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

Listening for Presence

Thursday, December 18, 2025

Yesterday, I wrote my first of several planned posts about listening to music, and I paused. Soon, something different and subtle struck me. I was highly focused on writing about music, but wasn’t rushing off to research or make lists. Nor was I working on organizing sections, say about eras, or trying to build arguments toward a point of view. Instead, I found myself involved in actively listening itself.

I wasn’t listening constantly, nor methodically—but differently, very thoughtfully. More slowly. More attentively. I found myself listening for something, and not simply to something. That “something” has always been hard to name, but it’s something I constantly search for–and I always recognize it instantly when it appears.

To me, certain voices don’t merely enter a room—they change the space. The air feels altered, and as a listener, I feel myself being addressed—and personally. This doesn’t depend on volume or virtuosity. It’s likely to arrive in a whisper, a pause, a cracked note, a breath held just a beat longer than expected.

Here are examples: While listening to Louis Armstrong, I realized I’m not just hearing sound; I’m hearing weight—as if he’s carrying joy alongside sorrow, humor braided with endurance. When Ella Fitzgerald sings, I hear something like generosity in her phrasing—as though she’s opening space rather than filling it. Nina Simone’s voice creates a world where feeling becomes thought itself—urgent, unyielding, refusing comfort. Janis Joplin sang as if nothing were protected. Amy Winehouse sang as if she already knew the cost.

Here’s what strikes me: these are voices that don’t ask permission. They don’t soften themselves for acceptability. They don’t sound engineered to land well—they sound natural and necessary.

When I hear them, the idea of “performance” feels inadequate. Performance suggests polish, presentation, and a certain distance. Instead, I hear presence. I sense the singer fully inside the moment, and bringing me along without barriers between experience and expression.

Presence can’t be trained into someone, and presence can’t be copied. One can imitate another’s phrasing, tone, and even style. But “real presence” isn’t a technique; it’s a condition. And listeners know it when they hear it.

I often think about how rare this feels today—not because artists lack talent, but because so much contemporary music is filtered through expectations of marketability, branding, perfection, and constant visibility. Today’s technologies create pressure to be seamless, consistent, and endlessly repeatable. Earlier music, by contrast, often allowed unevenness. Performances included roughness, surprise, and even discomfort.

That may be why I return so often to voices from earlier decades—or search for modern artists who feel somehow outside the machine. I seek those whose sounds are as though something real is happening to them as they sing, not just through them.

I’m not suggesting that suffering creates great art, or that pain is a requirement for authenticity. But lived experience—fully inhabited—leaves traces. Great artists allow those traces to remain audible.

Listening in this way makes me consider my own habits. How often do I listen while doing something else? How quickly do I move on when a song doesn’t immediately reward me? How conditioned have I become to smoothness—to ease?

This is my second post about listening to music. Not to make a conclusion, but to create something more like a tuning fork. A small way of noticing what resonates—and what doesn’t.

In another post on this topic, I hope to stay close to this question: What makes a voice unrepeatable? Not better. Not more famous. But singular—so that no matter how many imitators try to cover an original, something essential refuses to transfer.

For now, I’ll keep listening for presence. And I’ll gamble that once you hear it, you can’t un-hear it either.

— Diana

Letting Go, Mending, Learning

Tuesday, December 09, 2025

Several weeks ago, after leaving my sales job in a large retail department store, I turned my attention back to a long list of needs waiting at home. I contracted for a new roof, got long-overdue electrical repairs done, and—perhaps in the biggest emotional task of all—helped my beloved donkey, Pimmy, transition to her new home.

Fortunately, that new home is nearby and I visit often, which softens the bittersweetness. Pimmy is a “special needs” pet, living with Cushing’s disease and Type II diabetes. Over the past year, I carefully managed her diet, and she lost nearly 200 pounds. She now looks bright, alert, and almost youthful again.

Her “new person” is a retired nurse—gentle, steady, and knowledgeable—who understands Pimmy’s conditions and is both vigilant and deeply caring. Pimmy now wears a grazing mask and spends her days roaming a generous pasture with her new buddy, an aging Arab gelding. The regular movement is doing wonders: she’s walking more freely, her energy has lifted, and her coat is turning fluffier and shinier, as if she’s growing into a chapter all her own.

Meanwhile, life with my two horses has kept me just as busy. With Pimmy settled, I turned to repairing fencing, cleaning the barn, and making a few improvements to the horses’ living space—projects that had been quietly waiting for months. Horses have a way of creating their own to-do lists, and mine certainly did.

