slow living Archives

by Karon - January 29, 2026January 29, 2026

When Winter Finally Arrives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Karon - January 6, 2026January 6, 2026

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 - October 21, 2025December 1, 2025

Finding Peace in Sackets Harbor: A Month on the Shores of Lake Ontario

After months of planning, sorting, and saying goodbye to so many things I once called mine, I’ve arrived at my destination for the month of October — the Village of Sackets Harbor, a charming little gem nestled along the shores of Lake Ontario in upstate New York.

This lovely village of about 1,300 people feels like it’s been tucked away from the rush of the world. It’s quaint and quiet, with tree-lined streets, historic homes, and a harbor that glimmers in the morning light. Everything here is walkable, and each path invites you to slow down and notice the small, beautiful things — the sound of leaves rustling, the scent of woodsmoke, the cool whisper of fall air.

I’ve been walking every morning since I arrived. I begin my day at the harbor, just as the sun lifts above the water, painting everything in gold. Some days, I wander through town, and others, I take the trail that winds through the historic battlefield. There’s something grounding about starting the day this way — moving, breathing, being part of the quiet rhythm of the village.

The best part of being here is time with my daughter, Amy, and her family. My two grandsons are here — lively, curious, and full of wonder — and they fill my days with laughter and joy. Being near them feels like a gift, one I don’t take for granted.

And then there’s fall — my favorite season. When I arrived, the trees were just beginning to turn, and I knew that soon the whole village would be dressed in red, gold, and amber. I could already feel that shift in the air, that whisper that says, slow down, savor this.

For the first time in a long while, I don’t have things hanging over me — no closets to clean, no papers to sort, no boxes to pack. I’ve done all of that. Now, I have the luxury of time — time to walk, to stretch, to eat well, to read, to create. I have mostly been writing and taking photographs… lots of photographs.

I brought along some art supplies, tucked carefully into my car before I left. Here, surrounded by beauty and stillness, I finally have the freedom to explore and create without hurry or distraction.

In this quiet little harbor town, I feel a peace I haven’t known in years — the kind that comes not from doing more, but from finally doing less.