by Karon -

Exploring Rockport, Texas: Art, Nature, and Stillness by the Sea

So, where have I landed for an extended stay? I’ve landed in the small coastal fishing town of Rockport, a place I’ve dreamed of living in more than once. The town has a slower pace and a small-town vibe that matches what I am craving right now. Slow, quiet walks on the beach, the hiking trail, or even through town all invite me to reflect and slow down. And so far, that is just what I have done. After a few weeks of preparing, a few months of traveling, and the busyness of the holidays, I knew I would be ready for a pause.

One thing that I love about Rockport is the art scene. For a small town, it has a big artistic presence. It has several art galleries, an art makers market, and the Rockport Center for the Arts which is “a multidisciplinary arts hub” and is not something you would expect to find in a little fishing town. It actually features local and national artists and always has a variety of offerings from gallery exhibits to events and education. The town is also home to quite a few very talented artists. And then there are the murals … with their beachy, artsy vibe. You might say that art is the heartbeat of Rockport.

I’m sure there are others who would say that fishing is the heartbeat of Rockport. Quite honestly, I think that fishing might be the main reason most people come to Rockport. I’m not really very interested in fishing, but I have photographed the bait shops and fishing boats many times. And actually, I probably have photographed them every time I’ve been here. The same colorful bait shops are always here welcoming me back. It’s kind of grounding to see things remain the same over time. I love to just walk along the marina and look at the many and varied boats. There are a couple of sailboats that I recognize from one visit to the next – the Gypsy Pirate with its skeleton crew and the Irish Rover with its mermaid figurehead. Friendly reminders that some things remain the same, but just age with the weathering of time.

I suppose another group of people might consider nature the heartbeat of Rockport. There is the quiet draw of the sea, the nearby state park, and the many waterbirds that call Rockport home—or, like many people, are winter Texans. And then there are the outdoor activities like hiking, kayaking, paddleboarding, boating, birdwatching, beachcombing, photography, dolphin watching… and that’s all available here in town without mentioning nearby opportunities.

I’ve been here two weeks now and haven’t done much more than settle in, walk, and breath in the salty air. This pause feels like a huge exhale. I know I am blessed to be able to embrace this nomadic life, which allows me to travel slowly and to pause when I feel the need, allowing me the space to listen to my inner voice and trust myself. For this brief pause, this is my home base.

Have you ever paused in a place that feels like home, even for a little while?

– Kari

A book on a table titled Do Something Everyday that Scares You with a coastal furnishings and a view of a balcony with sunlight filtering in.
by Karon -

Wintering by the Sea: The First Week

I’ve been at the condo I’m renting now for six days, wintering in a small coastal town by the bay, and this first stretch has been less about doing and more about arriving.

When I first got here, there were a couple of things that made it hard to settle in right away. The kitchen wasn’t as clean as I needed it to be, so I rewashed all the dishes, cleaned out the cabinets and pantry, and reorganized everything. I realized quickly that I couldn’t fully relax in the space without doing this first. Even though the kitchen is small, I worked through it slowly over a few days, running the dishwasher, handwashing certain items, and putting everything back in a way that felt right.

Once I knew the kitchen hadn’t met my standards, it also felt necessary to clean the rest of the condo. Not in a rushed or anxious way—just methodically, until the space felt calm and breathable again. Only then did it feel like a place I could actually land.

I made a grocery run for basic supplies and picked up takeout a few times. I gave myself permission to be a little indulgent before beginning the more intentional work of healing and change. There was no urgency, no sense that I needed to get everything “right” immediately.

What feels different this time is how open my days are. I don’t know anyone in this town. I don’t have work shaping my schedule or responsibilities quietly dictating my time. There’s no familiar structure to lean on—just me, a quiet condo, and the freedom to decide how each day unfolds. And instead of feeling unsettling, that openness feels incredibly good.

Mostly, I’ve been still.

I’ve watched the sunrise and sunset from my balcony overlooking the bay. Some mornings begin with a quiet walk along the beach, the air cool and the shoreline nearly empty. I’ve stretched gently, letting my body wake up slowly. I’ve lingered with my tea, watched kayakers drift by, and smiled as pelicans—one of my favorite water birds—dive awkwardly into the water for their meals. One evening, I poured a glass of wine and sat quietly as the sun slipped below the horizon, doing nothing more than noticing the light as it faded.

