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On a zoom call with friends several weeks ago we discussed where we would like to live for a year outside of the US if we had a chance. In thinking about that fantasy, I realized that all the places I wanted to reside had sheep—New Zealand, Scotland, Wales, Ireland. I have a storied relationship with sheep.

My dad was a farmer with diversified crops and livestock. Not many farmers had sheep, but my dad did. My affinity for sheep came from him. After he retired from farming and moved to an acreage, he still kept a few sheep in a nearby pasture.

Dad liked to tell the story of how as a 3-year-old, I followed him all over the farm “helping” do chores. One time I was in the sheep yard and a ewe came and butted me down. As he tells it, I got up and she knocked me down again. I think my father watching this happen bordered a bit on child abuse, but unknowingly that ewe perhaps taught me a valuable lesson about getting up every time you get pushed down.

I saw a similar situation when I was hiking in Wales. Sheep were wandering around a parking lot near a trailhead and one of them pushed a little girl who was holding an ice cream cone. The parents quickly grabbed the child, but the sheep seized the ice cream cone.

Most sheep, however, are mild mannered and not always the brightest of animals. If you can get one sheep to go the direction you want, they all follow generally without exception.

Spring brings the lambing season. We almost always had an orphan lamb or two to feed when I was growing up. They could be orphaned because their mom died or had no milk, or mom refused to own them, or sometimes if triplets were born, one was just too small to survive with the others. The baby lambs came into the house and were put in a large box with a heat lamp. Feedings were with warm milk in a nipple topped pop bottle every few hours until the lambs could be put back in the barn with the others and fed twice a day with the bottle.

My first 4-H lambs were named Mercury, Venus, Neptune, and Pluto. I showed Mercury and Pluto at the County 4-H Fair and got one blue ribbon and one red ribbon. After the fair, we took them to Wilson’s meat packing plant in Cedar Rapids. I cried when I had to let them go. Dad made it clear that we raised livestock to sell, and I would have more lambs in the future. The money I got from them went to buying my first used 3-speed bike, and I did feel less sad.

I learned about sheep management over the years and had almost 30 of my own ewes by the time I graduated from high school. I sold them back to my dad and was able to finance my first two years of college tuition.

Although I struggle with the ethics of eating animal protein, lamb is my favorite meat. A friend who had grown up in Washington DC came with me to visit my parents many years ago. She said to me, “Now I am not going to meet an animal on your farm and then eat it for dinner that night, am I?” I assured her that it did not work that way. Mom fixed lamb when I came home because she knew I enjoyed it. After blessing our food at the dinner table, mom said, “Do you remember that little crippled lamb we bottle fed last spring?” My friend was horrified. It is what it is on the farm.

Volunteering with a Stuffed Sheep at Sheep Lakes

I do not see many domestic sheep these days. My favorite volunteer activity, however, is with the Bighorn Brigade at Sheep Lakes in Rocky Mountain National Park. The Bighorn Sheep come from high in the Mummy Range to Sheep Lakes periodically to eat the minerals in the mud that they crave in the late spring and summer. The Brigade interprets the area for visitors and assists with traffic control when the sheep cross the busy road. I am thrilled when the sheep arrive, and even happier when they safely head home to high in the mountains.

Regardless of where and what kind, sheep make me smile.

“One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg keeping moving, and we’ll all be happy and bright.” Perhaps you remember that childhood song that has unknowingly become the style of my life. I love to be active. I am addicted to movement. When I can choose to sit or move, I pick motion.

I was confronted with my movement affinity two years ago after shoulder surgery. When I tried to walk to my mailbox a day after the surgery, I thought I was going to die of exhaustion. I was so frustrated. Fortunately, two days later a walk around my cul-de-sac was refreshing and I even did a three-mile hike (very carefully) on the fifth day post-surgery. It felt SO good.

As a kid, I was up early in the morning and remember some days feeling like I only quit when I was forced to go to bed. I loved playing outdoors–running, jumping, building forts out of sticks or hay bales, riding my bike, playing in the creek.

I am blessed with some athletic ability. I like sports and was a runner for over 40 years. I completed 12 marathons and dozens of half marathons. Several years ago, I calculated that the number of miles I ran in my lifetime was equivalent to running twice around the circumference of the earth-50,000 miles. I experienced beautiful environments in all kinds of weather in the outdoors.

My running has mostly been replaced these days with walking, hiking, and snowshoeing. Sometimes I move quickly, and other times I just slow down and amble along. I do not desire to be fast, just consistent and steady. I miss running. I recognized, however, that long distance training was hard on my body and adopting a slow living approach could allow me to be an active walker and hiker for years to come.

