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A non-emergency medical van quietly pulled up to an empty space near the Bear Lake Ranger Station. A red Subaru pulled up next to it and a middle-aged couple got out. The late September day was sunny with an unusually calm wind for that area of Rocky Mountain National Park. The back of the medical vehicle opened. The driver and an assistant pulled a gurney out. A person was lying in the gurney bed, but I could not see him until they swung the wheeled stretcher toward the trailhead.

The man had white hair and pinkish skin and was wrapped in a white sheet. The accompanying woman with graying hair placed a bright colored orange and blue blanket over him and tucked it in. The attendant pushed the gurney toward the trailhead while the couple followed.

I was volunteering that day at the trailhead. We are there to give advice about hiking and to make sure people know the conditions. I was not sure what to say but I nodded to the procession as they moved into the paved plaza and headed across the wooden bridge to the pea-gravel trail to Bear Lake. Other visitors waited momentarily as they crossed the bridge and headed toward the right on the busy trail. The group did not hesitate and I assumed they had a plan. Circumnavigating the ½ mile around the lake was not possible with their equipment. The man in the portable bed closed his eyes as he bumped along the trail.

I waited several minutes and then walked the 50 yards to the lake. As presumed, they stopped at a place that volunteers called “Picture Point. Benches sit beside the lake and people often take photos with Hallet Peak and Flattop Mountain reflected in Bear Lake.

The attendant raised the stretcher slightly so the man could see the lake and the mountains. The couple stood on each side of him. The woman patted his arm. They talked softly. Visitors continued to take photos at the photo spot and meandered quietly nearby.

After 15 minutes, the attendant backed the portable bed and turned it back toward the parking lot. The old man’s face showed a relaxed smile and his eyes were brighter as they walked by me. I smiled and thanked them for visiting the park—my response to many people returning from the trails.

This incident happened years ago. I think about it as I reflect on what I might want as my last wishes. I wonder how the man felt as he viewed this landscape likely for the last time.

A visit to a beautiful landscape would be high on my list when I say my goodbyes. It am reminded of the power of nature every day and the importance of special places such as parks.

I wish I had been a Parks and Rec Kid. I was not. I made up for it by being a Parks and Rec Adult. Growing up on a farm in the shadow of a strong Puritan work ethic, I did not hear about parks and recreation as a setting or a career until I was an adult. My family loved parks, and we were a “4-H Family.” We presumed, however, that parks and recreation was a city thing.

I majored in physical education in college. I liked sports and wanted to be a teacher. However, I did not have a positive student teaching experience. I was teaching 7^th graders how to serve a tennis ball. I lost control of the class as they were laughing and being silly junior high girls. My supervising teacher reprimanded me. At that moment I realized that I did not care if they served correctly. I did care that they were having fun. A subsequent career aptitude test revealed that “recreation worker” was a good fit for me. The rest, as they say, is history. I have dedicated my career to advocating for parks and recreation and all that it offers.

Being a Parks and Rec Kid refers to the “I’m a Park and Rec KidSM” campaign launched by the National Recreation and Park Association (NRPA) in 2015 to encourage people to share their positive experiences in local parks and recreation programs. The campaign highlighted the value of parks and recreation as it relates to positive youth development. One of the stories that emerged was that Venus and Serena Williams began their tennis careers on public tennis courts in Compton, CA. Other athletes were introduced to their sports in their local communities before moving on to higher level participation.

I will always advocate for the significant value of public parks and recreation. Tax money pays for the programs that are open to all residents. Economic, environmental, and social benefits include creating jobs, improving public health, building strong communities, and protecting natural resources. They enhance the quality of life by making towns and cities more attractive places to live, work, and visit. As the California campaign advocated years ago, “Parks Make Life Better!”

Public lands and recreation have traditionally been a unifying force. They are bipartisan issues with broad verbal support across the political spectrum for their protection and funding, especially at the local and state levels. More funding, however, is required to nurture a whole new generation of parks and rec kids (and adults).

Just for fun, I asked AI to write a 400 word blog that reflects my academic convictions. AI has access to most of my professional publications. Here is the (inspired, AI word and not mine) article it wrote by Karla Henderson (unedited by me). I agree that it reflects my thoughts although I might use different examples:

Title: Leisure as Liberation: Creating Space for Ourselves and Each Other

What does it mean to live fully?

For many of us, daily life is structured around responsibilities — work, caregiving, managing a household. These are vital parts of who we are. But I’ve often returned to the question: where is the space for joy? For connection? For leisure?

And what even is leisure?

Leisure is more than free time. It’s a deeply personal experience — a space where we can be authentic, creative, and connected. It’s where we laugh with friends, hike a familiar trail, paint, dance, or simply sit quietly with a good book. For some, it’s gardening. For others, it’s skateboarding or knitting or attending a community drum circle.

