Close-up of a heart created from scallop shells of varying sizes, surrounded by driftwood, grapevine, and wildflowers, arranged on sandy beach.
by Karon -

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.

by Karon -

Slow Days by the Bay: A Season of Slowing Down

Eleven months ago, I retired from teaching. A year ago, my life looked completely different. I was still teaching full-time, and my mother was living with me. My days revolved around schedules I had very little control over.

As a teacher, your day runs on carefully planned blocks of time. Outside of school, you build more routines just to keep everything moving—family, household, responsibilities. Structure wasn’t optional; it was necessary.

When I first retired, my mother was still with me, and I built new routines around her needs. Then everything changed quickly after she had an injury that led to a hospital stay, then rehab, and eventually long-term care. My time shifted again—this time revolving around visits, paperwork, decisions, and the stress of navigating systems I never expected to understand. Even after things settled, I noticed I was still operating as if something urgent might happen at any moment.

You probably know the rest of the story since I started this blog. I decided to sell everything and travel, which led me to where I am now: a winter pause in Rockport, Texas.

When I first arrived in Rockport, I had already been traveling for about three and a half months. I didn’t realize how much I needed this pause. I spent the first week simply settling in. After that, I explored a little, but what I really needed was downtime and reflection.

Even with temperatures in the mid-seventies, I gave myself a kind of winter reprieve. I allowed myself to do very little. Slowly, small routines formed—sitting on the balcony at sunrise, writing reflectively, adding gentle morning stretches, taking daily walks. Beach walks happened whenever I felt like it. Some days I stopped by an art gallery. Other days I drove to Port Aransas to beachcomb. There was no pressure attached to any of it. I moved at my own pace.

What I realize now is that slowing down doesn’t happen automatically just because your calendar clears. It takes time for your mind and body to catch up. It took me a while to notice how tightly I had been holding everything together.

What’s shifting isn’t just my schedule. It’s my sense of worth. For most of my life, I measured myself by what I accomplished and how well I met expectations—my own and everyone else’s. Teaching reinforced that rhythm. Caregiving deepened it. There was always something to manage, improve, respond to. Now, for the first time, there isn’t. No colleagues. No evaluations. No one expecting me to perform. And I’m beginning to realize that I don’t need to fill that space. I can simply exist in it.

Giving myself the luxury of time allowed something to shift. My sleep evened out. My energy felt steadier. I wasn’t reacting all day long. I was choosing.

Now, about six weeks into this stay, I feel more lively and energetic. My routines have expanded to include more consistent fitness and a few art classes. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and talking to strangers more easily. The difference is that these things feel chosen, not required.

Last week I visited my mom for a couple of days—it was good to spend time with her. But returning to the bay felt like coming home, in a quiet, settled way. I’ve always loved being near water, whether a lake, river, or ocean. Here, slowing down has allowed me to notice that pull instead of pushing past it. This season—the slower mornings, unhurried afternoons, and steady presence of the bay—feels exactly where I’m meant to be right now.

Bronze statue depicting early settlers together on a waterfront monument at night, illuminated under a moonlit sky.
by Karon -

Slow Down, Look Up: A Personal Photography Project

Beside the tranquil waters of Little Bay in Rockport, TX, stands a bronze statue depicting a group of figures. I drive past it almost daily. It was here when I last visited about a year ago. I even stopped and photographed it one morning because it was dramatically silhouetted in a glorious sunrise on my way to the beach. Even though I saw it frequently, I didn’t really see it. Not far from the sculpture stands a giant crab, a familiar sight for tourists that’s easy to pass without really looking. We do that, as humans. We go about our day taking things for granted. Living on the surface. But how often do we stop and smell the roses, as the saying goes? Well, this extended stay in Rockport has invited me to slow down and do just that. And my observation of this lack of seeing inspired me to purposely look at things, which then inspired me to do a little project, which inspired me to challenge myself to do a project each month. So here goes …

I decided for the first project (January) to simply photograph things at different times of the day just to see how they appeared in different light. So, I chose some things … the sculpture by Little Bay, the giant crab, Marge – the fishing boat, a larger boat, the view of the old downtown from beside the shell shop, and a couple of other things. Then I set up my parameters – I would photograph them at sunrise, morning, afternoon, sunset, and night. True to my MO, I saw the big picture and neglected to think about how it would actually feel to drive to the location five times a day (in any weather, even after dark), although I apparently live in a geographical oddity where everything is four or five minutes away—still, I was committed.

My first subject was the sculpture by Little Bay, which honestly, I knew nothing about. Turns out it is titled “Cultural Interface” by Texas artist Steve Russell and was unveiled in December of 2023. On the first day I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and left the house before sunrise. It was a particularly cold and windy morning. I sat in my car for a few minutes until I saw the beautiful orange color silhouetting the sculpture. I made a mental note of where I stood for each shot, took the shots, and returned quickly to my car. Done. When I returned for my second shots, the sky was a gorgeous blue, and the light was hitting the faces of most of the subjects. I noticed there was a sign with a QR code, so I opened the link as I hurried back to my warm car. When I got home, I read the information about the artist and the sculpture. The figures were representational of the cultural history of Aransas County and feature a family of three Karankawa’s, a group of Native Americans who lived in the area, a Spanish Conquistador, a pirate, and a monk. On the third visit to photograph the sculpture, I really looked at it. The sky was still a beautiful blue, but the angle of the light had shifted and illuminated the whole front of the subjects. This time I noticed the beautiful patina on the hair of the Native Americans. I noticed the peg leg on the pirate, the garments of the Conquistador, and the compassionate look on the monk’s face. When the time for the sunset photo rolled around, I didn’t really want to go again. I wondered if someone had been watching me on each visit, standing in the same place over and over—would they think I was crazy? Or maybe they would question their own sanity: didn’t I see that very same sequence of events earlier today? Anyway, I went and was glad I did. The sky faded from a powdery blue into a pale orange that blended into a pinkish purple. Such a soft, beautiful sky! I knew the color would disappear quickly, so after I enjoyed the sunset for a short while, I decided to go pick up something for dinner and then come back after dark for the last photo of the day. Moonlight and the lights from town lit the sky with a soft blue glow, though to the naked eye it seemed dark. So, one subject was completed and I felt satisfied.