The Slow Movement is a trend in society focusing on slowing down. Slow living is a philosophy and lifestyle that emphasizes slower approaches to aspects of everyday life. It is movement or action at a relaxed or leisurely pace and involves a reflective approach. Slow living emphasizes savoring the minutes instead of counting them. The idea began in Italy with the slow food movement, which centers on traditional food production in response to fast food.

Slow living, however, does not mean inaction. For me, it means slower movement and being mindful of my motions, and emotions. My Fitbit is both a bane and a motivator to my mental and physical fitness. I do not want to be ruled by a device, but I do enjoy trying to meet my step (and sleep) goals, even though most of the time I probably would come close with or without having a real-time count from a gadget. I focus on savoring the steps rather than necessarily counting them.

My mom, without any tool, walked three miles a day for many years. At the age of 85, she began having mobility problems. She said to the doctor, “I don’t understand why this is happening to me. I have eaten well my whole life, I don’t smoke or drink, I wear a seatbelt, and I walk every day.”

The doctor looked at her and said, “Well, if you hadn’t done all that you probably would have had problems long ago.”

I am now focusing on doing everything at the right speed (for me), instead of rushing. I want to stay happy and bright by wandering in slower motion and being mindful of the steps I get to take.

This week marks the second anniversary of my mother’s passing. Never a day goes by that I do not think about my mom and my dad. I was privileged to have mom in my life for almost 70 years. I also had opportunities to visit her for a few days every other month through the last years of her life.

You can never prepare for a parent’s death no matter how inevitable it is. I thought perhaps I was ready, but now I understand that I will never be ready. Mom passed peacefully probably almost simultaneously with me leaving my home in Colorado to visit her for what I imagined would be my last time. I had been to Iowa two weeks before and we had enjoyed March Madness together. A week later she had a stroke that left her largely incapacitated.  

Mom’s body was still at the care center waiting to go the funeral home when I arrived in Iowa. The staff had put make-up on her and positioned her comfortably. She looked peaceful and at rest, although the memories I have of my mother are anything but “at rest.”

Preparations for the visitation and memorial service were easy as we knew what mom wanted such as the hymns and scriptures for the service. She wanted her ashes comingled with my father’s for spreading at a later time with a portion on the farm where they had lived for over 50 years. The remainder were to be buried under their headstone in the little community where they had both gone to high school and participated in numerous church and civic activities for over 60 years.

I love the stories people share about their mothers. My stories are not extraordinary. I am, however, reminded of my mother every time I look in a mirror since I resemble her greatly. Personality wise, however, I am not as outgoing, but I did inherit her energy level and work ethic. I know she was proud of me and always demonstrated unconditional love for me. I learned from her to be a reader and to be curious for knowledge. She was an exceptional teacher, and I sought to be like her.

Mom once told my sister that she did not think she was a good mother. I wish I could ask her what she meant. I think she did a pretty darn good job. I know she could be critical sometimes and a little inflexible, but none of us is perfect. She did her best and that is all anyone can hope.

A statement the pastor made in her memorial service resonates with me every day. She described my mother as “frugal and generous.” She definitely was frugal as a result of her upbringing and the influence of the depression on her life. In a “Grandma’s Life” book she put together for my niece, she wrote about how delighted each of her brothers and sisters were with the single gift of an orange they got in their Christmas stockings.

Generosity was evident throughout her life. For example, she was a lifelong volunteer. After retiring from teaching, she gave her efforts to Aid to Women (a program that provided resources and counseling for women in need), as a court mediator for the County Judicial system, and for the Historical Society in our small town.

Mom was also generous in helping individuals in need. She never forgot to send a card for someone’s birthday or for other special, or difficult, events.  I am reminded of two stories shared at the memorial service. Janet was an 11-year-old neighbor when my parents were first married. She told mom how much she really wanted to go to camp but her parents could not afford it. My mom called the Campfire Girls camp and offered to volunteer for a week as a counselor if they would let Janet go for free. Janet never forgot mom’s effort and kindness as she related the story 65 years later.

A second story concerned a young woman in the church who was going through difficult times emotionally and financially through no fault of her own. One day the young woman went to the mailbox to find a note and a $100 bill from mom. The note said, “I wanted to take one of the rocks off your pile. Please do not tell anyone about this note and a thank you is not needed.”