I’ve walked the beach without an agenda. I haven’t found any shells yet, but I waded into the cold water and felt the sand shift beneath my feet. I discovered a walking trail nearby and have a feeling I’ll spend more time there in the days ahead.

Beyond those small moments, I haven’t done much—and that feels exactly right.

This first week has been about giving myself room to arrive fully. To breathe. To let my body settle before asking it to change. To enjoy the luxury of unstructured time before layering in routines, projects, or plans.

There will be art classes and exploring. There will be longer walks, a fitness rhythm, better eating habits, and early mornings searching for whooping cranes wintering nearby. I want to find shells. I want to learn this place. All of that will come.

For now, this part matters too. The part that doesn’t look especially productive on the surface, but feels deeply restorative underneath.

This isn’t transformation yet—it’s preparation. A gentle clearing. A true settling in.

– Kari

by Karon -

Turning Inward: Reflecting on the Year and Embracing Possibility

As the year draws to a close, I always feel a quiet pull to turn inward. While the world seems to speed up with holidays, plans, and expectations, I instinctively slow down. This has become one of my most meaningful annual rhythms—a time to reflect, take stock, and gently imagine what might come next.

Each year, I create a new list—one I’ve been making annually since 2013—of 100 ideas for the year ahead. It’s not a rigid checklist or a set of resolutions meant to be conquered. Instead, each list is a snapshot in time: a collection of possibilities shaped by where I am in life that year. I keep these lists and return to them occasionally, not to measure success, but to reflect on how my interests, priorities, and sense of curiosity have evolved. Each year, my list returns to familiar themes: places I want to visit, books I hope to read, habits I’d like to build, skills I’m curious about, and experiences I want to try—even if I’m not sure how or when they’ll happen. Some things shift year to year, but these anchors remain.

At the end of the year, I look back at that year’s list and see what found its way into my life. Some items are neatly checked off. Others remain untouched. A few surprises appear—things I never could have planned, but that mattered deeply all the same. I’ve learned not to judge the list by how many boxes are checked. Instead, I notice patterns: what I was drawn to, what I made time for, and what quietly fell away. At the same time, it’s satisfying to see how many items I actually checked off—this year, I completed 60, a tangible reminder of the experiences and moments that curiosity and openness can bring.

As part of this reflection, I also pause to consider the one thing that really defines the year—the experience, lesson, or theme that stood out most over the past twelve months. It’s a way to see the shape and story of the year, capturing what truly mattered amidst both the ordinary and extraordinary moments.

Then comes the gentle sorting. Some unfinished ideas roll forward into the next year, still carrying energy and possibility. Others are released—not because they failed, but because they no longer fit. Letting go has become just as important as dreaming.

I started this practice in 2013, the year I moved to North Carolina. Everything felt new then—towns to explore, trails to walk, seasons to experience. The list became a way to say yes to curiosity and to life itself.

Over time, this practice has shaped my life in ways I couldn’t have predicted. By staying open to what landed on those lists, I’ve found myself swimming with manatees, volunteering alongside sea turtles and witnessing hatchlings make their way to the sea, ziplining despite a lifelong fear of heights, spending a summer in Italy, and traveling as far as Cambodia. I walked on Christo’s The Floating Piers in Italy—an especially meaningful experience after first learning about his work during my undergraduate studies. In Japan, I stood on an active volcano as smoke rose from the earth beneath my feet, and in Nagasaki, I spoke with a survivor of the atomic bombing at the Peace Memorial. I’ve also ridden the Bernina Express through the Swiss Alps, watching the landscape unfold slowly outside the train window. None of these moments came from rigid planning—they came from openness and a willingness to say yes when life offered something unexpected.

Nagasaki bombing survivor. Nagasaki, Japan

A few years ago, another idea found its way into this tradition. I read an article by a young man named Kevin who realized his life had become too narrow, too focused on routine. He created a simple rule for himself: every other month, he and his son would go on an adventure together—something out of the ordinary, something that invited joy. He called it Kevin’s Rule. I loved the simplicity of it. No pressure. No perfection. Just a commitment to experience more life. So I adopted it too, adding a small chart at the end of my list to plan and reflect on these intentional adventures throughout the year. Sometimes they’re big. Sometimes they’re incredibly simple. But they always remind me that joy rarely arrives by accident; it shows up when we make room for it.

