March 2026

by Karon - March 31, 2026March 31, 2026

The Rhythm I Found in Fredericksburg: My March Project

Each month this year, I’ve been choosing a project centered around intentional living and personal growth. In January, I focused on really seeing. In February, it was acts of kindness.

March, though, didn’t begin with a clear plan. Somewhere between moving multiple times, settling into Fredericksburg, and spending my days with my mom, a different kind of project quietly took shape — one I didn’t plan, but simply lived.

This month became about letting go of structure and allowing a natural rhythm to emerge.

I thought my month in Fredericksburg would be slow-paced and relaxing, but it did not start out that way. The house I had leased for the month had one tiny problem — a mouse — which I discovered after I had unloaded most of my things.

The woman I rented it from had another place I could stay temporarily while I looked for something else. But there were no other rentals available in my price range on such short notice. Instead, she arranged for me to move between a couple of Airbnb rentals, which meant packing up and relocating four different times during the month.

My only other option would have been to give up my time in Fredericksburg with my mom and go somewhere else. I decided to be flexible, move around, and stay.

So far, it’s been well worth it.

My mom and I have shared some really lovely moments. My niece came for a visit, and we spent time together talking, eating good food, and catching up. Then my sister Kathy visited. We took mom to Hallmark — her favorite store — and helped her pick out cards for the next few months. After lunch, we sat with her and organized them.

The next day, Kathy and I rearranged mom’s room to make it more functional for her. We also had some priceless time together catching up, and shared the best cheese enchiladas I’ve had in a long time.

Each day, I sit with my mom during one or more meals and visit with her and her tablemates. And each day, I’ve been slowly cleaning out and reorganizing her drawers, her closet, and her things, trying to make her small space feel a little more peaceful and ordered. There’s something about it that has felt unexpectedly therapeutic.

This has been the rhythm I’ve found in Fredericksburg.

Other things have been more sporadic — the gym, a few CrossFit workouts, hiking at Enchanted Rock, and exploring some of the tourist spots I’ve never seen before. But the rhythm hasn’t been in those things. It’s been in the everyday moments — sitting, talking, organizing, and simply being with my mom.

I am in my seventh month of being a nomad, and I’m starting to feel more comfortable going with the flow and being spontaneous. I am learning to settle into a place and find my rhythm there, whether that looks like walks on the beach or time spent with my mom.

More than anything, I’m deeply appreciating time with family, and this month has given me so much of that.

As this month comes to an end, I find myself reflecting.

I did some of the things I had hoped to do — a few hikes, some exploring, small moments of getting out and experiencing this place. But that isn’t what lingers.

What lingers are the quiet rhythms that shaped my days — the conversations, the routines, the simple act of being there with my mom.

This month didn’t unfold the way I expected. But somewhere along the way, it settled into exactly what it needed to be — a rhythm rooted in connection, in presence, and in time with my mom.

And I’m so grateful I stayed.

by Karon - March 24, 2026March 24, 2026

A Slow Morning in Fredericksburg, Tx.

Some days aren’t meant for plans.
They’re meant for wandering — for walking slowly down familiar streets, noticing the things you might otherwise pass by.

This week, I found myself doing just that in Fredericksburg, letting the day unfold one small moment at a time.

The morning light hit the buildings along Main Street just right, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The town felt quieter at this hour, as if it was still stretching awake. A few doors were just beginning to open, the soft sound of shops coming to life spilling into the street.

Walking through a small town on a sunny morning has always been one of my favorite ways to explore. Even here, in a place I’ve been many times before, everything felt a little new — as if I was seeing it again for the first time.

A small shop window stopped me in my tracks. Bunnies tucked among soft florals, pale pastels layered carefully, each detail placed with intention. It was simple, but beautiful in a way that made me pause a little longer than expected.

A few doors down, another window caught my eye — leather boots and Stetson hats. I could almost imagine the familiar scent of leather, the kind that lingers in a good boot store. Classic, unmistakably Texas.

I found a bench and sat for a while. The air still held onto the cool of the morning, but the sun was beginning to warm it. Footsteps echoed lightly along the sidewalk. A couple passed by, walking hand in hand, their pace unhurried. I caught myself wondering about them — how long they’d been together, whether this was home or just a visit, what their story might be.

More people began to appear, one or two at a time. A quiet rhythm was building.

I stopped for a chai tea and stayed longer than I had planned. It was the kind of pause that didn’t need a reason. I just sat there, people-watching. I found myself doing more of this these days — allowing space for small moments to be enough on their own.

The busyness of being a mother and teacher felt far away in moments like this.
There was space to notice. To sit. To stay.

