by Karon -

My First Week in Colorado

The water was almost a sapphire blue with snow-capped mountains rising in the distance, and I remember thinking—this is not a bad way to start the day. I was out for a morning walk at the neighborhood lake on my first full day in Colorado when I spotted a large, white bird floating on the water. As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was an American white pelican. They were the very same birds I had seen during my stay in Rockport, Texas. They wintered there, but I thought they were coastal water birds and had no idea that a few months later I would be seeing them in such a landlocked region.

As I continued my walk around the lake, there were lots of other water birds. Canadian Geese swam by, some with their goslings trailing behind, and Mallards drifted on the water while huge carp spawned near the shoreline. The crisp 52-degree air felt perfect for a morning walk. The Texas heat I left behind a few days earlier was just a memory now. As I came around a bend in the path, a bench appeared. I sat down feeling very blessed to be back in Colorado and simply savored the moment.

After a while, I returned to my temporary home and cooked myself a healthy breakfast which included a toasted slice of lavender sourdough bread that my host had prepared for me. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite.

Then I plopped myself into a lounge chair on the back patio and watched a squirrel sift through the fallen birdseed looking for a morsel. The trickling fountain, chirping birds, and melodious wind chimes created the perfect spot to read for a while before enjoying a little nap in the fresh air. I felt like I didn’t have a care in the world and nothing that I needed to do. This gloriously relaxing morning was just the thing I needed after the long drive.

As the week went on, in addition to walking and relaxing on the patio, I ventured out for some sightseeing. One day I made the thirty-minute drive to Boulder and shopped at the Pearl Street Mall. Such a “Colorado” experience. Pearl Street is a pedestrian mall with lovely shops, galleries, and cafes offering outdoor seating. It was a perfect day with crisp, clean air, sunshine, and mountains in the distance. There were sculptures and nature features designed into the walkway along with flowers and trees. I especially loved the sculpture of the mama bear with her cubs along with the boulders placed here and there.

Even though I am typically drawn more quickly to paintings, a small sea-blue turtle caught my eye as I walked into an art gallery. It looked like origami. As I walked further into the gallery, there was a whole body of work by artist Kevin Box that embodied the same style. This section was all white and each bronze origami sculpture had an unfolded version. These artworks spoke to me in a soft, familiar way that immediately took me back to my time in Japan with the delicate, intricate paper artworks. Only this artwork had a strong, solid feel to it. I loved the idea of giving permanence to a delicate form of art.

On another day I explored Olde Town Arvada. The downtown area is sort of a smaller, quainter version of Pearl Street, with a real hometown feel. I stopped for chai tea and felt genuinely welcomed by some locals. Just a short walk from the coffee shop is the Arvada Flour Mill, built in 1923 by Eugene Emory Benjamin along the railroad tracks at the southern edge of town. The mill operated through the 1950s, though much of its machinery was already older, having been brought in from another mill. Just down the tracks stands the old water tower, a simple but iconic reminder of Arvada’s early days, and together they give a glimpse into the town’s history as a small but active agricultural and railroad community.

In less than a week, I had already found my rhythm here with short trips exploring, quiet walks, and time for relaxing. My next local adventure was a visit to the Sculpture Field which is a rotating exhibit of outdoor sculptures at the Arvada Center for the Arts. The center itself is large and beautiful with outdoor seating and a children’s interactive sculpture garden featuring a large, colorful dragon. There was also a pond with a path and permanent sculpture installations. As I walked through the field, I found myself contemplating the inspirations behind the artworks as I scanned the QR codes and read about each piece. I am always fascinated by what motivates artists to create that particular art in that particular medium. I love the inspiration I feel when I have the opportunity to see an eclectic collection of artworks.

In one short week in Colorado, I have settled in, found my rhythm, viewed some amazing art, and made a few meaningful connections. It seems that I am learning how to really relax into slow travel and this nomadic life. I am looking forward to my next four weeks in Colorado!

.

by Karon -

On the Road Again, Heading a Little North: Texas to Colorado Road Trip

So, I am on the road again after a three-week visit with my son and his family. I am heading out for about three months with stays in Colorado and New Mexico. I’m really excited because I haven’t been in Colorado for about 25 years and the longest I had ever stayed was about a week. This time, I will be there for five weeks! As I started out on this trip, my heart was full from time with my grandsons and the previous month with my mom.

A friend gave me this little ornament. We’ve been friends for about 25 years. She is traveling with me in spirit.

My first stop on this trip was a short visit with my sister who lives near Dallas. Time with people I love has become so precious to me. We didn’t do anything elaborate, just some shopping and lunch, and then a dinner with her and my niece. Even though the visit was brief, being with my sister feels restorative and grounding.

From there, I headed toward Palo Duro Canyon State Park to see the “Grand Canyon of Texas,” the second-largest canyon in the country. A large, dark cloud hung low in the distance and before too long, I found myself driving along the edge of it. I hoped I would get past the storm and find sunny skies, but the dark cloud faded into a sky that was completely overcast.

Driving through the flat stretch of the Texas Panhandle, everything feels wide open and almost unchanging—and then, almost without warning, the land drops away. Pulling into Palo Duro Canyon State Park, it feels like stumbling onto something unexpected. The canyon opens up in layers of red and orange, stretching out farther than you think it will. It’s quiet in a way that’s hard to describe—no rush, no noise, just space. I noticed how the canyon looked a little different every few minutes. Almost as soon as I arrived, the rain began.

