by Karon -

Churches, Art, and a Musical Road: A Day on the Turquoise Trail

Before my day on the Turquoise Trail even began, I stumbled across one of the most unexpected things I’ve ever found on Route 66—a musical road! For about a quarter of a mile, special rumble strips play America the Beautiful as you drive over them at the speed limit. The first time, I was almost through it before I realized what I was hearing. Since the original signs marking the spot have been removed, I turned around and drove it again. Then I drove it a third time with the windows down, the A/C off, and my tires right on the rumble strips. Perfetto! The first time I ever experienced a musical road was during my years in Japan, so I was delighted to stumble upon one in Albuquerque.

You pick up the Turquoise Trail in Tijeras on the east side of Albuquerque. It’s a scenic byway (NM- 14) that runs from Albuquerque to Santa Fe through the Sandia Mountains. Native Americans mined turquoise here as far back as A.D. 900. Later, settlers also mined the area, giving the trail the name it still carries today.

I had barely started my drive when I saw the top of an old church with a small white cross against the blue sky. I just had to stop and take a look. Three people sat at a picnic table in front of the church having a snack. It turned out that they had spent the morning working on upkeep on the cemetery. I’m sure it was already close to 90 degrees, but they didn’t seem to mind the heat. They told me a little about the church, about the best place to eat along the Turquoise Trail, and about some other old churches along the way.

The San Antonio Mission Church, also known as Nuestro Señor de Mapimí Church, was built in 1886. It’s a small adobe church with a single white cross and has changed very little over the years. It wasn’t open, so I could only look at the outside and the grounds, but I was so glad that I stopped. It was just a quick look and a brief conversation with three strangers, but their warmth stayed with me as I continued on my way.

I drove on, following their directions to the next church about ten miles up the road. For this church, I had to wind up a little gravel road to the top of a hill. I would have driven right past it if not for their directions.. San Francisco de Asis Catholic Church was built in the 1830s to serve the miners and families of the first gold rush west of the Mississippi. To reach the church, I walked through a gate and along a path that meandered through a cemetery dotted with weathered wooden crosses. It felt wonderfully secluded. After the gold rush ended, the town gradually became a ghost town, and the church was abandoned before being rebuilt in 1960.

The next town on the trail was Madrid (pronounced Maa-drid), where the movie Wild Hogs was filmed. Until I talked with the church volunteers, I had no idea this was the town from the movie.

Madrid was such an artsy and quirky town. I had lunch at the Mine Shaft Tavern and wandered through several art galleries meeting and visiting with the artists in many of them. I was in a little bit of “hog” heaven.

One gallery featured the work of seven artists who are all friends, the youngest of whom is seventy-five. I think if I lived in this area, I would want to hang out with them. I left feeling so energized and inspired.

After I left Madrid, I lost my GPS connection and had to make the rest of the trip on my own. Lucky for me, it’s just a straight shot through to Santa Fe, but it was an unusual feeling to be completely on my own. I was reminded of traveling in my twenties with just an atlas and a general idea of where I was going. It felt kind of freeing to trust my instincts while following the directions of the people at the church to the next church in Cerrillos.

St. Joseph’s Catholic Church was established in 1884, but the current church was built in 1922. This time, the church was open. The historic artwork and stained glass were just beautiful. Most of the sculptures inside had a very Spanish and rustic feel. Outside there was an enclosed garden with a Pieta and other sculptures. The church is still active today.

The town of Cerrillos is a fun stop because it has an old west feel with dusty, dirt roads and an old, weathered hotel. During its heyday, it had 21 saloons and 4 hotels and was once considered a possible capital of New Mexico.

I drove on to Santa Fe and was pretty exhausted from all of the sightseeing in the heat. Even though I brought plenty of water, I felt dehydrated, so I headed home. All in all, a great day! There were still places I missed, but maybe that’s the beauty of a road like this. It gives me a reason to return.

by Karon -

Choosing Movement: My June Project

It’s a little hard to believe that I am already halfway through a year of monthly projects. They haven’t always been easy, and some months have evolved more than they were planned, but one thing is certain—I have learned something from each one. Sometimes I’ve learned something about myself, sometimes about people, and sometimes about life in general. Looking back over June, I realized this month’s project wasn’t one I intentionally chose at the beginning of the month. It quietly chose me.