Rosie, who is sturdy but sometimes finds trouble, managed to develop a hoof abscess. It needed soaking, wrapping, and all the fussing Rosie insists on not enjoying. And Sunny—sweet, distractible Sunny—somehow scraped a surprising patch of fur off her face. No dramatic story, just the everyday mysteries of horse life. Between meds, bandages, and gentle reassurance, they’ve needed both hands-on treatment and the simple comfort of my presence.

All this work has kept me grounded, but I’ve also become aware of another familiar pattern: the slow return to isolation whenever I stay home long enough. It’s not that I don’t love being here—keeping the property in shape, caring for the animals, tending to the endless little realities of country life. I do. Yet after a while, I begin to miss the hums of human life. Conversations. Laughter. The ordinary noises people make while going about their day.

So, I decided to rebalance things. For this Christmas season, I’m taking a part-time job at a fast-moving retail discount store. A few short shifts each week will give me a little of the outside world again—energy, chatter, and a constantly changing flow of faces. And, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I have a growing curiosity about retail as an industry. Now that I’ve learned how a traditional department store operates, I’ve also wanted to understand how the bulk discount retailers run their show. My new seasonal role will give me a chance to find out.

What I’ll ultimately do with my expanding retail knowledge is anybody’s guess—mine included. Maybe it will simply satisfy my curiosity. Maybe it will help me better understand the rhythms of modern commerce. Or perhaps it’s just another way of staying engaged with a world that keeps shifting under our feet.

For now, it’s enough that this will get me out among people again—listening, learning, and feeling connected—while still allowing me to come home to the animals and land that make up the heart of my days.

— Diana

Pimmy’s New Beginning

Sunday, November 30, 2025

My middle-aged donkey, Pimmy, may soon be living in a new home. It’s bittersweet to even write that, because the past year with her has been so intense, so emotional, and so full of learning.

Pimmy’s health crisis last year took me completely by surprise. I was unfamiliar with Cushing’s disease in equines, let alone equine Type II diabetes. By the time I understood how sick she truly was, she needed to be hospitalized in an equine ICU—days of specialized care, IVs, monitoring, and the kind of worry that settles in your bones.

When she finally came home, it was with lifelong medical needs: daily medication, careful feeding, and the responsibility of helping her lose nearly 100 pounds. At first her treatment routine was twice a day, and eventually it shifted to once daily, but the vigilance and devotion never lessened.

Through it all, Pimmy remained sweet and willing—devoted to “her horses,” Rosie and Sunny, even when I had to separate her from them so she wouldn’t overeat. They stayed close, calling to each other over the fence, a small reminder of their bond. I became unexpectedly proficient at mixing medications and administering them to a donkey who had her own opinions about anything that didn’t involve hay. And each time I walked toward the barn, she greeted me with hopeful, hungry brays—touching, funny, and a bit heartbreaking.

But she adapted, and so did I. Over the year, Pimmy lost the weight she needed to lose. She looks wonderful—bright-eyed, balanced, and healthy. Somewhere along the way, this stubborn little donkey transformed into “my big puppy,” easy to handle, affectionate, and smart as all get-out.

Through her recovery, my biggest worry remained her future. Donkeys, when well cared for, can live forty years or more. At my age, I know I won’t be here for the whole arc of her life. Rehoming her has weighed heavily on me. Anyone responsible for Pimmy would need to understand the realities of a “special-needs” donkey—the monitoring, the daily medication, the vigilance around weight. Not everyone can take that on. But for the right person, the reward would be immense. Pimmy, in my fully biased opinion, is one of the sweetest donkeys on the planet.

And then, early in Thanksgiving week, something unexpected happened.

A nearby neighbor, Alison—someone I only vaguely knew, though I knew she was a horseperson—texted me out of the blue asking if she and her husband could come talk. After so many years living near each other, I had no idea what she might want.

They arrived and told me their old horse had recently died, leaving their remaining elderly gelding lonely and unsettled. Softly, and very respectfully, they asked whether they might “borrow” my donkey for a few weeks as a companion until they found another horse.

Because they’re experienced with horses, they already understood the essentials of Pimmy’s care. They played with her, scratched her in all her favorite places, and fell for her immediately. And without much hesitation, we made an agreement: Pimmy would go to their place as a companion. If they loved her—and if they could manage her medical needs—she could stay permanently.

