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 -

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.

by Karon -

A Week in Bandera: All of Us Together

For a couple of months, I had been thinking about this week.

Planning it. Imagining it. Holding it quietly in my mind.

A week in Bandera, Texas— a former home. A place where my kids grew up, where school days and ordinary routines once filled our lives. I pictured the things we would do, the places we would return to, the feeling of stepping back into something familiar.

And then it came.

And just as quickly, it was gone.

Isn’t that the way with the moments we look forward to the most? They arrive with so much anticipation, and then they pass in a blur, leaving behind something harder to name.

Amy and Corey stayed the full week with the boys, while Ryan and Jackie were only able to be there for a few days. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that, for a little while, all five of my grandsons were together.

And not just them—but all of us.

There is something incredibly special about having your children and their families in one place at the same time. It doesn’t happen often, and when it does, you feel it. In the noise, in the laughter, in the simple act of everyone sitting around the same table. It meant more than I can fully put into words—and I know it meant just as much to my mom to see everyone together.

There is something about that—watching them run, play, eat, and just be together—that settles into a place deeper than memory. It’s not just what we did. It’s what it felt like to witness it.

We filled our days, of course.

An Easter egg hunt and picnic with my mom. Another day, we picked her up and took her with us to Wildseed Farm, followed by a quick stop at one of Fredericksburg’s many wineries. A cousin dropped in for a visit, adding another layer to the gathering. These weren’t big, dramatic moments—but together, they created something full and rich.

We walked into town, slipping easily into the rhythm of Bandera. Lunch at the OST, still standing as it always has. Ice cream from the General Store. Trying on cowboy hats at the Cowboy Store, because how could we not?

Down by the river, the little boys threw rocks and sticks into the water, completely content in the simplest of ways. Nearby, my oldest grandson and his dad went for a swim. Different ages, different ways of experiencing the same place—but all part of the same memory being made.

We visited the Bandera Natural History and Art Museum and its dinosaur walk—something added after we moved away more than ten years ago, so it was new to us. It was really fun, and honestly felt a little unexpected in a small town known as the “Cowboy Capital of the World.” A reminder that even the places we once knew so well continue to change.

And breakfast at El Jacalitos—the “little shack” that isn’t so little anymore—still serving the kind of breakfast tacos that somehow taste like both the past and the present.

It was a full week. A busy week.

But more than that, it was a reminder.

That places hold stories, but they don’t stay the same.

That time moves forward, whether you’re ready or not.

And that sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t the ones you plan—they’re the ones you feel while they’re happening, knowing, even then, how fleeting they are.

by Karon -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary’s picture from the summit.
by Karon -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

American Flamingo at Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center
by Karon -

A Flamingo, a Colorful Shop, and Surprises in Port Aransas

I started my day in Port Aransas walking the beach at sunrise, beachcombing for over an hour. The waves were rough, the sky heavy with clouds, and the early glow of pink from the rising sun quickly disappeared behind them. The sand was cool underfoot, and each wave left treasures along the shore. I collected a bounty of shells—mostly scallops, in shades of gray, black, orange, and white. Each one felt like a small treasure, a tiny piece of the beach’s beauty to carry with me.

From the beach, I wandered to the Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center, where another surprise awaited. In the shallow waters, a bright pink figure stood out—a lone flamingo, a visitor from far away who has called this sanctuary home since 2023. Believed to have arrived on the winds of Hurricane Idalia, this American Flamingo likely traveled from the Yucatan Peninsula. While flamingos are rare in Texas, locals have grown accustomed to spotting this striking visitor, who has become a star on Facebook birding groups and a favorite subject for photographers.

I had come hoping to catch a glimpse of the elegant Roseate Spoonbills, but the flamingo stole the show. I settled onto the sun-warmed bench with only my phone in hand, watching as it waded gracefully through the shallow water. Around me, the marsh was alive with birds—dozens of wintering white pelicans floated and fished, while a variety of ducks paddled quietly nearby. Their calls mingled with the gentle ripple of waves, creating a peaceful symphony of wildlife. Nearby birders shared quiet excitement, snapping photos and whispering observations.

Later, on another visit to Port Aransas, I met a woman who was equally unforgettable, though in a very different way. She owned a small shop, and her personality radiated from every corner of it. A woman of a certain age, she wore jeans that looked as if someone had graffitied them with bright words and colors, a vivid top covered in the word “love” in every hue, and bright red boots. Her shop reflected her energy—inside and out, it was a kaleidoscope of color, full of quirky details like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the West sticking out from under the front of the building. Even her car seemed to shout fun and originality. She was lively, exuberant, and unmistakably herself—much like the flamingo, a one-of-a-kind presence in this little beach town.

Both encounters reminded me of the small surprises that make life memorable. Sometimes it’s a bird carried by a hurricane that finds a new home, sometimes a person whose joy and creativity is impossible to ignore, sometimes the simple treasures of shells on the shore. All left me smiling, and all made me appreciate the unique character of Port Aransas—the way it invites visitors to notice the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Whether you’re wandering the beaches at sunrise, exploring the birding center, or stopping in the colorful shops along the streets, Port Aransas has a way of offering little moments of delight that stay with you long after you leave. The flamingo, the pelicans, the shop owner, and the colorful shells each have their own kind of brilliance, reminding me that life is richer when we pause to notice the unexpected, the vibrant, and the one-of-a-kind.

by Karon -

Standing in the Shade of The Big Tree

A quiet visit to the oldest tree in Texas, where history, endurance, and imagination meet.

Have you ever seen a huge tree and instantly known it would have been the perfect tree for climbing when you were a kid?

Walking under the low, sprawling branches of one of The Big Tree’s offspring at Goose Island State Park in Rockport, TX, was one of those moments. Standing in the shade of massive branches stretched out like the tentacles of an octopus, I was in awe. Some branches are propped up with wooden supports, while others reach outward, seemingly defying gravity.

And this is only an offspring.

The Big Tree is surrounded by a rustic wooden fence, protecting her from the many visitors who come to see her for themselves. Her trunk measures more than 35 feet in circumference, and she stands 44–45 feet tall. I wished I could stand beneath the 89–90-foot canopy and touch the bark of this over 1,000-year-old tree. From what I have read, some believe the tree is closer to 2,000 years old.

I circled the enclosed tree, capturing every angle with my camera. Then I sat on a nearby bench, letting the quiet settle like a soft blanket around me and listening to the birds chirp and call across the branches. I thought about what I had read of the Karankawa, who held ceremonies beneath the tree, and the Comanche, who used this land as a gathering place. There are stories of pirates using this very spot as a secret rendezvous. Over time, the tree has also silently witnessed darker chapters of the past, including hangings and other grim events I won’t describe here.

Its strong trunk and outstretched branches stand as a testament to endurance—the kind of strength that has survived dozens of hurricanes, floods, droughts, and wildfires. Standing in the presence of something that has lived for centuries and weathered so many hardships is humbling.

On my second visit to The Big Tree, I brought Ryan and my three grandsons. They went straight to the first tree on the property and climbed into the wide, low branches as if they were walking on solid ground. I couldn’t resist taking photos of their adventures. Later, we imagined building a treehouse in those enormous branches and even drew a picture of our family in it. That day became a memory I will always cherish.

Standing there with my grandsons, watching them explore and imagine, I felt the full weight of time—centuries of storms weathered, histories witnessed, and life continuing in the branches above us. The Big Tree isn’t just a tree; it’s a quiet keeper of stories, a reminder of endurance, and a place where generations can pause, play, and dream.

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