by Karon -

Being Open: My May Project

I’ve always been open to adventure. Life has taken me to places I never imagined, introduced me to people I never expected to meet, and given me experiences that once felt far beyond my comfort zone.

What surprised me about May wasn’t a new found willingness to try something different. It was how openness showed up in quieter ways.

Unlike previous months, I didn’t begin May with a specific challenge in mind. Looking back, though, I can see a theme woven throughout the month. It became a month of being open—open to conversations, invitations, friendships, and the unexpected moments that often arrive when we slow down enough to notice them.

I tend to move through the world quietly. While I enjoy people, I’m not usually the person who strikes up conversations with strangers. Yet somehow this month felt different. I found myself more willing to engage, more curious about the people around me, and more open to the connections that can happen in ordinary places.

I lingered over conversations with people I might normally have greeted and moved on from. At one gift shop, I chatted with a woman who had recently gone through a divorce and was returning to college as she figured out her next chapter. In another, the conversation centered around the unique aspen branches the owner had cut, dried, and used to display her merchandise. These weren’t life-changing conversations, but they added richness to my day and reminded me that everyone has a story.

As the conversations continued, I began to receive—and accept—invitations. One morning, three local regulars at a coffee shop invited me to join them. Normally, I would have politely declined. Instead, I pulled up a chair and spent the next hour talking with them about everything from local history to life in Colorado. They seemed to know everyone who walked through the door, and by the time I left, I felt less like a visitor and more like part of the community.

Not long after that, I met another nomad who happened to be pet sitting next door. Since then, we’ve shared meals, walked our pets together, and explored the area. One evening she invited me over for Thai food, which turned out to be a surprise celebration for my upcoming birthday.

Being open wasn’t just about people. It also showed up in my willingness to try new experiences. A temporary membership at a luxury gym gave me access to a recovery lounge filled with therapies and equipment. Some, like red light therapy and hydromassage, were already favorites. Others were completely new to me. The cryo chamber was a little intimidating at first, but it quickly became one of my favorite parts of the experience. The sensory deprivation float pod also felt a bit outside my comfort zone, yet it turned out to be surprisingly relaxing. The cold plunge, however, still has me negotiating with myself.

That same openness also influenced the way I explored Colorado. Instead of filling my calendar or planning every detail, I found myself following curiosity. A drive to Red Rocks, a morning in Golden, a walk around a new neighborhood, or a spontaneous stop somewhere that looked interesting often became the highlight of the day. I even drove up to Cripple Creek to see the Thomas Dambo troll. Because of my fear of heights and unfamiliar mountain roads, I had been hesitant to venture too far from the main highways. One day, though, I decided to go for it. Some of my favorite moments this month weren’t planned at all.

Looking back, I don’t think being open meant doing more. In many ways, it meant doing less.

This season of slow travel has given me the gift of time—time to linger over conversations, explore a town without an agenda, develop new friendships, and try experiences I might otherwise have rushed past.

Perhaps that is what surprised me most about May. By slowing down and being more present, I began to notice opportunities I might have otherwise missed—conversations, friendships, invitations, and experiences that arrived unexpectedly. None of these moments were extraordinary on their own, yet together they became the story of my month.

May reminded me that sometimes the richest experiences aren’t found by doing more. They are found by being fully present for what is already right in front of us.

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 -

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