My mom deserves a lot of thanks. Frugal and generous is now my life mantra and my legacy to my mom.

Volunteering in Rocky Mountain National Park (ROMO) is a great pleasure in life. My encore performance in life is volunteering. I cherish the beauty and the wildlife that I experience every day, and I welcome the opportunity to be a helper in engaging people in conversations about the park regardless of whether they are locals or may only visit once in their lives.

A question I sometimes get working at the visitor center or at Bear Lake is, “What’s there to do here?” This question confounds me as I wonder what people are expecting when they come to a park. I find that responding back with, “What would you like to do in the park?” helps me best understand how to accommodate them. Some things cannot be done in the park like snowmobiling, target practice, or taking dogs on trails. Usually people just want to “see” the park, so I send them on a driving tour with a couple short walks.

“How long does it take to do the park?” is not an uncommon inquiry. That question also takes me aback. I say that it depends on how often you stop and admire the scenery, take photos, and/or walk on the trails. When people say they will be in the area for several days and want to get out to hike or snowshoe, I can give them dozens of suggestions.

Another common question relates to what animals are to be feared. Most people are concerned about bears. Educating them about the difference between grizzlies and black bears is useful. It is an opportunity to clarify that our black bears want their food and not them. I explain that the most dangerous animals in the park are the moody mooses and momma elk who have babies. Reinforcing that the park is NOT a zoo and these animals are NOT tame no matter how docile they look is a challenge.

The Information Office operates the phone line where people call with questions. One call I got was about the cost of a senior/lifetime pass. I told the man that the cost was $80, and he hesitated a bit. Then I described a $20/year annual senior option that could be converted to the lifetime pass in four years. He chuckled and said, “I think I will go with the $20 per year since I’m 92 years old and can’t guarantee that I will make it for four more years!”

When staffing the desk at Beaver Meadow Visitor Center, a middle-aged couple came to inquire about scattering the ashes of their deceased uncle in the park. The park allows such scattering of cremains (human and animal) but requires a permit with certain limitations on where ashes can be scattered. The gentleman told me soberly that they would be coming to the park again in a few weeks and wanted to scatter the ashes then. I gave him the form, explained some of the restrictions, and suggested a few places that would be lovely for ash scattering. As the couple turned to leave, I thought it was appropriate for me to say, “I am sorry for your loss.” The man quickly responded expressionlessly, “Oh, don’t be. He was a son-of-a-#*@!h.”

Most people come to the park genuinely interested in learning and doing the right thing. I love being a helper, as Mr. Rogers would offer. It isn’t altruism, however. I am invigorated when I see the park anew through a visitor’s perspective. I appreciate working with other volunteers who feel as passionate as me. I never tire of the conversations regardless of how profound or mundane they are.

In Illusions, Richard Bach describes my attitude about the sky, weather, and clouds, “the sky is always changing, but it is always a perfect sky.” I keep my eyes on the sky. I unabashedly claim the title of weather nerd since all my life I have been interested in the weather. I would have been a meteorologist if I had had any confidence in my science and math ability. Not having pursued that career, I revel in my amateur status as one who loves looking at clouds.

My fascination with weather began on the farm. I learned early from my dad that every endeavor in farming was influenced by the weather. A farmer’s eyes were always on the sky. The failure or success of crops as well as livestock management depended on knowing what weather might portend. Dad taught me to read the weather—what clouds meant, what wind changes might ordain, and how to smell coming rain and/or snow. I kept a cloud chart on my childhood bedroom wall. I have amused my friends over the years with my “predictions” of impending weather that often, not always, come true.

My professional career was little influenced by the weather. Weather had more to do with my personal activities, although most of the time clouds and weather did not slow me down. If I bundled up, I could run in subzero temperatures in Wisconsin. A little rain was often a refreshing experience in the heat of running in the South, as long as it was not a thunderstorm. In Colorado I refuse to let the wind in the winter dictate how much time I spend outdoors.

Carolina skies are blue, and Colorado skies are bluebird blue. I have more access to the wide-open spaces making my sky observances easier now than when in the tree canopies of North Carolina. I am still learning to make sense of the weather patterns often mitigated by the presence of mountains and upslope winds. I continually look to the sky to see what it forewarns as well as the splendor it offers. 2015 was my “year in clouds” on Facebook. I shared photos of clouds that thrilled me, whether they were breath-taking sunrises or sunsets, or just interesting cloud formations. I am always mindful of the ever-changing perfect skies.