And then, I got up and continued on — a little slower, a little more aware, carrying the quiet of the morning with me.

by Karon - March 17, 2026March 17, 2026

Halfway Up Enchanted Rock: A Sunrise Hike in Fredericksburg, Texas

An orange glow was beginning to peek over the hills as we approached the entrance to Enchanted Rock State Park. After two months of getting used to temperatures in the 70s along the coast, the morning air in the 40s felt downright cold. Despite the chill, we began our pre-sunrise ascent up the granite mountain.

My niece Mary is an avid hiker, and we had made a simple plan. She would continue all the way to the summit while I stopped about halfway up to sit on the rocks and take photos as the sun came up. I had a feeling the halfway point might be the perfect place to take it all in.

It felt good to be out in nature on a cold morning watching the day begin. Enchanted Rock is such an iconic part of the Fredericksburg area. Each year hundreds of thousands of visitors come to climb this massive dome of pink granite, which formed more than a billion years ago. Rising about 425 feet above the surrounding terrain, the rock stands at 1,825 feet above sea level — a bit of a contrast from my recent morning walks along the flat beaches of Rockport.

Sitting on a large boulder about halfway up, I thought about the Big Tree in Rockport and how I am drawn to natural things that have survived through centuries. Standing in their presence makes you pause. You can’t help but wonder about the stories they could tell if they could talk.

And sitting there watching the light slowly spread across the Hill Country, it struck me how brief our presence is in places like this. People come and go, taking photos, climbing to the summit, and heading back home by afternoon. Yet the rock remains — silent and steady — having witnessed centuries of change. There is something comforting about that kind of permanence in a world where so much of life feels temporary.

I looked down and could barely see the structure where we had started. My legs felt strong and steady, and the climb up had seemed surprisingly easy. I really wanted to continue to the summit, but I knew the descent on the granite could be slippery, and my shoes weren’t really the type I needed for it.

I quietly wondered if I was truly being logical and practical — or if it was my old fear of heights creeping in. The climb down had always been the scariest part.

I decided I would come back another day after buying more appropriate shoes. For now, I settled back onto the warm granite and turned my attention to photographing the amazing scenery around me.

As the sun slowly rose above the hills, the granite around me began to glow with soft shades of pink and gold. Early morning hikers appeared as tiny silhouettes moving across the dome above me. The Hill Country stretched out in every direction, rolling layers of blue and green fading into the distance. It was quiet in that way early mornings often are, before the crowds arrive and the day fully begins.

After a while I spotted Mary making her way down from the summit. She was full of energy and stories about the view from the top. I was happy for her and just as happy with my decision to stay where I was. My morning had been exactly what I needed — a quiet place to sit, watch the sunrise, and take it all in.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t found at the summit, but halfway up a mountain, sitting quietly on a warm piece of granite and watching the day begin.

by Karon - March 12, 2026March 12, 2026

From the Coast to the Hill Country: Leaving Before You’re Ready

As I drove past Boerne, I began to see the hills. I almost felt I was seeing the area for the first time (even though we lived in this area for years). The hills looked hillier. Maybe it was the contrast from being by the sea for two months. I was struck by the thought of how we grow so accustomed to the things in our daily life that we don’t even see it anymore. Being more observant is a gift that comes with this nomadic lifestyle. I feel more awake and in tune with my surroundings.

The drive had seemed long, but I was now in the last hour. I thought of how I had not really been ready to leave Rockport. I had hesitated to begin packing as if that would delay the inevitable. There was a painting class coming up that I really wanted to take at the end of March. There was a volunteer opportunity at the Little Theater starting in a few days. I never made it over to the uninhabited island for shelling. I didn’t take a boat tour. How had I let these things slip by? I had packed and loaded anyway.

I have discovered with travel there are always things left undone. The more places you explore in one area, the more you realize you want to do. I found this in Vicenza. I found this in Japan. The more you learn and really live in an area, the more things you uncover that tourists miss. Somewhere along the way, maybe while I was living in Japan, I began to slow down. To really explore the hidden and off-the-beaten-path kind of places. No, now that I think of it, I think it may have begun in North Carolina with the little coastal towns.

Whenever it began, I really developed a love for just driving to a destination with a few things on a list to see and then meandering through the town and stopping when something caught my eye. Many times it would be something that I just absolutely had to photograph.

Now I am beginning a month in Fredericksburg. I will spend time with my mom. Take her outside and talk about the trees beginning to bud out and the birds. We will decorate a little for Easter and have some quiet meals together. I will structure in time for me as well. Time to walk on Cross Mountain. Maybe I will get a temporary membership at the gym. I will try to find a couple of opportunities to listen to live music. Maybe I will even brave that alone. Meandering through some art galleries is a must. And hopefully the wildflowers will start blooming while I’m here.