A remarkable part of this is that Alison, besides being a lifelong horsewoman, is a recently retired nurse. She understands chronic conditions; she’s comfortable with medications and observant about details. She asked the right questions, noticed everything, and handled Pimmy with a calm confidence that reassured me instantly.

Yesterday, Alison returned with several friends who were excited to meet Pimmy.

We all escorted Pimmy, who wore a grazing muzzle, as we had to walk across a pasture, to meet the elderly gelding. Those two hit it off right away. And, everyone adored Pimmy—her sweetness, her curiosity, her gentleness. I watched her step into this new circle of people and animals and felt the full bittersweetness of those moments.

Letting go of a beloved companion is never easy. She has been part of my daily rhythm, part of my barnyard family. But alongside the ache, I could feel something else—relief, gratitude, and a genuine joy. I could see clearly that Pimmy was stepping into a home where she would be appreciated, understood, and deeply cared for.

It felt like the universe whispering, Here. This is the right place. This is the right time.

That it’s Thanksgiving season, too, has me feeling a special mixture of gratitude and humility. Gratitude that Pimmy is healthy and happy, that the right people appeared at precisely the right moment, and that she will be cherished in her new home. And, humility in realizing that letting go—when it’s done with love—is also an act of giving care.

Pimmy will always be an essential part of my story. But now she belongs to a new one, and that’s bringing me a quiet, hopeful peace.

(Note: The photos, “moments of transition,” were captured by our friend, Susie.)

— Diana

Creative Longing

Saturday, November 29, 2025

I keep wondering why certain objects can hold such power over me. They’re not things that glitter or impress. But cameras. And computers. Tools that can capture images or help me shape words. Tools that let me look more closely and think more deeply.

Yesterday, on Black Friday, I impulsively purchased a lightweight laptop—an extravagance I can’t quite justify, and one I’ve argued with myself about since clicking “Buy.” At the same time, I felt a strong tug toward using my camera more often. Something is dawning on me: I’m not really longing for the gadgets themselves. I’m longing for what they represent—seeing and understanding.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to anything that helped me make sense of the world. I was a confused, unhappy youngster who studied people’s faces, their gestures, the tiny habits that revealed who they were. I was always searching for clarity.

My adulthood carried the same pattern—observing and learning through books, conversations, history, and the complicated turns of human nature. And for many years now, I’ve written almost daily, using words as a way to understand the world around me.

Underneath all of this—beneath the reading, the writing, the curiosity, the endless blog posts—is a quiet truth: I look because I want to see. I write because I want to understand.

So when that high-end laptop appeared in the Black Friday ads, something in me stirred. Something hopeful, almost childlike. I brushed aside my doubts and ordered it—not because I needed a new computer, but because I wanted the possibility it represents: mobility, clarity, freedom to explore ideas wherever I happen to be.

In realizing this, my doubts have softened. The laptop has even renewed my interest in photography. Not in “taking pictures,” but in pausing long enough to truly notice something—
a slant of morning light,
frost edging a fence board,
the expression on a horse’s face.

A camera grants permission to look a little longer, to silently declare that this moment matters.

The new laptop is on its way, and the battery for my camera is charging. Yes, the laptop is a luxury—I already have a perfectly good one—but it isn’t lightweight enough to carry with me. And at this stage in life, I’m finally admitting something simple: some people crave adventure or entertainment; I crave clarity.

It’s no surprise, really. Part of it comes from where I began, still seeking the clarity I never had as a child. That clarity now comes from noticing, reflecting, and catching the fleeting things that daily responsibilities make easy to miss. It grows as I put words to feelings and capture images that echo something within me.

These yearnings aren’t weaknesses or indulgences. They’re my learned way of staying awake to the world—choosing what my mature eyes and mind want to truly see.

Yes, I’m “wasting” money in a sense. Tools come and go. Cameras break. Laptops age. But the more profound desire—to see, to understand, to express—has never faded. These threads have run through my life for decades, woven into my work, shaping my aging years, and helping me rebuild after losses. They’ve colored every blog post I’ve written.

I keep reaching for creative tools not because I want more possessions, but because I need ways to follow the parts of myself that still want to grow.

So my impulsive purchase isn’t wasteful after all.
It’s a way of keeping my inner world alive and bright—
one image, one insight, one small moment at a time.

— Diana

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