When I think of clouds and the sky, I sometimes reflect on the words from Joni Mitchell’s song, Both Sides Now. The metaphor seems to be that clouds are equivalent to life. I cannot agree more. The lyrics note, however, “so many things I would have done but clouds got in my way.” Yes, sometimes life got in my way, but clouds generally have not deterred me.

To take Mitchell’s cloud symbols further, I believe skies have taught me to reflect, “It’s cloud’s illusions I recall. I really don’t know clouds at all.” I am learning that the beginning of wisdom is when a person comes to wonder just how much she does not know about clouds (or life). I continue to learn about the world, and part of that learning is to be conscious of the beauty and awe of the skies.

I deeply adored a rabbit. His name was Wilson who had been rescued from an animal shelter by my neighbors. They built a 3’ x 8’ covered hutch in their backyard where Wilson lived alone but cavorted with local squirrels and wild rabbits. The neighbors were moving and asked if I wanted him. They assured me he was low maintenance—rabbit pellets, water, a clean and dry place to live, and a daily carrot. How hard could that be? We moved him in the hutch to my backyard.

All went well for several months until Wilson (aka Bun-Bun) acquired an eye infection. I found a vet who made a house call to diagnose him. I feared having to catch him in the hutch. The vet, however, captured him, checked him over, gave some antibiotics, and charged me an exorbitant fee for the visit. He got better for a few weeks and then the infection returned.

Another vet nearby specialized in dogs, cats, and rabbits. I caught and crated Wilson for the vet visit. Dr. Bussey was caring and stern. She informed me kindly that I had no business owning a rabbit since I knew nothing about them. Keeping a rabbit alone outside year around in a cage was not the best practice. She procured a 6’ x 6’ collapsible metal fence hutch for me to put in my living room. I had to exercise Wilson every day by letting him out to hop around the great room. She treated the infection and assured me that the new living conditions would be in Wilson’s best interest. In the house he had two cats as potential friends, but the cats cared less, and Wilson mostly ignored them. A couple times I tried to cuddle with him, but he wanted nothing to do with my overtures. Nevertheless, I became devoted to Bun-Bun.

His eyes did not improve. Dr. Bussey determined that he had plugged tear glands and needed an operation. I felt sorry for Wilson and also guilty about being a terrible rabbit mother. One of the eyes was fixed before he coded on the operating table and had to be revived. The $1500 surgery was only partially successful, but he didn’t have any eye problems again.

Several months later, however, Wilson began having seizures. Medication helped control but Dr. Bussey warned me that it was really hard to tell how old Wilson was and she did not know what might be causing the seizures.

The seizures became more frequent and eventually Wilson refused to go for his daily exercise and ate less and less.  He seemed to be uninterested no matter how many carrots and greens I used for bribery. It was time to let Bun-Bun go.

I held Wilson in a fluffy fleece towel while Dr. Bussey gave the first shot of sedative to calm him down. He snuggled up to me– the first time that had ever happened. His deep brown eyes connected with my blue eyes and then he closed them gently while mine filled with tears. Wilson took one last deep breath. I imagined him now in a peaceful field where he could see everything, run in the grass with other rabbits and not on a hardwood floor, and where carrots were abundant.

I doubt I will have another rabbit. I did the best I could as a rabbit mom, but I do not want that role again. Whenever I see a cottontail rabbit or a snowshoe hare in the wild, however, I remember Bun-Bun fondly.

The Hidden Life of Trees is a book about how trees have social systems among themselves and how they take care of each other. Trees have “brains” in their roots that protect them and help communicate with one another. Another book called The Overstory: A Novel is a compelling fictionalized account of people’s experiences with trees and their value for civilization. In thinking about the meanings of trees in my life, three special trees come to mind.

A sprawling tall maple tree shaded the south side of my childhood farmhouse. I loved the tire swing dad put on a lower branch for us kids to use. The Angus cows huddled in its shade on the other side of the fence. It tendered the most brilliant red and orange leaves in the fall. Since our farmhouse was set on a hill, the maple was visible for some distance. When my parents sold the farm years ago, the tree was showing signs of stress. I drove by the old farm a year ago and the tree was gone. Since the farm had been in the family for almost 150 years, the maple had lived a long life under Henderson appreciation.