Another idea I adopted came from reading about the practice of adding one new habit each quarter. I loved the gentleness of this approach—no overhauls, no all-at-once transformations. I started this about a year ago, and it’s been surprisingly powerful. By focusing on small, intentional changes, I’ve been able to add healthier habits into my life, like morning breathwork and getting early sunlight at the start of the day. When habits are added slowly and thoughtfully, they tend to stay.

Out of this reflection naturally comes direction. During this inward season, I also spend time setting goals for the year ahead—but they grow out of listening, not pressure. I try to keep them realistic and achievable, shaped by what the past year has taught me. I break ideas into small action steps and loose timelines, not as demands, but as gentle guideposts. This part of the process energizes me and helps me move forward with clarity rather than urgency.

Winter, for me, has always been a season for this kind of work. A time to turn inward, to recharge, and to reflect on what’s been—and to reimagine what could be. It’s not about doing more. It’s about paying attention, honoring what matters, and moving forward with intention when the time is right. And when I emerge from this quiet season, I carry with me a sense of clarity and possibility, ready to step into the new year with openness, curiosity, and purpose.

– Kari

by Karon -

Saying Yes to the Things That Scare Us

Some moments in life arrive quietly — a story we hear, a sentence that lingers, a spark that nudges us toward something braver. For me, that spark came while driving to my next stop on this journey, listening to a podcast featuring Shonda Rhimes — the brilliant creator of Grey’s Anatomy. She shared how, even after all her success, she realized she had been living small. She often said no to opportunities — interviews, speaking engagements, events — because she was shy and preferred to stay home.

Then she made a decision that changed everything: for one year, she would say yes to the things that scared her. Yes to showing up. Yes to being seen. Yes to growth. That commitment not only transformed her life but also inspired her to write her book Year of Yes. By the end of that year, she had become a different person — more confident, more open, more alive.

Listening to her story, I felt such a connection. In many ways, this new chapter in my life is my own version of saying yes. It was scary to sell nearly everything I owned, leave behind what was familiar, and begin life as a nomad — traveling full time and not knowing exactly what each next stop will bring. But it was something I had dreamed about for years.

And honestly, saying yes to the things that scare me isn’t new. I’ve carried a fear of heights for as long as I can remember — the kind that makes my stomach drop on even a third-floor balcony. Then one year, my son gave me a journal-style book all about feeling the fear and doing it anyway. It was the push I needed.

Slowly, I started choosing courage on purpose.
I went ziplining over a river in the mountains — absolutely terrifying, yet somehow exhilarating.
I drove over the “scariest bridge in America” with knuckles so tight I’m amazed the steering wheel survived.
And in Japan, I inched across a shaky rope bridge I nearly talked myself out of.

None of those moments erased my fear of heights. But each one reminded me that I’m stronger than the voice that says don’t.

I think many of us go through life doing what we’re supposed to do — checking off the boxes, following routines, and putting off the things our hearts quietly long for. We dream of adventure, creativity, or change, but fear whispers all the reasons why we shouldn’t take the leap.

For me, this journey is about courage and trust — saying yes to the unknown, yes to new places, and yes to becoming who I’m meant to be. Every time I choose to step forward instead of step back, I discover a little more freedom.

And maybe that’s the quiet beauty of saying yes: we don’t have to become fearless — we just have to become willing.

by Karon -

Catching Up in Acworth, GA — and Remembering a Summer in Italy

I recently visited Acworth, Georgia—a charming lakeside town tucked into the foothills of the North Georgia mountains. Known as “The Lake City,” Acworth sits along the banks of Lake Acworth and Lake Allatoona, with quiet water views, a historic downtown, and that unmistakable Southern warmth that makes you want to slow down and stay a while.

But my visit to Acworth wasn’t just about exploring a new place. It was about reconnecting with a friend I met years ago, in one of my favorite places in the world: Italy.