At this phase in my life, I am choosing movement. Not just moving my body, but also embracing movement in my lifestyle. Choosing to sell nearly everything I owned and become a nomad after retiring was a deliberate decision, one I try to approach with openness and positivity. There have certainly been challenges, although in the big picture they have been very small. This lifestyle has naturally shaped the way I move through my days.

June is also my birthday month, so the calendar says I’m another year older. When I was younger, I never imagined that at 67 I’d be living out of a suitcase, waking up in a different state every few weeks, and looking for the best walking trail instead of settling into a familiar routine. Life rarely follows the path we imagine, and I’m learning that isn’t always a bad thing. At some point I expect I’ll put down roots again, but for now, movement works for me.

Physical movement has become part of who I am. I can honestly say that I am someone who walks almost every day and exercises regularly. It’s not perfect – I still miss a day now and then, and I still have fitness goals – but I’m different than I was two months ago. I’m very different than I was a year ago. One of the biggest surprises has been that exercise no longer feels like something I have to make myself do. It has become part of my daily rhythm. My life has changed, and so have I. I’m still growing, and I’m still moving forward.

At the beginning of June, I had already been in Colorado for about two and a half weeks, and what better place to be active? There are so many hiking trails, beautiful parks, and pleasant temperatures. I already had a daily walking routine when I arrived in Colorado Springs, where I was greeted with sunny mornings in the 50s and afternoons in the 70s. That is pretty much my definition of an ideal climate, and there is just something about the Colorado air that makes me want to be outside.

Most mornings began with a walk. Then I would spend part of the day exploring nearby towns or parks, usually adding even more steps. Later I would head to the gym for a brief workout before enjoying the amazing recovery lounge, and I often finished the day with one more short walk. I had set a goal of 7,000 to 10,000 steps each day, and many days I exceeded it. Without really thinking about it, movement became woven into the rhythm of my days.

When I arrived in Albuquerque, I realized the habit had already taken hold. Before I had unpacked much of anything, I was out walking the neighborhood before the desert heat settled in. My second day here, I joined a fitness class at the YMCA. I wasn’t starting over—I was simply continuing the rhythm I had already created.

This month reminded me that movement shows up in different ways. I move from place to place, I move my body almost every day, and I keep moving forward into whatever comes next. It isn’t something I’ve had to force. It has become as natural as heading out for a morning walk.

This month reminded me that movement isn’t just about counting steps or closing the rings on my Apple Watch. It’s about continuing to grow, staying curious, and refusing to become stagnant. I’m choosing to keep moving—to new places, toward better health, and into whatever comes next. Along the way, I’m redefining what retirement looks like for me and reinventing myself one step at a time.

Screenshot
Cano's Castle in Antonito, Colorado
by Karon -

Leaving Colorado, Finding the Unexpected

Well, the day finally came to leave Colorado. Over the past several weeks, the mountains had become part of my daily life, always there in the distance no matter where I went. I’ll miss the cool mornings, the “Christmas trees” in the landscaping, and the simple comfort of waking up to mountain views. Colorado had begun to feel like home, and I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

On my way out, I decided to visit Great Sand Dunes National Park. The drive from Colorado Springs seemed incredibly long as I meandered up to a higher elevation. When I finally reached the park, it was so odd to see massive sand dunes right at the base of the mountains. A group of young people had just finished sandboarding down the dunes and were loading up their car. I can only imagine how challenging it must have been to climb the dunes multiple times. I was content just to walk in the dunes a little and take photos.

The oddness of the dunes was just the beginning of the odd sights I would see over the next 24 hours. The drive from the park took me across the San Luis Valley, which looked sandy and desert-like. Oddly enough, it is also a thriving farming and ranching region. As I drove along looking at fields of crops interspersed with fields of sand, I drove into a sandstorm that was intense enough that I had to slow down considerably just to see the road ahead.

After about an hour, I arrived at my oddly unique hotel for the night. The hotel had a very retro vibe and the exterior of the lobby looked like architecture right out of the fifties. The rooms all opened to the parking lot, and the back had large windows so that guests could watch the drive-in movie owned by the hotel. All of the rooms had a speaker so that you could hear the movie. Each room was named after a movie star. Mine was Spencer Tracy. It felt like stepping back into another era, and I couldn’t help but imagine families pulling in for the night during the heyday of American road trips.