But leisure is also political. It’s shaped by systems — by race, gender, ability, economics, and history. Not everyone has equal access to leisure, or equal freedom to define what leisure means for them.

Reclaiming Leisure

For women — especially women of color, queer women, and caregivers — leisure is often viewed as indulgent, or even selfish. We’re told to be productive, to take care of others, to put ourselves last.

But reclaiming leisure is an act of resistance. It’s a declaration that our time and joy matter.

In my years of research, I’ve listened to women share stories of how leisure became a form of healing — a time when they could finally breathe. Whether it was through writing poetry, roller skating in the park, or meeting with a weekly book club, these were not just hobbies. They were acts of self-preservation.

Leisure as Community

Leisure also builds community. Think of a community garden where neighbors exchange stories over tomatoes. Or a Zumba class that becomes a lifeline for social connection. These spaces can become sanctuaries — especially when they are inclusive and affirming.

Yet, we must ask: Who feels welcome in these spaces? Who has access to them? If we want leisure to be liberating, we must ensure it is equitable.

This means rethinking how cities design parks, how schools offer recreation, how organizations serve diverse populations. Inclusion is not an afterthought — it is the foundation.

Making Space for Joy

So I invite you to reflect: What brings you joy? What restores you? And how can you make space — not just for yourself, but for others — to experience leisure that uplifts and connects?

Because in a world that often demands our labor but not our joy, leisure is not a luxury. It is liberation.

Let us choose it boldly.

A bearded middle-aged guy (sans dog) stopped me on a trail in Rocky Mountain National Park and said, “So dogs are not allowed on this trail, right?” I was on Tundra Guardian duty and dressed in my volunteer uniform chatting with people as they made their way up the paved tundra trail. He went on to say, “I didn’t think there would be anyone here to stop dogs from being on the trail.”

I assured him that sometimes we had volunteers and staff patrolling the trails, but we obviously could not stop all the people from bringing their (non-service) dogs.

The encounter reminded me of how I frequently remind people that the park operates on an honor system. We have rules we expect people to follow, but the enforcement on 415 square miles is difficult. Thus, we hope people will honor the authority of the resource and follow the rules just because it is the right thing.

In another example, RMNP has a timed entry system in the summer that indicates vehicles must have a permit to enter the park between 9 am-2 pm. That requirement is enforced at the main entrances, but RMNP has several trailheads that do not require entering through the main gates. We tell people the rules and ask them to respect the system.

How people choose to be honorable and ethical is an interesting question. Moral development involves a person’s understanding of ethics and values.  I believe most people want to do the right thing, but they are not always sure what that entails.

Lawrence Kohlberg outlined stages of moral development grouped into three levels: preconventional (focusing on one’s self and how to avoid punishment), conventional (guided by social norms, policies, and law), and postconventional (based on universal ethical principles of what is good and right). Individuals progress through these stages as their moral reasoning becomes more complex, with not everyone reaching the postconventional level.  During the current shutdown, some people think the rules no longer exist and no one will enforce them. Planning to “not get caught” is a sad commentary on depreciated moral development.

Rules exist in the park related to doing minimal damage to natural resources. Helping people know what is right, fair, and just no matter who is looking is an ongoing challenge.

Mom keeps asking me if I want a new sister or brother. She avoids answering the question for herself about whether she wants another cat.

I have been lonely since my sister passed away suddenly three months ago. I did not understand what happened, but mom started sobbing and ran to the car with Mog’s limp brown tabby body in her arms. Mom returned. Mog didn’t.

Mog was having some health issues, but I had no idea she would go so quickly. She told me to take care of mom when she was gone, but I thought she was just yakking as she often did. I had no idea Mog would leave mom and me. Mog and I were litter mates and had only spent 3 nights apart in 15 plus years.

The days and nights are different without Mog. Mom lavishes attention on me and lets me sleep in the chair and on the bed where Mog used to sleep. Mog was bossy and I let her tell me what to do. I have never been a cuddler like Mog, but I try to let mom know that I am here for her. She is sad.

Mom talks to me more than she did before Mog passed. She said she loved having the two of us as kittens when we were adopted years ago but doesn’t think raising kittens again is what she needs. She wants an older cat that might be difficult to adopt and for whom she could provide a forever home. I like that idea. I do not think I could deal with the energy of a new kitten.

Mom went to the Pet Association last week to meet a 10-year-old yellow tabby that was surrendered because her elderly parents died. She said the cat was sweet but just did not seem to be right for us. I think seeing this cat and going forward with the possibility of adoption just made mom sadder about Mog.

As for me, I don’t know. I am taking care of mom by patrolling the house and cuddling up next to her to watch TV at night just as Mog used to do. Mom volunteers a lot so I am home by myself. I sleep more these days as I get older. On the other hand, it would be nice if a new cat helped me cheer mom up.

