings, dances, and talks. He loves music—the louder and more rockabilly, the better. He makes me laugh. What surprises me most is how easily I fall into lively conversations with him. I’m often caught off guard by his inquisitive, animated, and lovable qualities. He’s not “just a bird.” Peaches is a person-bird. And yes, we have discussions.

An earlier sweet Cockatoo in my life, named Crackers, and now Peaches, too, have convinced me of the high intelligence of birds. All birds—wild and domestic—are smart, but some species are famously so: members of the Corvid family (Crows, Ravens, Jays, Magpies) and the so-called “intelligent parrots,” like African Greys.

Corvids and parrots demonstrate their intelligence through tool-use, problem-solving, and complex communication. Cockatoos are among these bright ones—so smart, these birds. (And because I can’t help myself, here’s my extra two cents: over the years, my chickens—and especially my turkeys—have proved themselves far smarter than people typically give them credit for.)

Today’s header photo shows the road ahead on our walk. To complete the loop, here’s another look at that same road—the section we’ve just left behind.

— Diana

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

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

Scattering Seeds, Rebalancing

Thursday, September 25, 2025

This fall, I can’t seem to get flowers, bees, and butterflies out of my mind. These days are shortening, and there’s more chill creeping in, yet my mind keeps circling around things like nectar-rich blooms and winged visitors returning to them one day.

It’s probably due to the pressures in my outside retail job. The store is busier this time of year — new displays, seasonal merchandise, constantly shifting schedules, and the steady press of customer interactions. Additionally, leadership weighs on me. I cringe at being micromanaged and pushed toward difficult-to-achieve sales goals. These leave me off-balance, make me want to establish my own pace and direction. At home, my mind keeps wandering toward slower, more sustaining rhythms.

Now, here in Central Oregon, fall is sharpening the air. Mornings begin with thin frost, afternoons flash with sudden sun, and evenings drift early toward darkness. The horses’ and my donkey’s coats are thickening; my dogs race across grasses that crunch under their paws; and a more expansive sky above the Cascades creates dramatic clarity.

In these everyday seasonal scenes, I find myself searching for emotional balance. My thoughts aren’t just passing, but they’re pulls–to scatter wildflower seeds, to trust the earth to hold and protect them through winter, and then, see blooms rising with bees and butterflies dancing among them again in spring.

It’s a way of offsetting the grind — those hours measured in transactions, sales goals, and schedules. I yearn, instead, for another continuity — the hum of bees, the shimmer of butterfly wings, the quiet return of flowers after their winter’s sleep.

And besides, there’s a larger picture. Planting seeds for pollinators is also planting seeds for myself — a reminder of beauty’s return after seasons of dormancy. Renewal doesn’t require much — just clearing a patch of ground, scattering seeds, and trusting in nature’s quiet magic.

Maybe my fall thoughts aren’t only about flowers and creatures. They might also be pointing me toward deeper needs, like toward balancing the seasons of my own life. What I’m sure of right now is that scattering seeds feels like an excellent step forward.

These small actions will matter — for bees, for butterflies, and, in many quiet ways, for me too.

— Diana