Several years ago, I spent a summer living alone in Vicenza. I didn’t know a single person when I arrived—not in the city, and not in Italy at all. The only connection I had was my work as a DODEA teacher, which allowed me base access and the chance to join excursions organized for the military community. I spent my days wandering cobblestone streets, hopping on trains to nearby cities, and studying in the base library as I finished postgraduate coursework. I had been learning Italian and tried to practice whenever I could, though many locals would kindly reply in English.

One afternoon, while out in town, I met Gail—an American whose husband was working on the base. We became instant friends, one of those rare people you click with immediately, as if you’ve known them for years. From that moment on, the summer blossomed into a series of unforgettable adventures.

We went to wine tastings tucked into hillside vineyards, lingered over meals in tiny restaurants hidden down narrow streets, and explored festivals bursting with color and music. Her husband often joined us, and the three of us shared some of the funniest and most memorable moments of my time in Italy.

There was the day we drove up the mountain to Asiago—yes, where the cheese comes from—twisting through those dramatic hair-pin turns that somehow felt equal parts exhilarating and slightly terrifying. And then there was the legendary “goat trail” incident, when the GPS insisted that a narrow path through an orchard was, in fact, the correct route to a winery. We laughed the whole way, convinced we were about to end up in the middle of someone’s field, but also fully committed to the adventure.

Those months in Italy were a gift—full of curiosity, connection, and the kind of friendship that stays with you long after the plane ride home.

Which is why seeing Gail again in Acworth felt so special. We slipped right back into that easy rhythm, sharing memories, catching up on life, and enjoying the simple joy of spending time together. Acworth made the perfect backdrop for it—peaceful lakes, mountain-framed views, and a welcoming town that encourages you to pause, breathe, and appreciate the people who matter.

Travel has taken me many places, but some of the most meaningful moments are the ones that reconnect me with the friendships formed along the way. My visit to Acworth was one of those moments—a sweet reminder that distance and time mean very little when a friendship is built on shared adventure, laughter, and the kind of connection you don’t stumble upon often.

by Karon -

Sun City Center, Florida Adventures

This week has carried me to Sun City Center, a quiet Florida town that’s turned out to be the perfect setting for my second pet-sitting adventure. The rhythm here is slow and easy—golf carts humming down the streets, neighbors waving from driveways, and mornings that seem to invite you to linger a little longer. The two pups I’m caring for are gentle and content, which has given me plenty of space to wander and explore the coastlines nearby.

One of my first beach days was at Siesta Key, where the sand is so white and soft it feels like walking through sifted flour. It’s the kind of place that urges you to pause—where the horizon stretches wide and the whole day seems to expand around you.

Turtle Beach offered a quieter contrast, with darker, grainier sand and a peacefulness that feels made for slow thinking and unhurried walks.

One of the moments that stayed with me the most happened at the Apollo Beach Manatee Viewing Center. I spotted a mother manatee gliding alongside her baby, only a few months old. Manatees have always tugged at my heart—Amy and I swam with them years ago in Crystal River—and seeing them again, even briefly, brought that same sense of awe rushing back.

Anna Maria Island has been another sweet surprise. I spent a morning at Manatee Beach in Holmes Beach, where the shoreline stretches wide, the waves roll in gently, and the free island trolley passes by with a kind of old-Florida charm. It’s one of those places that makes you want to stay until the sun begins to sink.

Later, I wandered over to Historic Bridge Street and the old pier in Bradenton Beach. Once part of the original 1920s wooden bridge that connected the island to the mainland, the pier now feels like a little pocket of history—fishermen casting lines, pelicans drifting close, families strolling between small shops and cafes. There’s something nostalgic there, even on your first visit.

After visiting the beaches and wandering the pier, I even found time to take a dip in the neighborhood pool—a surprisingly warm and refreshing treat at the end of November. It felt like a little secret slice of summer tucked into the fall, a quiet moment to linger in the sun and water before heading back to the pups.

Even though my time here is short, this corner of Florida has offered more than I expected—quiet beaches, gentle wildlife, easy mornings, and places that carry a kind of timeless charm. Sun City Center has been a calming home base between beach days, pool swims, and dog cuddles, a reminder that the best adventures don’t always have to be big or far away.

– Kari

by Karon -

St. Augustine: A Walk Through History

St. Augustine is one of those rare places where history isn’t something you read about—it’s something you walk through. Cobblestone paths, salt-touched air, centuries-old stone walls… the entire city feels like a story unfolding around you. As the oldest continuously settled city in the United States, it holds a richness that’s hard to capture in just one visit—which is probably why I’m already planning a return.

