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 -

Wandering Through Niwot

I have always loved exploring—little antique shops, small towns, the outdoors. Antique shops had a certain mystery about them because you never knew what you might find. I still have an old perfume bottle that I bought in an antique shop when I was eighteen. It was in a small lavender box with all the wording written in French. At that point in my life I dreamed of visiting Paris and that little bottle was sort of a touchstone for that dream.

Fast forward a lot of years, and I have traveled to many destinations (not Paris yet). Somewhere along the way, our dreams change and evolve, and so it went with Paris. Italy became my love. I’ve visited twice and would still love to live there. But for now, I am content with my current plan. A slow nomadic lifestyle.

I still love to explore. I have realized with this current stay in Arvada, Colorado, that much of my exploring involves being outdoors. Whether it’s walking through a new small town or visiting a state park, I love to be out in the fresh air. This week also brought a few chilly, rainy days. I happily spent a couple of days curled up with hot tea, books, movies, and a fire in the fireplace.

Even though it was overcast with a chance of rain, I ventured out one morning to the sweet little town of Niwot. It almost felt like stepping back in time. Massive Plains Cottonwood trees lined the streets, making the town feel like a place that had quietly stayed true to itself for a very long time. All throughout town were large hand-shaped chairs painted in unique designs that invited visitors to stop and sit for a while. Bronze bears and foxes peeked out from behind a bush here and there in the landscaping near businesses. Flowers trailed from baskets on streetlights and window boxes on storefronts. Niwot quickly became one of my favorite small towns!

Osmosis Art Gallery was one of my first stops in town. I loved the idea of osmosis… soaking up inspiration and creativity just by being in the presence of the art. The process seemed to begin before I even entered the gallery. There were all kinds of whimsical art pieces on the lawn, including two of the large hands that I had seen throughout town along with brightly colored whimsical birds and flowers. The gallery was full of eclectic art with everything from paintings, to pottery, to handmade soap and jewelry. Just the kind of fun, quirky gallery that I love!

As I walked into Wise Buys Antiques in the historic district, a bell chimed. I slowly walked through the shop hoping to find some little thing that I just had to have. I wanted to collect something from this little town that I had been so charmed by. I looked at the pink depression glass and thought of my Aunt Jewel. I think hers had been green. I was suddenly reminded of all of the delicious meals at her house as a kid. I love how just seeing an item can produce a sweet memory. I picked up a well-worn Nancy Drew book and flipped through it thinking of how I had loved to read these books when I was about ten. I wondered how many hands had held this particular book. I didn’t find anything that I could justify adding to the bins and suitcases I travel with and decided to wander on to the next shop.

My next stop before wandering back to my car was The Little Bird. Another great little shop! While browsing the unique clothes and gift items, I chatted with the owner about the pronunciation of Niwot and what had brought him to town. I thought about how this little town was really close to my perfect town. I found a little gift for a friend and then went back out into the cool air.

As I returned to my car, I thought about how at eighteen, exploration had looked like dreaming about faraway places and collecting little reminders of where I hoped life would take me. These days, I seem to find just as much joy wandering through small towns, noticing tiny details, and allowing myself to move a little more slowly through the world.

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!

.

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 -

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.

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 -

Exploring Rockport, Texas: Art, Nature, and Stillness by the Sea

So, where have I landed for an extended stay? I’ve landed in the small coastal fishing town of Rockport, a place I’ve dreamed of living in more than once. The town has a slower pace and a small-town vibe that matches what I am craving right now. Slow, quiet walks on the beach, the hiking trail, or even through town all invite me to reflect and slow down. And so far, that is just what I have done. After a few weeks of preparing, a few months of traveling, and the busyness of the holidays, I knew I would be ready for a pause.