Even though I really wasn’t ready to leave the coast and I loved my time there, I am learning that I rarely leave a place because I am finished. I leave because it is time. And each time I go, I begin building a small rhythm in the new place — a favorite walking path, a cozy coffee shop for chai tea, a few quiet rituals — knowing that before long I will feel the tug to move again. Perhaps the ache of not being ready is simply proof that I was fully there. As I top a hill, the cross on Cross Mountain comes into view.

by Karon - March 4, 2026March 4, 2026

February Acts of Kindness: My Month-Long Project in Rockport

Before February had found its rhythm, I found myself on the receiving end of an unexpected kindness in a Starbucks drive-through. A stranger paid for my chai tea and drove off without waiting for thanks.

I had set out to make this month about giving — random and intentional acts of kindness — but it seemed kindness was already finding me first.

February marked the second month of my yearlong project to live more intentionally, and my focus was simple: to do random and not-so-random acts of kindness. I planned to give snack bags to the few homeless people I’d seen around town, drop off books at the Little Free Library, pay it forward in small ways, volunteer, leave “pocket hug” rocks in unexpected places, create ephemeral art on the beach, and support local businesses.

With shopping, I had a special plan: to visit every little shop in Rockport’s cultural arts district and offer a genuine compliment — either about the shop or its owner and staff. The idea came about when I realized that, despite my visits to Rockport, there were several shops I had never ventured into. This project was about spreading kindness and, hopefully, bringing a smile — whether through a compliment, a small surprise, or a fleeting piece of art on the beach.

One morning, I decided to begin with the beach.

While I was sitting on a towel shaping seashells into a heart in the sand, I heard a man calling out in the distance. Before I could fully register what was happening, a dog came running straight toward me, closing the space between us quickly. I let out a short, startled scream. He stopped just a few feet away, almost as surprised as I was, then jogged past me at eye level before returning to his owner who had been calling him all along.

My heart took longer to settle than the sand did. I smoothed the places where his paws had scattered the shells, then quietly resumed my work. There was little I could have done if the moment had unfolded differently, and I whispered a thank-you to God for my safety. The interruption felt like a small reminder that my little heart of shells wasn’t the only fragile thing on the sand. I brushed the sand from my hands and kept working.

It had taken me several mornings of beachcombing to gather enough shells to shape the heart as I envisioned it, though the large shell and sea star were not treasures I uncovered along the way. Even so, I felt content with that imperfect first attempt. Kindness, I was learning, doesn’t require perfection — only willingness.

As the month unfolded, I began to notice something unexpected: I was receiving far more than I gave.

One day at the library, I went to pay for printing and realized I was a dollar short in cash and they didn’t take cards. The librarian smiled and said it was fine — someone had left extra money in case another person needed it. At an artist reception, a woman I had never met sat beside me, introduced herself, and we quickly became friends. She even invited me to another art event hosted by her art co-op. A Winter Texan who volunteers at the art center remembered my name from a single previous encounter and invited me to a casual “sip and chat” gathering. I paused to chat with a young woman placing a book into the Little Free Library, only to learn that she regularly drives to surrounding towns, leaving wrapped books with bookmarks in each one.

On another day, I witnessed volunteers rescuing a wounded brown pelican — my favorite water bird. The sun was just beginning to set over the bay as two men moved slowly toward him. As they carefully secured him, he stretched out one long wing, almost tentatively, as if he were being gentle with them in return. There was a quiet patience in the moment — no panic, no struggle — just careful movements and steady hands. They gently gathered him up and placed him into a large cage in the back of their SUV. Watching them, it felt as though there was a kind of trust between bird and rescuer, a shared stillness that made the scene unexpectedly tender.

Pelican rescue by Wings Rescue of Aransas County.

Throughout the month, small conversations with locals slowly made me feel less like a visitor and more like I belonged.

Being an introvert, this month required more bravery and self-discipline than I anticipated. I’m naturally observant and reflective, someone who pays close attention before engaging. As a photographer and creative, I’m often the one behind the lens — noticing, documenting, taking it all in. So walking into unfamiliar shops, offering sincere compliments, and initiating conversations with strangers nudged me beyond my comfort zone. What looked simple on paper quietly required intention and courage.

Looking back on this month, I’m reminded of something I once heard: what we give often comes back to us. When we offer love, kindness, or attention, it often returns in unexpected ways. In Rockport, the simplest gestures — smiles, greetings, shared stories, and thoughtful acts — seemed to ripple outward, creating connections that were both gentle and profound. I felt seen, welcomed, and part of a community of people who genuinely cared for one another and their town.

February in Rockport wasn’t just about the acts of kindness I planned. It became a reminder that when we step forward with open hands — even imperfectly — connection has a way of meeting us there. Like smoothing scattered shells back into place, we begin again, and something gentle takes shape.