For much of my life, my greatest masterpiece has not been a painting, a photograph, or a lesson plan — it has been my children. They were, and are, my best thing. Through all the years of balancing the wonders of motherhood with the joyful chaos of teaching — whether in the art room or the classroom — I carried within me a quiet longing to create, to explore, to discover my own artistic style.
Now, I find myself standing in a new season. I have retired from teaching, carefully tucked away years of memories, and let go of most of the belongings that once filled my home. In their place, I’ve chosen open skies, winding roads, and the promise of adventure. What remains with me — always — is family. My children, now grown, walk their own paths, and my grandsons, those little sparks of joy, light up my world in ways words can barely hold.
And so begins The Art of Going Alone. It is not about loneliness, but about listening — to the inner voice that has long waited for its time. It is about seeking beauty in coastal towns and hidden streets, in the sway of trees and the rhythm of water. It is about experimenting with brushstrokes and photographs, discovering what feels authentic, what feels true.
This journey is not an escape but an embrace. I am not leaving family behind; I am carrying them with me — in stories, in phone calls, in the way my heart still dances when I hear “Grandma” or “Christmas Tree” (a story for another time). They are my anchor, even as I set out to sail.
I don’t know yet exactly where this road will lead. Perhaps toward an artistic voice I have not yet heard clearly. Perhaps toward new friendships, new places that become beloved, new lessons learned in unexpected corners of the world. But I do know this: life is too short to let dreams linger unspoken.
So here I am — reinventing, exploring, wandering, creating. This is my canvas now. And you are welcome to walk alongside me, as I learn the art of going alone.
Kari