I went on to photograph several other things with similar results. The crab had a storied history: first installed in 1957 atop a local restaurant, it was moved, repaired, and repainted over the years, surviving hurricanes before eventually being rebuilt by the community—and again rebuilt after Hurricane Harvey. I also photographed the historic downtown cultural district, observing the streets transform from a lone jogger to crowds flowing from coffee to shopping to dinner.

All in all, I’m glad I completed this project. Even though I occasionally had to make myself go, I followed through. There’s a quiet trust that grows when you do what you say you’re going to do. I learned things about the community that deepened my belief in the importance of the arts in Rockport and gave me a little more insight into its history. And mostly, I slowed down. I took the time to really look at things and be an observer in this little town that I love, feeling more a part of the community rather than like a visitor.

I’m looking forward to beginning my February project!

by Karon -

When Winter Finally Arrives

I don’t know exactly what comes next yet after this pause.
Not in a dramatic way — I’m just here, in the quiet of these winter days by the sea, learning to trust the rhythm of life as it unfolds.

Winter finally arrived in Rockport.
A couple of nights below freezing, and the warmth of the mid-70s is gone — at least for now. The chill settles in, making me aware of my breath, my hands, and the slower way my body moves. This morning, I went for a walk, moving deliberately and noticing how good it felt simply to move. There was no destination. Just movement. Just showing up.

I’ve been thinking about strength lately.
Not the loud, visible kind.
Not the “before-and-after” kind.

The quiet kind that builds when you keep choosing small, doable things — a walk, a creative moment, a pause — even when you don’t know exactly where they’re leading.

Over the weekend, I took an art class.
It felt easy and unhurried — just sitting with color and paper, letting things take shape without trying to make them anything more.
That was enough.

I don’t know what shape my life will take next.
But I’m starting to trust the rhythm of these days, by the sea.

Walking.
Creating small things.
Letting winter slow me down instead of resisting it.

I’m loosening my grip on the idea that clarity has to arrive before movement. Maybe movement is what brings clarity — one step, one brushstroke, one cold morning at a time.

What if this season isn’t asking me to decide anything at all?
What if it’s simply asking me to stay present?

For now, this is where I am.
I’ll keep walking and see what reveals itself.

by Karon -

Wintering by the Sea: How I Got Here

I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to set out — but I had been imagining it for a long time.

Before I ever packed a bag or stepped into this season of slow, nomadic travel, there was a quieter beginning. Long before the movement, there was downsizing — sorting through years of accumulated things and thoughtfully deciding what to keep, what to release, and what no longer fit the life I was stepping into. The process took time, intention, and more emotional energy than I anticipated. In many ways, it was the first act of becoming a nomad.

Looking back, I can see how letting go of physical things created space — not just in my surroundings, but internally as well. What followed wasn’t a dramatic departure, but more of a gentle unfolding. A month of preparing and releasing gradually gave way to three months of movement, exploration, and learning how to live more lightly.

I’ve walked beaches along the Atlantic and the Gulf, dipped my toes into two of the Great Lakes, climbed lighthouses, and wandered quiet trails that encouraged me to slow down rather than rush ahead. I tasted local foods, explored without an agenda, and learned to move through places without hurrying toward the next one.

Along the way, I’ve witnessed the quiet magic of nature: manatees gliding through the water, foxes darting across my path, chipmunks and wild turkeys going about their days, and seabirds tracing graceful arcs across the sky. I’ve stood beneath brilliant fall colors, experienced a light dusting of snow, and — somewhat improbably — found myself swimming in late November.

Some of the most meaningful parts of this journey have been the people. I’ve spent time with two of my sisters, visited Amy and her family, Ryan and his family, and shared unhurried moments with my mother. I reconnected with a dear friend I had met years ago in Italy, a reminder of how deeply some connections endure across time and distance. I also spent time in person with a close friend I had once taught with in Japan, catching up in a way that felt grounding and familiar. Along the way, I was met with kindness from strangers — small gestures that lingered longer than expected.

What continues to surprise me most is how this life — outwardly full of movement — has brought a sense of inner steadiness. I’ve seen mountains, beaches, lakes, and everything in between — and more than that, I’ve learned how little I actually need to feel content. Each place, each mile has been less about change and more about alignment.

Now, as this post is published, I’ve settled into a two-month stay in a small coastal town — a sort of wintering without fully stopping. It feels like a natural pause in the movement, a chance to live a little slower while staying open to what unfolds.

This chapter isn’t about checking off destinations or collecting experiences for their own sake. It’s about paying attention — to landscapes, to people, and to myself. It’s about discovering that freedom can be both expansive and quiet at once, and that this quieter freedom is creating room to imagine what comes next.

As this journey continues, I’m holding it loosely — allowing space for rest, curiosity, and whatever unfolds in its own time. These past months have reminded me that life doesn’t always require us to know the whole path ahead. Sometimes it simply invites us to begin.

— Kari

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.