Founded in 1565 by Pedro Menéndez de Avilés, St. Augustine sits between the San Sebastian River and the Matanzas River on a slender peninsula, just inland from the Atlantic. The Spanish influence is everywhere—tile roofs, courtyards, wrought iron balconies, and thick coquina buildings that have stood through sieges, fires, and eras of change.

I began my visit at the Old City Gate, where the streets behind it open into a charming network of historic shops, galleries, and preserved homes. Some of the walkways are still brick or cobblestone, and the mix of textures—weathered wood, stone, iron—creates a feeling that’s less like sightseeing and more like gently stepping into another time.

Tucked along St. George Street near the City Gate sits the Oldest Wooden School House, a charming reminder of early colonial life. Built by 1716, it’s one of the earliest wooden structures in the city and offers a glimpse into what school life was like for children in the early 1700s. Visitors can tour the little property and imagine a day in the life of students centuries ago.

Not far from the gate stands the Cathedral Basilica of St. Augustine, and it ended up being one of the highlights of my short visit. Sitting just off the Plaza de la Constitución, it’s the oldest Catholic parish in the United States, with roots reaching back to the city’s founding. When Pedro Menéndez landed in 1565, a priest traveling with him—Padre López de Mendoza Grajales—presented him with a cross. Menéndez kissed the base, the Spanish flag, and claimed the land for both Spain and the Church. The first Catholic Mass in the continental U.S. was celebrated that day.

The cathedral as it stands now was completed in 1797, and parts of the original coquina walls still remain. Inside, the blend of history and artistry is stunning:

  • Murals by Hugo Ohlms, installed in the 1960s, sweep across ceilings and walls.
  • Stained glass windows depict scenes from the lives of Saint Augustine and his mother, Saint Monica.
  • Hand-carved sculptures of Jesus, Saint Augustine, and Saint Peter frame the altar—where Jesus is shown in His resurrection, rather than His crucifixion.

It’s a place that feels both ancient and deeply alive.

From there, I wandered toward the Castillo de San Marcos, the massive 17th-century Spanish fort that still watches over the water. Built between 1672 and 1695, it’s the oldest masonry fort in the United States. Standing on its grounds, with the Matanzas River shimmering nearby, it’s impossible not to feel the layers of stories—pirates, soldiers, explorers, and ordinary people who lived their lives within sight of those walls.

Though I didn’t have time to visit on this trip, I also want to see the Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park, tied to the legend of Ponce de León’s 1513 landing. Knowing I was that close to the site of his expedition makes me even more eager to return and explore it properly.

Walking along the waterfront and wandering through the historic district, I realized how easily this city settles into you—quietly, but unmistakably. The tucked-away shops, the old stonework, the sound of church bells, the mix of Spanish and coastal southern charm—it all leaves an impression that lingers.

My visit was short, and there’s still so much I want to see. St. Augustine deserves time—time to wander, time to listen, time to let the centuries speak.

I’ll definitely be back. Some places simply ask you to return, and this is one of them.

– Kari

by Karon -

Trolls: A Field Study — A Whimsical Adventure at the North Carolina Arboretum

After my time in Hendersonville, I made a quick stop in Asheville to visit something I’ve been quietly excited about ever since I first heard the news: Trolls: A Field Study, the newest traveling exhibit by Danish recycle-artist Thomas Dambo. I’ve seen four of his giant 30-foot forest trolls on this trip — quirky, gentle giants tucked into woods across the U.S. and around the world — but this exhibit is different. These trolls are his “Baby Trolls”, standing only seven to nine feet tall… small by troll standards, but every bit as magical.

A Field Study of Us — Through Troll Eyes

The exhibit tells a story:
On the night he was born, a little troll named Taks wandered into the human world. What he saw surprised him — noisy machines, people rushing, screens glowing everywhere, and almost no one stopping to talk to the trees. When he returned to the forest, he shared his discoveries with his eleven siblings, and together they set out on a mission to study humankind.