The next morning I began my drive to Albuquerque. Along the way, I spotted a sign for Colorado’s oldest church and, on a whim, made a quick right turn. That detour led me to Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish in Conejos, the oldest church in Colorado. Founded in 1858, the parish began with a small adobe chapel before the current church was completed in 1863. Rising unexpectedly from the rural landscape, the church felt almost cathedral-like. The doors were open, so I stepped inside and was immediately struck by the beautiful stained glass, artwork, statues, and marble altar. I took a few quiet minutes to pray and reflect. Standing there, I found myself thinking about how many lives had intersected in this place over the past century and a half. Although a fire destroyed much of the interior in 1926, the church was rebuilt on its original site and remains an active parish today. It was an unexpected stop, but one that added a meaningful moment to my journey south.

Next to the church, I discovered a beautiful prayer labyrinth at the El Santuario de los Pobladores — the Sanctuary of the Settlers. What I first thought of as simple sculptural accents turned out to be striking bronze bas-relief panels that frame each meditation chapel. Each one represents a Mystery of the Rosary, drawing visitors into the story of Jesus’ life and ministry in a very direct, visual way. The panels are the work of three renowned Valley artists and honor the Spanish mission saints as well as the Virgin of Guadalupe, tying the space deeply to the spiritual heritage of the region. As I walked, I also noticed additional bronze sculptures placed outside the labyrinth itself, depicting mission saints and quietly extending the sense of devotion into the surrounding grounds. Each chapel I stepped into held its own artwork and atmosphere, and I found myself discovering them one by one as I moved through the space, almost like the labyrinth was unfolding the story in real time.

I drove on to the town of Antonito where I stopped to see Cano’s Castle. I was pleasantly surprised by the intricate, almost shimmering construction of the structure, built from a striking mix of stone, concrete, and layers of recycled materials. While it’s often described as being made entirely of beer cans, that only tells part of the story — sections of the castle also reveal stonework and a broader patchwork of salvaged metal, glass, and found objects, all carefully assembled into textured walls that catch the high desert light. The longer I stood there, the more I noticed hidden patterns and unexpected materials tucked into the walls.

The castle was built singlehandedly by Dominic “Cano” Espinosa, a Vietnam veteran who spent more than three decades shaping the structure as a personal act of gratitude and survival. He has described it as his way of giving thanks to God for making it through the war, and that sense of devotion is embedded in every layer of the work. What began as a private expression gradually grew into an expansive, ongoing folk-art environment — part tribute, part spiritual offering, and part lifelong creative calling.

What makes it even more compelling is the way it rises in unexpected forms and towers, each one feeling both improvised and intentional at the same time. It is less a single “castle” than an evolving work of outsider art — beautiful, slightly eccentric, and deeply expressive in the quiet landscape of the San Luis Valley.

I stopped and took a few photos in town. There always seems to be something quietly quirky in these high desert places, as if the landscape itself invites a different kind of imagination.

Not long after, I crossed into New Mexico and began noticing homes partially tucked into the earth, almost like they had grown out of the mesa rather than been built on it. Curious, I pulled over at the Earthship Visitor Center, and what I found there felt like stepping into another version of what “home” could be.

The Earthship Biotecture Visitor Center is part of the larger Greater World Earthship Community near Taos, a sprawling 600-acre-plus experiment in off-grid living created by architect Michael Reynolds, who began developing the Earthship concept in the 1970s. These homes are built into the earth using an unexpected mix of recycled and natural materials — tires, bottles, cans, adobe, and glass — designed to work with the environment rather than against it. What stood out most was how self-sufficient they are: solar and wind power, rainwater collection, greenhouse food production, and internal systems that recycle water and waste all work together to create a home that can function independently of traditional utilities. Inside, the temperature stays remarkably steady year-round, held in that quiet 60–70°F range by thick earthen walls and thermal mass.

Standing there, it felt like I had left Colorado and stepped into a different kind of story — one where sustainability, creativity, and necessity all meet in the middle of the desert. Over the past 24 hours, I had walked on towering sand dunes, weathered a sandstorm, slept beside a drive-in movie theater, wandered through a historic church and labyrinth, explored a castle built from recycled materials, and toured homes built into the earth. If this was my introduction to New Mexico, I couldn’t wait to see what came next. Farewell, Colorado and hello, New Mexico!