North Carolina has trees—lots of them. Many are tall white pines. My house in Durham with its three-fourths acre lot had dozens of trees as its natural landscape. My favorite, however, was a cedar tree that grew outside my home office window. The tree provided privacy, and songbirds loved to roost in the lower branches. My realtor offered helpful hints to make my house more desirable when I was preparing to move to Colorado. He suggested that my relationship with the house and trees might not be alluring to everyone. The cedar tree was hiding the curb appeal of the house. I balked at cutting it down. Unfortunately, a winter ice storm broke off the top. It had to go. I waited until the weekend before I put the house on the market and my neighbor helped me cut it down. My house looked naked, and I blessed the tree for all the years it had brought me and the birds such joy.

I love many trees in Rocky Mountain National Park. One of them was along the trail to Hollowell Park. It is a lone Ponderosa that had died many years ago but left a majestic silhouette of gray branches reaching toward the sky. It was the gateway to an old CCC camp once located in the area. I can imagine the stories it could tell for the century or more it presided in that meadow. Last year it fell down. The skeleton is on the ground, and the stories continue from a different vantage.

These remembered trees, and other living trees, are my ardent connection to the outdoors. I have other favorite trees that I look forward to seeing along the trails. They are like old friends when I wander upon them—the twisted limber pine on the way to Mills Lake, the tuning fork shaped ponderosa on Bridal Veil Falls Trail, and the huge Ponderosa on the northeast corner of Sprague Lake, to mention only a few.

I envy the trees. They experience firsthand the fluctuating weather as well as season transformations. I imagine trees rejoice in the bathing of the sun. I suspect they welcome the animals and insects that call them home. They are resilient in cruel weather that could tear them apart. Trees hold secrets that humans may never understand unless we continue to love and protect them.  

I miss the making of music. I felt that loss when group music-making was taken away by COVID-19. I know others who play musical instruments and/or sing in choruses feel the same way.

I began my musical life when I was 7 years old. Mom made me take piano lessons and exchanged eggs for the lessons each week. I loved playing the piano and even dabbled at composing some piano music. My most famous piece was called Picasso because it was a mish mash of chords and rhythm. In 5^th grade I started playing a cornet and gave up piano lessons.

We had an old cornet in the family that my uncle once played so I was destined for that instrument. I practiced religiously and loved playing in band–marching band, pep band, and concert band as well as small group ensembles. I did not like playing solos, however, and froze whenever it was forced upon me. I relished making music and being part of musical groups. In high school, I switched to playing a borrowed French horn because we needed another horn player in our concert band.

After graduating from high school, I did not play a brass instrument for over 20 years. In 1990 a friend, Leandra, leased a trumpet for me for two months as a birthday gift (she signed herself up as my band parent!). I had talked about wanting to play because I knew a couple other musicians, but it was just daydreaming. I picked the trumpet up and played a recognizable version of my high school’s fight song, On Wisconsin. I soon joined the Durham Community Concert Band. Rehearsals were two hours of each week when I became totally immersed in music without thinking about anything else. I love the concept of community bands because anyone can participate regardless of age, ability, or talent.

For 30 years I have been a mediocre amateur musician. I delight in playing with other music makers and I often feel a well of emotion for the beautiful music I can help create. Playing the Hallelujah Chorus with its great trumpet parts always brings tears to my eyes. I am humbled to play music from contemporary composers such as Edward Elgar (e.g., Nimrod from Enigma Variations) and Eric Whitacre (e.g., October). I have been associated with some inspirational directors/conductors who have transmitted the emotions of music deep to my heart.

Almost a year has passed since I rehearsed or performed with any musical group. At first I didn’t mind. I thought we would be back together soon. After six months, it became obvious that it was not going to happen quickly. Deb, who also plays a cornet, and I decided that we really needed to get our lips back in shape for the time when we could play with the local groups again. Since December holiday concerts were cancelled, we undertook a zoom Christmas Concert for our families and friends. We described our concert as “6^th grade students” playing junior high music. Our zoom guests, however, were appreciative.

Deb and I continue to practice so we are ready to make music with our community band when the time comes. I cherish the opportunity to go back to rehearsals every week and be part of groups aiming to bring concert music, regardless of how sophisticated it is, to the community.

An activity I did with my classes (both at the university and for public presentations) was to ask folks to make a list of “20 Things I Love to Do.” Not everyone could come up with 20, but we would discuss dimensions of their activities such as whether they were done outside/inside, alone/with others, cost money, and further, whether the “thing” would be considered leisure or not. Almost all their responses were considered leisure. I made the point that most things that were personally important and meaningful were considered leisure.

I suggested that I have never heard anyone on their deathbed indicating that they wished they had worked harder or longer. When people reflect on their lives, they value the relationships and the activities they enjoyed. They value experiences in their lives that brought them warm playful memories and made them smile.

