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

Wintering by the Sea: The First Week

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly, I’ve been still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Kari

by Karon -

Turning Inward: Reflecting on the Year and Embracing Possibility

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nagasaki bombing survivor. Nagasaki, Japan

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

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

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

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

– Kari

by Karon -

Saying Yes to the Things That Scare Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Karon -

Embracing My Inner Hippie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

So maybe my principal was right.

Maybe I was a hippie in disguise.

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

Maybe this is the season I finally embrace her.

– Kari

by Karon -

Travel and Stereotypes: Seeing Beyond the Lines We Draw

One of the quiet gifts of travel is how it invites us to see the world — and one another — with softer eyes. We all carry ideas about places and people, shaped by stories we’ve heard or assumptions we’ve never questioned. Sometimes they’re harmless, almost humorous. Other times, they build invisible walls that keep us from really seeing.

Growing up in the South, I imagined the North as a world of city streets and hurried footsteps, where winters stretched on forever and people weren’t especially friendly. And I know some northerners picture the South as a land of front porches and drawls, where everyone drives a pickup and waves to strangers. The funny thing is — there’s a bit of truth in all of it. Winters do stretch on up north, and in the South, most people really do wave as you pass by, often from behind the wheel of a truck. And the truth is, many northerners aren’t overly outgoing at first — but once you start the conversation, they are kind, helpful, and genuine. Stereotypes often start with a seed of truth — they just fail to tell the whole story.

But stereotypes fade quickly when your feet touch the ground.

I remember my first visit to upstate New York — expecting noise, traffic, and the shadow of New York City. Instead, I found quiet farmland, red barns, rolling hills, and winding country roads. The air smelled of hay and woodsmoke. I passed old farmhouses with porches full of pumpkins, tractors resting by the fields, and church steeples rising above little towns. It felt familiar in a way that caught me off guard — like finding a reflection of home in an unexpected mirror.

And yes, I still say y’all. It slips out naturally — soft, warm, and full of welcome. It’s part of my rhythm, part of where I’m from. But what I’ve learned is that the sound of belonging isn’t tied to a region. It’s found in the kindness of a smile, the comfort of shared laughter, the ease of connection between strangers.

The South isn’t all one thing, and neither is the North. Both hold beauty, complexity, and contradiction — city lights and quiet roads, tradition and change, rough edges and grace.

Travel has a way of peeling back the surface. When you take the time to listen, to linger, to look past what you thought you knew, the world grows softer and wider. You realize how much of it — and how much of us — is shared.

We are all far more alike than we are different. And the more I wander, the more I believe that the real journey isn’t just about miles or maps — it’s about learning to see with open eyes and an open heart.

— Kari

by Karon -

The Art of Going Alone: How It All Started

Travel journal and colored pencils on a vibrant mat at the beach — a peaceful moment of creativity and reflection by the sea.

For much of my life, my greatest masterpiece has not been a painting, a photograph, or a lesson plan — it has been my children. They were, and are, my best thing. Through all the years of balancing the wonders of motherhood with the joyful chaos of teaching — whether in the art room or the classroom — I carried within me a quiet longing to create, to explore, to discover my own artistic style.

Now, I find myself standing in a new season. I have retired from teaching, carefully tucked away years of memories, and let go of most of the belongings that once filled my home. In their place, I’ve chosen open skies, winding roads, and the promise of adventure. What remains with me — always — is family. My children, now grown, walk their own paths, and my grandsons, those little sparks of joy, light up my world in ways words can barely hold.

Feet walking along a sandy beach — a quiet moment of reflection and connection with nature.

And so begins The Art of Going Alone. It is not about loneliness, but about listening — to the inner voice that has long waited for its time. It is about seeking beauty in coastal towns and hidden streets, in the sway of trees and the rhythm of water. It is about experimenting with brushstrokes and photographs, discovering what feels authentic, what feels true.

This journey is not an escape but an embrace. I am not leaving family behind; I am carrying them with me — in stories, in phone calls, in the way my heart still dances when I hear “Grandma” or “Christmas Tree” (a story for another time). They are my anchor, even as I set out to sail.

I don’t know yet exactly where this road will lead. Perhaps toward an artistic voice I have not yet heard clearly. Perhaps toward new friendships, new places that become beloved, new lessons learned in unexpected corners of the world. But I do know this: life is too short to let dreams linger unspoken.

So here I am — reinventing, exploring, wandering, creating. This is my canvas now. And you are welcome to walk alongside me, as I learn the art of going alone.

Kari