Both of us need a little more time to figure this out. We will know when we know.

“Introduce yourself briefly and talk about one of the scars, visible or invisible, on your body.” This request was part of an introductory activity during the first meeting of a group of people who did not know each other but who would spend the next 10 days together on an outdoor adventure trip.

I had never experienced such a request. I learned quickly, however, that talking about scars can carry personal, emotional, and social significance. I have been fortunate to have few visible scars on my body. That day I talked about the scars on my shoulder that were a result of surgery on a rotator cuff tear that I got when downhill skiing.

One woman talked about the mastectomy she had due to breast cancer. A youngish guy described knee surgery because of playing high school football. Another woman described the scar on her forehead where her brother had accidentally hit her with a baseball bat when she was 10 years old.

The significance of the get-acquainted activity revealed something interesting and unknown about the people we would get to know well in the next few days. Several aspects were significant.

First, scars can be a symbol of survival and/or strength. Scars often represent something the person has endured and overcome whether surgery or an accident. Talking about them can be a way of reclaiming agency over something painful.

Second, revealing information about scars can be an opportunity for communication. It can be an invitation for deeper emotional intimacy. Further, scars are part of an identity narrativethat show how good and/or bad experiences have shaped each of us. No one talked about emotional scars that I am sure we all had. Those stories were reserved for later when we became more closely acquainted.

Third, scars can be associated with social or cultural meanings. They can be stigmatized. Conversations about them challenge that stigma. Scars can be reframed not as flaws, but a part of a person’s lived experience. Though the scars I have from two shoulder surgeries as well as two wrist surgeries are faint, they remind me that I am fortunate to be an active person even though accidents can happen.

Dialoging about scars can be therapeutic, empowering, connective, and interesting. Descriptions are rarely about the mark but about the story behind it and what it means to carry it forward. Learning about people’s scars was a way to start a dialogue about what is meaningful in life.

Among my obsessions, I think about the notion of time frequently. I write about it from time to time (no pun intended). Right now, I am thinking about how quickly summer flashes by. Where did the time go? It was only yesterday….

In the Chicago music tune, the question was raised: “Does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?” I remember having a conversation with a friend one day in her college dorm room back in 1970. I am sure it was a deep philosophical discussion. A year later, she died of breast cancer. Neither of us had any idea about time– one more year for her and 55 more years for me.

Psychologists have written about why time goes more quickly when we get older. Children have new experiences and process massive amounts of information that require time. As we get older, we have progressively fewer new experiences. Equally importantly, our perception of the world often becomes more automatic. We absorb less information that takes less time. I understand that notion.

We cannot stop time. Nevertheless, I want everything to slow down. I want to resist the process of speeding up. The most obvious is to keep introducing newness into my life such as traveling, meeting new people, and especially for me, thinking about ideas that I want to apply to my own self help, and write about.

Another idea that is hard for me related to time is to simply slow down by living mindfully. Because I like having many activities going on in my life, I remind myself to recognize day-to-day experiences such as seeing, hearing, and feeling the world around me. Observing animals is one thing that I do that provides mindfulness.

On a more long-term basis, I am trying to cultivate conscious awareness through meditative practices (including meditation walks) that quiet the chatter in my mind. Further, I continue to focus on gratitude in daily living.

Part of me longs for more time to do more with my life. On the other hand, I am grateful for the opportunities and relationships that have sustained me for decades. Jim Croce wrote about “time in a bottle.”  I value the idea of a world where precious moments are saved in a bottle and revisited at any time, simply by pulling a cork. Remembering the moments does not make time slow down, but it gives me a perspective on the time I have had on this earth.

The bull elk lumbered slowly across the road in front of us as I engaged the brakes. His head slumped down as he looked our way with watery brown eyes. He looked disinterested as if he were saying, “Run over me. I don’t care.”

I feel sorry for the bull elk this time of the year. Their hormones push them to focus single-mindedly on attracting female elk for procreation. They do everything they can to appeal to potential mates-rolling in urine and mud to make themselves look bigger and more attractive along with their intermittent screaming bugles. The cows, however, have the last word in the mating plans. Many males get disappointed. They must confront rejection.

I read a daily blog about writing. These motivational pieces describe the tips and tricks for getting published with undertones related to dealing with rejection. I relate to that reality.

I had a successful career as an academic. I was a good (although not great) teacher and I hope, a supportive colleague. I was successful in writing hundreds of published academic manuscripts. However, I was not successful at publication in my early career. I had those sad eyes of a bull elk.

When I received a negative review on a paper I submiited, my initial reaction often was to mumble cuss words about how reviewers did not know what they were doing and then stash the paper and the comments out of sight in a drawer (back then these were paper reviews).