One thing that I love about Rockport is the art scene. For a small town, it has a big artistic presence. It has several art galleries, an art makers market, and the Rockport Center for the Arts which is “a multidisciplinary arts hub” and is not something you would expect to find in a little fishing town. It actually features local and national artists and always has a variety of offerings from gallery exhibits to events and education. The town is also home to quite a few very talented artists. And then there are the murals … with their beachy, artsy vibe. You might say that art is the heartbeat of Rockport.

I’m sure there are others who would say that fishing is the heartbeat of Rockport. Quite honestly, I think that fishing might be the main reason most people come to Rockport. I’m not really very interested in fishing, but I have photographed the bait shops and fishing boats many times. And actually, I probably have photographed them every time I’ve been here. The same colorful bait shops are always here welcoming me back. It’s kind of grounding to see things remain the same over time. I love to just walk along the marina and look at the many and varied boats. There are a couple of sailboats that I recognize from one visit to the next – the Gypsy Pirate with its skeleton crew and the Irish Rover with its mermaid figurehead. Friendly reminders that some things remain the same, but just age with the weathering of time.

I suppose another group of people might consider nature the heartbeat of Rockport. There is the quiet draw of the sea, the nearby state park, and the many waterbirds that call Rockport home—or, like many people, are winter Texans. And then there are the outdoor activities like hiking, kayaking, paddleboarding, boating, birdwatching, beachcombing, photography, dolphin watching… and that’s all available here in town without mentioning nearby opportunities.

I’ve been here two weeks now and haven’t done much more than settle in, walk, and breath in the salty air. This pause feels like a huge exhale. I know I am blessed to be able to embrace this nomadic life, which allows me to travel slowly and to pause when I feel the need, allowing me the space to listen to my inner voice and trust myself. For this brief pause, this is my home base.

Have you ever paused in a place that feels like home, even for a little while?

– Kari

by Karon -

Sun City Center, Florida Adventures

This week has carried me to Sun City Center, a quiet Florida town that’s turned out to be the perfect setting for my second pet-sitting adventure. The rhythm here is slow and easy—golf carts humming down the streets, neighbors waving from driveways, and mornings that seem to invite you to linger a little longer. The two pups I’m caring for are gentle and content, which has given me plenty of space to wander and explore the coastlines nearby.

One of my first beach days was at Siesta Key, where the sand is so white and soft it feels like walking through sifted flour. It’s the kind of place that urges you to pause—where the horizon stretches wide and the whole day seems to expand around you.

Turtle Beach offered a quieter contrast, with darker, grainier sand and a peacefulness that feels made for slow thinking and unhurried walks.

One of the moments that stayed with me the most happened at the Apollo Beach Manatee Viewing Center. I spotted a mother manatee gliding alongside her baby, only a few months old. Manatees have always tugged at my heart—Amy and I swam with them years ago in Crystal River—and seeing them again, even briefly, brought that same sense of awe rushing back.

Anna Maria Island has been another sweet surprise. I spent a morning at Manatee Beach in Holmes Beach, where the shoreline stretches wide, the waves roll in gently, and the free island trolley passes by with a kind of old-Florida charm. It’s one of those places that makes you want to stay until the sun begins to sink.

Later, I wandered over to Historic Bridge Street and the old pier in Bradenton Beach. Once part of the original 1920s wooden bridge that connected the island to the mainland, the pier now feels like a little pocket of history—fishermen casting lines, pelicans drifting close, families strolling between small shops and cafes. There’s something nostalgic there, even on your first visit.

After visiting the beaches and wandering the pier, I even found time to take a dip in the neighborhood pool—a surprisingly warm and refreshing treat at the end of November. It felt like a little secret slice of summer tucked into the fall, a quiet moment to linger in the sun and water before heading back to the pups.

Even though my time here is short, this corner of Florida has offered more than I expected—quiet beaches, gentle wildlife, easy mornings, and places that carry a kind of timeless charm. Sun City Center has been a calming home base between beach days, pool swims, and dog cuddles, a reminder that the best adventures don’t always have to be big or far away.

– Kari