I view the world through a leisure lens. Obviously, I am biased as I did research about leisure for over 45 years and I view the world in terms of how any event influences individual and community leisure and well-being. I make no apologies for this worldview because I believe that leisure is what makes life worth living. I do not mean that I am only interested in hedonism, although that can be an outcome of leisure. I advocate that leisure is an inherent right, responsibility, privilege, and entitlement that defines who each of us is, and the quality of our communities.

I was ingrained with a work ethic by my rural upbringing. A reason I became interested in studying leisure was because I watched how hard everyone around me worked, and it seemed to me there had to be more to life. Leisure complements economic or socially necessary work and offers people a means for growth and self-expression in their lives.

As my colleague Dan Dustin suggests, life is meaningful not because of a work ethic, but because of a worth ethic that leisure belies. Yet, the idea of leisure is often downplayed and discounted.

Leisure is ubiquitous. Most people know what it is and know the feeling of not having it, but defining it is elusive. One of the women I interviewed for a research project once told me that she did not want to define leisure, she wanted to FIND it.

A classical notion of leisure is free time. However, little time is totally free of obligations. Some people have too much free time (e.g., unemployed people) and it isn’t leisure for them. Another common definition is leisure as activity. Many leisure activities exist but what is leisure for me may not be for you. For example, many people enjoy bowling. Not me. I would never consider it leisure.

I understand leisure best as a state of mind, a personal experience usually associated with free choice and opportunities for self-expression, joy, play, and/or personal development. People know when they are having these experiences and seek them. Leisure is central to a life well lived.

Although leisure offers opportunities for enjoyment, leisure is not always good since it can be an avenue for injury to self or others. Nothing is good without recognizing the responsibility associated with any behavior–the worth ethic.

My appreciation of leisure continues to evolve. Since I no longer study leisure with empirical data, I have more time existentially to experience it. Everyone deserves leisure whether it is extended periods of time away from the everyday routine, or minute vacations where one simply takes a deep breath and enjoys the beauty of the moment. I find minute vacations in cuddling with my kitties or reminiscing from photos of vacations with friends. Regardless of what you call it, or how you define it, I hope people never have a problem listing 20 things they love to do.

I feel a sense of my place, like I am home, whenever I am in Rocky Mountain National Park whether on high tundra landscapes with wildflowers oscillating in the wind, along mountain streams that sprint toward lakes and valleys, high on mountains with 360-degree views, walking in lightly falling snow, or encountering living creatures such as moose, snowshoe hares, or scurrying chipmunks.

I think about the meanings of place often. Space and place are not the same as scholars have written. Space is a physical location that may or may not have meaning. A place is a space where meaning has been imbued by an individual. A place can be where your soul thrives. According to Wendell Berry, place and identity are closely related. He suggested that if you do not know where you are, you do not know who you are.

In thinking about my experiencing the Park, I recently saw reference to sense of place as the landscape of the soul, and I think that explains my affinity for this Park. I lived for 27 years in North Carolina and had a productive career with great friends and colleagues. But the landscape of North Carolina never felt like home to me. Whenever I was in the high snow-covered mountains and in open spaces, I felt I was home.

Other places have had important meanings for me. One is the farm where I grew up. I didn’t have the words to describe at the time what it felt like to be in the outdoors, to play in the creek (crick), to search for the wild critters, and to smell the earth, but I knew I resonated with it deeply. Iowa is a beautiful land and the rolling sand hills of Eastern Iowa will always be a geography of my heart. It was home for me for my formative years, but things change and so did my identity with the land.

Another consideration for me is how place can relate to spiritual senses about a setting. I experienced a strong sense of place in Wisconsin when I spent time at Picnic Point. The path, the wind singing through the trees, and Mendota Lake lapping on the shore always gave me the impression that I had visited it many times before, perhaps in previous lives. This place pulled me strongly, but I have not returned for many years. It is a memory in my soul.

Finally, some places I have never been but feel a deep connection such as the Arctic Wildlife Refuge. Knowing something about an area gives me the opportunity to care intensely even though I may never experience it directly. Spending time in a space may make it a special place but having a context about the value of its existence provides me with an affinity for a specific environment.

I have visited many spaces around the world. It is not only the physical topography but also the people and cultures that make environments special. On a day-to-day basis, however, I have never felt a stronger connection to my soul than the landscape of the places where I now wander in the mountains and the privilege I have to experience deep engagement in what the Park has to offer every day, every season.