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 -

A Slow Morning in Fredericksburg, Tx.

Some days aren’t meant for plans.
They’re meant for wandering — for walking slowly down familiar streets, noticing the things you might otherwise pass by.

This week, I found myself doing just that in Fredericksburg, letting the day unfold one small moment at a time.

The morning light hit the buildings along Main Street just right, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The town felt quieter at this hour, as if it was still stretching awake. A few doors were just beginning to open, the soft sound of shops coming to life spilling into the street.

Walking through a small town on a sunny morning has always been one of my favorite ways to explore. Even here, in a place I’ve been many times before, everything felt a little new — as if I was seeing it again for the first time.

A small shop window stopped me in my tracks. Bunnies tucked among soft florals, pale pastels layered carefully, each detail placed with intention. It was simple, but beautiful in a way that made me pause a little longer than expected.

A few doors down, another window caught my eye — leather boots and Stetson hats. I could almost imagine the familiar scent of leather, the kind that lingers in a good boot store. Classic, unmistakably Texas.

I found a bench and sat for a while. The air still held onto the cool of the morning, but the sun was beginning to warm it. Footsteps echoed lightly along the sidewalk. A couple passed by, walking hand in hand, their pace unhurried. I caught myself wondering about them — how long they’d been together, whether this was home or just a visit, what their story might be.

More people began to appear, one or two at a time. A quiet rhythm was building.

I stopped for a chai tea and stayed longer than I had planned. It was the kind of pause that didn’t need a reason. I just sat there, people-watching. I found myself doing more of this these days — allowing space for small moments to be enough on their own.

The busyness of being a mother and teacher felt far away in moments like this.
There was space to notice. To sit. To stay.

And then, I got up and continued on — a little slower, a little more aware, carrying the quiet of the morning with me.

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 -

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

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 -

Catching Up in Acworth, GA — and Remembering a Summer in Italy

I recently visited Acworth, Georgia—a charming lakeside town tucked into the foothills of the North Georgia mountains. Known as “The Lake City,” Acworth sits along the banks of Lake Acworth and Lake Allatoona, with quiet water views, a historic downtown, and that unmistakable Southern warmth that makes you want to slow down and stay a while.

But my visit to Acworth wasn’t just about exploring a new place. It was about reconnecting with a friend I met years ago, in one of my favorite places in the world: Italy.

Several years ago, I spent a summer living alone in Vicenza. I didn’t know a single person when I arrived—not in the city, and not in Italy at all. The only connection I had was my work as a DODEA teacher, which allowed me base access and the chance to join excursions organized for the military community. I spent my days wandering cobblestone streets, hopping on trains to nearby cities, and studying in the base library as I finished postgraduate coursework. I had been learning Italian and tried to practice whenever I could, though many locals would kindly reply in English.

One afternoon, while out in town, I met Gail—an American whose husband was working on the base. We became instant friends, one of those rare people you click with immediately, as if you’ve known them for years. From that moment on, the summer blossomed into a series of unforgettable adventures.

We went to wine tastings tucked into hillside vineyards, lingered over meals in tiny restaurants hidden down narrow streets, and explored festivals bursting with color and music. Her husband often joined us, and the three of us shared some of the funniest and most memorable moments of my time in Italy.

There was the day we drove up the mountain to Asiago—yes, where the cheese comes from—twisting through those dramatic hair-pin turns that somehow felt equal parts exhilarating and slightly terrifying. And then there was the legendary “goat trail” incident, when the GPS insisted that a narrow path through an orchard was, in fact, the correct route to a winery. We laughed the whole way, convinced we were about to end up in the middle of someone’s field, but also fully committed to the adventure.

Those months in Italy were a gift—full of curiosity, connection, and the kind of friendship that stays with you long after the plane ride home.

Which is why seeing Gail again in Acworth felt so special. We slipped right back into that easy rhythm, sharing memories, catching up on life, and enjoying the simple joy of spending time together. Acworth made the perfect backdrop for it—peaceful lakes, mountain-framed views, and a welcoming town that encourages you to pause, breathe, and appreciate the people who matter.

Travel has taken me many places, but some of the most meaningful moments are the ones that reconnect me with the friendships formed along the way. My visit to Acworth was one of those moments—a sweet reminder that distance and time mean very little when a friendship is built on shared adventure, laughter, and the kind of connection you don’t stumble upon often.

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