Rejection was painful and it resulted in sadness, anger, loneliness, and self-doubt. I often felt worthless and doubted that I really belonged in the academic world. It was frustrating, but I was a fighter and a survivor. I resolved not to let rejection define my academic life.

After a couple of days, I made myself open the drawer where the assessment of my writing temporarily lived. I got the courage to carefully examine the comments. I learned that even if I did not agree with an observation, it was important to think about why reviewers misunderstood my writing. I was not communicating as clearly as I thought. In other cases, it was obvious that my ideas needed deeper insight. If a manuscript was worth additional effort, I could improve it vastly. I learned to revise and rewrite with the comments in mind. I learned to do a better job in future writing when I paid attention to the reviewers’ comments. I became successful.

I wonder if the bull elk will learn from his sad moments just as I did. Rejection is not easy but there is always another year and another opportunity. Now I just need to apply this optimism to other issues regarding my fear of personal rejection.

Animals make me smile when I do not have much to smile about. I reflect on their mannerisms and wish that I could adopt some of those characteristics.

People have written about what they learn from their cats and dogs. I love the ideas expressed about cats such as how they keep fastidious grooming habits, eat healthy fish diets, get plenty of rest, express their individuality, and embrace curiosity as long as it isn’t too scary. People have written about what we can learn from other animals. I have my own set of observations that make me envious of distinct animal characteristics.

• I would like to have the agility of the deer as they bound stiff legged across green meadows.
• I long for the innocence of elk babies as they look to their moms for clues to behavior. I enjoy the unique communication between moms and their offspring. I wish my mom were still here to guide me when needed.
• I envy the swishing tails of the marmots as they sachet across the tundra in search of tasty tidbits so they can get as fat as possible before they hibernate for the winter.
• I admire the energy and tenacity of the pikas as they gather their food caches to hide under the rocks for their long wintertime. They never stop scurrying about as they labor to harvest for their stockpiles. I worry about the impact climate change might have on their habits in the future.
• The intense eyes of the coyotes are staring into my soul as I observe them.
• I am enthralled by the boldness of the dusky grouse when they think a mate may be nearby.
• If I had a tail like a beaver I could smack it in the water whenever I wanted to give warning of something not right in my world. That act would scare the begeebers of those annoying me.
• I marvel at the feet of a snowshoe hare when it strides across the top of thick snow in the woods.
• Swimming would be more enjoyable if I had the buoyancy of the ducks in the water.
• I swoon at the thought of being a snake that can absorb the warmth of the sun.
• A beak like that of a hummingbird would allow me to taste sweet nectar while staying in motion.
• I sometimes yearn to be a turtle who could crawl inside my shell when the outside world overwhelms me.

Alas, I am only human and can only try to emulate from time to time the behaviors I admire in animals. Bless the beasts who give me these inspirations.

I wrote almost two dozen textbooks during my academic career. One of the final joys of doing this work is including what is commonly known as a dedication to someone(s). I was reminded of that privilege recently when I was perusing one of my books to review an idea that I presented earlier.

Looking back over the past 40 years of thoughtful dedication acknowledgements provides a reflection about what was important in my life. My first collaborated book on women and leisure was dedicated to “our mothers, sisters, and children.” Our second revision was resolute “to all who seek the empowerment of girls and women in and through leisure.”

The first book I wrote as a solo author was about research methods and qualitative data. I was excited to dedicate it to three special academic mentors. Darlene Conover was a faculty member at Iowa State University who always encouraged me to be a “sky walker.”  Caroline Weiss was a professor at the University of Minnesota who acknowledged that I was a good writer and nurtured that creativity. Jerry Apps was my Department Chair at the University of Wisconsin who stood beside me during a challenging fork in my early academic career.

My co-authored text on evaluation methods was dedicated to my first cat, DJ–“she knew how to evaluate intuitively!” The second edition of that book was a professional focus on two colleagues who had supported and inspired evaluation efforts, Doug Sessoms and Betty Van der Smissen. The third edition spotlighted Marge Scanlin as an American Camp Association staff member who brought the value of research to the organization. We also dedicated the book to Jane H. Adams, a friend and formerly the consummate Executive Director of the California Park and Recreation Society.

My colleagues and I dedicated our co-authored book on Service Living to the four people we profiled in the book who inspired us “to live a life of service”: Frederick Law Olmstead, Jane Addams, Benton MacKaye, and Marjorie Stoneman Douglas.

My most recent introductory text was dedicated to my mom and dad. I indicated that they had “taught me about hard work so I could study and enjoy leisure.”

Other books I authored, co-authored, or co-edited also had dedications but these examples are my favorites and show to the world my thoughts and gratitude as I labored to share my ideas in these texts.