What stayed with me most wasn’t just how big it is, but how steady it feels. There’s something grounding about being there, like the canyon has been doing its thing for a very long time and doesn’t need anything from you. I stood there, taking it in—the stillness, the openness, the feeling of being small in a good way. It’s the kind of place that gently reminds you to be present, without forcing it.

Then it was on to a quick stop at the Cadillac Ranch. This is something I’ve wanted to see if I were ever passing through—and here I am. I really didn’t know much about it—just that there were old Cadillacs nose down in the ground that had been painted.

Seeing it in person was even more fun than I expected. The cars are completely covered in layers upon layers of spray paint, and people were out there adding their own colors and messages, so of course I added a little paint of my own too. Even though it was 42 degrees with a light rain, there was a connection with the other visitors. We shared cans of spray paint, took photos of each other with the cars, and laughed with a group of four men on motorcycles who were out in that unexpected weather. Those brief connections with strangers make my time on the road feel a little more connected.

I later learned the installation was created back in 1974 by an art group called Ant Farm, and the Cadillacs are buried at the same angle as the pyramids of Giza, which somehow makes the whole thing even quirkier. What I liked most was that it isn’t meant to stay the same—the artwork is constantly changing with every traveler who stops by.

My day of travel ended with an overnight stay in Trinidad, Colorado, and dinner at a Tex-Mex restaurant that was a little different from the Tex-Mex I’m used to.

After a bit of sightseeing the next morning, I started the drive toward Arvada, where I’ll be staying for the next couple of weeks.

By the time I reached that stretch of the trip, it felt like this first leg had already given me more than I expected—time with people I love, a reminder to slow down, and a few moments of quiet that seem to stay with you long after you leave. Not a bad way to begin three months on the road.

by Karon -

My April Project: Less Scrolling, More Living

I had been toying with the idea of a digital detox for a while. I just didn’t realize how much I actually needed it.

With so much change over the past several months, I had begun to feel the need for less input, less noise, and more clarity. I decided to make that my April project—a digital detox of sorts: less TV, less scrolling, and more space to think.

With simple, clear rules—no TV and just 15 minutes of scrolling each day—I set out to clear the mental clutter. It felt like a natural next step after decluttering my life physically a few months ago.

I wasn’t perfect at meeting my goals, but I consistently tried. Like many people, I had justified my screen time because so much of it felt practical—calls, emails, and searches. Even so, by the end of the month, it had noticeably improved. My screen time was less than half of what it had been.

Giving up TV was easy. I really haven’t watched much for years. What surprised me was how much clutter came from social media—even the “helpful” kind. I follow smart people who share great advice on health and fitness, but after a while, even good information becomes overwhelming. Scrolling had quietly turned into a form of procrastination.

So I started putting my phone down and doing the next small thing instead. I began finishing things I had been putting off, and once I started, it became easier to keep going. My attention felt less fragmented, and my mind felt clearer.

Instead of consuming more ideas, I wanted to live the ones I already had. So I began putting some of my favorite advice into practice. Something shifted. I was taking action instead of endlessly thinking about taking action.

This month I read more, played with my grandsons, and walked after meals. One afternoon I sat outside without my phone—just the sound of birds, crickets, and frogs. The quiet felt deeply familiar, like stepping back into a slower rhythm I had almost forgotten. It helped that my son’s place is both peaceful and full of the everyday sounds of life—kids playing, laughter drifting in and out. I also began trying a couple of new habits from my list of “someday” ideas.

My goal was to simplify, decompress, and reclaim my attention. What I thought would be a project about reducing screen time turned out to be something deeper. It wasn’t just about using my phone less—it was about returning to life as it was happening and being fully present for it.

by Karon -

The Beauty of an Ordinary Week

This week gave me nothing extraordinary to write about, yet it has been full and rich in all the right ways.

I am currently back at my son’s place—my nomadic home base.

It has been a slow-paced week of Legos, flower picking, and imaginary play. I’ve been immersed in the ordinary lives of my three grandsons. In just nine short days, I’ve watched a jiu jitsu class and a flag football game, taken a quick trip to Palestine for lunch and a hike through the annual fairy garden trail, and simply been present for everyday moments.

On the drive to Palestine, we told stories about them when they were little, their dad when he was little, and even a few stories from my own childhood. We laughed at silly things and listened to favorite songs. It was one of those simple days that means more than you expect.

This week, I’ve also been trying to walk at least ten minutes after most meals, along with a longer walk on many days. I’ve been sorting through a few things too, hoping to travel lighter on my next trip.

And I’m loving the freedom of not being weighed down by things.

This new life didn’t just change where I lived—it changed how I live.

I now lean into things that I used to think were flaws. Like being an introvert. I savor that time alone to recharge. I used to push against that and now I embrace it.

A few days ago I sat in the sunshine by the lake and just felt the warmth on my skin and listened to the gentle sounds of nature. I no longer feel the need to rush.

With the fast-paced life of teaching as just a memory now, I can fully breathe. I am deeply content with traveling and living alone. Having the space to breathe allows me to savor the moments with family and friends.

I’ve roughly planned the next several months: Colorado, New Mexico, North Carolina, and stops in between. I’m excited for what’s ahead. I am envisioning mountain hikes, lakes, and room to embrace slow travel. There will be time alone and some visits with family and friends.

But for right now, I’m grounded in the moment, with two more weeks here with my grandsons. I’m treasuring these days of sitting outside to watch the sunrise, hearing the rain on the roof, and listening to them play nearby.

Bluebonnets blooming in Fredericksburg Texas
by Karon -

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 -

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.

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.