That’s the heart of Trolls: A Field Study — twelve whimsical troll sculptures exploring the grounds of the North Carolina Arboretum from November 15, 2025 through February 17, 2026. Each troll has its own personality, posture, and curiosity. And each one is hand-built from reclaimed materials — fallen branches, pallets, twigs, and scraps that Dambo transforms into something imaginative and alive.

There’s so much joy in wandering the paths and stumbling upon them. Some lean in as if listening. Some peer through wooden binoculars. Some crouch quietly, observing. They’re playful, thoughtful, and just a little mischievous.

The Baby Trolls (And Why They’re Special)

Most of Dambo’s trolls around the world are towering, 20- to 30-foot forest guardians tucked into wild places. But these “Baby Trolls” were designed as part of an interactive, family-friendly experience. They’re still large and impressive — especially when you turn a corner and suddenly find one studying you — but they feel more approachable, as if they wandered just far enough from home to be curious.

An Unexpected Treasure Hunt

One of the most fascinating parts of this exhibit is the hidden layer of adventure woven into it. Each troll has a symbol, and if you collect all of the symbols from the twelve trolls in Asheville plus a couple of symbols from other Dambo troll locations in North Carolina, you can complete a sort of treasure map that leads to The Grandmother Tree.

I didn’t have time to do the full symbol hunt — I was only able to stop for a quick visit — but I love the idea of it. A slow-travel scavenger hunt, a bit of whimsy for adults and kids alike, and a reminder that exploration is always rewarded for those who linger a little longer. If you’re in the area for a few days (or traveling through multiple NC towns), this would be such a fun experience.

A Gentle, Playful Reminder

What I love most about Dambo’s work is that it always carries a message, and this exhibit is no exception. These trolls — made from recycled materials — invite us to see the world differently. To look up more. To wander slower. To return to the kind of curiosity we had as kids, when finding something unexpected on a trail felt like magic.

And in a world that often feels busy and fast, it felt grounding to walk among them, even briefly.

If You Go

Location:
The North Carolina Arboretum, Asheville, NC

Dates:
November 15, 2025 – February 17, 2026

What to Expect:

  • 12 Baby Troll sculptures
  • Gentle walking paths
  • Kid– and adult-friendly exploration
  • Symbol-hunting “field study” opportunity
  • Beautiful forest and garden surroundings
  • Peak whimsy

Whether you’re visiting Asheville for a day or exploring Western North Carolina for a season, Trolls: A Field Study is absolutely worth adding to your list.

by Karon -

Embracing My Inner Hippie

Penny Lane, one of Brevard’s most delightfully eclectic hippie shops.

For most of my life, I never would’ve described myself as a hippie.

But not too long ago, when I was teaching 3rd grade, my principal introduced me to someone as “a hippie in disguise.” I remember smiling politely while a little surprised by his words.

On the outside, I was the picture of conservative, school-appropriate professionalism. I’d spent many years as an art teacher—yet even then, I dressed in dark colors, the kind that help you blend into the background when you’re an introvert and carrying extra weight you don’t want to draw attention to. Part of me longed for paint-splattered overalls and colorful, breezy clothes… but I hid behind layers meant to camouflage rather than express.

Still, his words stuck with me. They made me pause. Reflect. Consider.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized… maybe he saw something I hadn’t acknowledged in myself.

Because while I wasn’t a “traditional” hippie, my life had always carried that quiet undercurrent of earthy, artsy freedom. I loved color, texture, music of every kind. My classrooms were often filled with branches—sometimes painted in bright hues, sometimes left natural and wild—stretching overhead like a tiny forest.

As a kid in the ’60s, I watched the true hippies from a distance while I played with dolls. By the time I hit my teens in the ’70s, we were wearing bell-bottom hip-huggers and burning incense, but by then it was mostly just a fashion trend—one that quickly gave way to disco balls and parachute pants.

But I think what truly shaped his impression was a conversation we’d had about grounding.

Grounding—or earthing—is simply reconnecting with the Earth’s natural electric charge. For me, it began accidentally. I always felt drawn to beaches and could walk barefoot in the sand for hours, feeling calmer, clearer, more alive than I could explain. Later, I learned there was actual science behind it: walking barefoot on grass, sand, or soil allows your body to absorb the Earth’s free electrons. It restores something. It resets something. It heals something.

