by Karon -

My July Project: Finding My Way Back to Myself

My July project started out very simply – bring more creativity into my life. I thought I was going to spend July doing creative things, but somewhere along the way, creativity reminded me who I was.

I started by going to several art galleries each week. This wasn’t difficult with areas like Santa Fe, Madrid, and Old Town Albuquerque all less than an hour away. I’ve always loved eclectic art galleries, and I found plenty of them in this area.

Many of the galleries were small, independently owned spaces and I was able to meet and visit with the artist. It was so interesting to chat with them about their inspirations or how they got started in art. One watercolor artist I met had been an engineer for 30+ years and then started his second career as an artist. His work was so peaceful, with such a wonderful use of light.

One of my favorite art experiences by far was discovering “Origami in the Garden at Box Studios” on the Santa Fe end of the Turquoise Trail. It turned out that the artist, Kevin Box, was the same artist whose work had captivated me in Boulder, Colorado. I had first discovered his sculptures at a lovely gallery on a sunny afternoon at Pearl Street Mall, and I immediately felt a connection to his work—a permanent representation of the ephemeral art of paper folding. During my years in Japan, I had developed a deep appreciation for the delicate art of origami and absolutely fell in love with Kevin Box’s sculptures. So, to happen upon his work again after traveling all the way to New Mexico felt like such a serendipitous moment.

Besides wandering through art galleries, I began to sketch in my watercolor journal even if only for ten or fifteen minutes a day. It became such a fun little addition to my daily habits. I would sketch everything from flowers to adobe dwellings. I gave myself permission to just play and have fun with the paint without any expectations. I did for myself what I used to do for my art students – encouraged myself to just be okay with imperfection.

I also started reading The War of Art, a book recommended by an artist I met during my stay in Rockport, Texas, back in January. I had actually attended her workshop the previous fall, and when I visited her gallery during my time in Rockport, we talked about the creative process and her own leap of faith into pursuing art. I tucked her book recommendation away in my bin of books traveling with me, and July seemed like the perfect time to finally read it. Her story, along with the book’s exploration of the internal conflicts we face when we try to create, gave me even more to think about during those hot Albuquerque afternoons.

Somewhere along the way, I noticed something happening. The more time I spent wandering through art galleries, talking to artists, practicing art, or reading about creating, the more I wanted to create. I felt like I had found my way back to myself.

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

Wintering by the Sea: The First Week

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly, I’ve been still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Kari