And without ever meaning to, grounding became one of the most natural rhythms of my life.

On my recent trip to North Carolina, I stumbled upon a baseball cap that simply said tree hugger. A little voice inside whispered, Buy it. So I did.


The funny thing is—I don’t actually hug trees. But I do place my hands on them. It’s something I began doing when I lived in Japan, where many ancient trees are honored and protected. I once watched an elderly woman gently touch the bark of a sacred tree at a temple, a handmade rope wrapped around its wide trunk. There was tenderness in the way she made contact, reverence even. Watching her gave me a quiet kind of permission.


Now, on my hikes, I often pause and put my hands on the bark of old trees—the coolness, the texture, the steady presence. I understand now that it’s another form of grounding, another way of connecting. And wearing that little hat feels like a nod to a part of myself I’ve grown to love.

Add to that my long-held desire to travel full-time… maybe even in a camper van someday… and I suppose the pieces start to form a picture. Not the wild, flower-crowned stereotype of a hippie, but a quieter version—someone drawn to the earth, to beauty, to freedom, to color, to experiences over things.

So maybe my principal was right.

Maybe I was a hippie in disguise.

Or maybe, over time, I’ve simply grown into the parts of myself that were always there—waiting for permission, waiting for space, waiting for me to stop hiding and start becoming.

Maybe this is the season I finally embrace her.

– Kari

by Karon -

Western North Carolina: A Mountain Getaway of Charm, Color, and Quiet Wonder

My time in Western North Carolina felt like slipping into a familiar, comforting rhythm — a mix of mountain air, small-town charm, and the kind of slow wandering that lets you really see a place. This region has long been one of my favorites, and once again, it didn’t disappoint. I split my visit between Hendersonville and Brevard, two towns close together yet each with its own personality.

Hendersonville was my first stop. It’s nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, wrapped in soft ridges and shifting layers of color depending on the time of day. The town has grown since the girls’ trip I took here a few years back — more people, more energy — yet the historic downtown still holds the same charm I remembered. Local shops and friendly faces make you feel like you’ve been there before.

I spent an afternoon wandering Main Street, visiting shops and art galleries at an easy pace. Nothing rushed — just the quiet pleasure of browsing and discovering. I made a short trip to DuPont State Recreational Forest to see Hooker Falls, a gentle hike filled with that clean forest scent you can only get in the mountains. The falls were peaceful, and I lingered there, letting the sound of water become a kind of meditation.

There were still things I didn’t get to — Bearwallow Mountain, the Blue Ghost Fireflies that light up the woods in late spring, Jump Off Rock, Chimney Rock, the town of Flat Rock, and so many more hikes and waterfalls. Transylvania County alone has around 250 waterfalls, so I’ve only just begun to explore what this area has to offer. Plenty of reasons to come back.

A short drive away, Brevard offered a different kind of inspiration. Known for its artsy spirit and temperate rainforest climate, the town has a creative heartbeat that shows up everywhere. It’s also home to the famous white squirrels — little flashes of white that locals adore — though they remained as elusive as the fireflies on this visit. Still, their presence is felt in murals, artwork, and local stories.

Part of what made this stay unique is that it doubled as my first official pet sit — something I’ve started incorporating into my travels. It’s a gentle, practical way to experience new places a little more deeply while also offsetting travel costs. If you’re curious how it works, feel free to reach out.

The galleries in Brevard were a highlight. Many feature dozens of local artists, and the craftsmanship was incredible: wooden bowls shaped like sculptures, vivid paintings, mountain photography, jewelry, and fiber art that felt like stories woven into cloth. Every gallery was a surprise, and every artist offered a different way of seeing the world. I left feeling inspired — the kind of creative spark travel gifts you when you’re paying attention.

Both towns share that unmistakable Western North Carolina blend of nature, friendliness, and creativity. They’re different, but together they made my stay feel full and balanced — one town offering peaceful walks and familiar charm, the other offering color, art, and imagination.

As with every stop on my journey, I’m learning that travel doesn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful. Sometimes it’s the steady rhythm of small towns, a conversation with a shop owner, the cool air on a forest trail, or the inspiration found in a piece of handmade art. I know I’ll be back — there’s more to see, more to explore, and always more to learn from these beautiful mountain towns.

– Kari