Love of seasons

On Thursday at work, as I went to get my lunch out of the fridge, I realized with excitement that the weather was nice enough that I'd be able to enjoy sitting outside to eat lunch for the first time this year. After work, I went for a nice little walk in Roxboro Ravine and took advantage of the warm weather and lengthening daylight hours to sit and read for a while at my favorite spot by the waterfall.

As I get older, I realize I'm appreciating more and more these little things that I can reliably look forward to with the passing of the seasons each year.

I love how each spring brings with it the blossoming of trees and flowers and other plants. How everything starts to get green again after a gray winter. How the days get longer and longer (the first time that I come home from work and it's still light out is something I always take note of and enjoy). And of course, the welcome return of warm weather. Since I've gotten into mountain biking, the first warm day that I'm able to get out on my mountain bike and feel the warm breeze on my face and work up a good sweat is a special source of excitement.

I love spring, but honestly? Spring is probably my least favorite season - here in Cleveland it just has more chilly, windy, and rainy weather (see: yesterday and today) than I'd prefer. It's also the season during which mountain bike trails are most likely to have unrideable conditions.

The truth is I love all the seasons and I'm glad to live in a place where I can experience all four.

Perhaps the best thing about spring is the way it turns into summer. Sometimes it takes frustratingly long to get to reliably warm weather, but it always gets there. I love summer because I love getting out in the warm weather and hiking or riding my bike or swimming or just sitting outside on my balcony or by the waterfall and reading a good book. I love summer because I love being able to come home from work and go out for a 90 minute bike ride and still have it be light out when I get home. I love summer because I love cookouts and camping and going to the beach and my family vacation in the Adirondacks and eating ice cream on a warm day.

And I love going to the ravine and escaping from the city into a world where everything is so green.

Fall was for many years my most favorite season of all, although now it's hard to say if I have one favorite. Fall was my favorite mainly because fall is cross country season and for many years running cross country was the most important thing in my life. Since I'm now unable to do any distance running, there's a certain bittersweet element to the fall. Occasionally while driving home I see the cross country team practicing and it hits me just how much I still miss it. But I still love fall. I love the beautiful colors of the trees and the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet on a walk through the woods.

Fall is also a great season for bike rides. And I love sitting by a campfire at night, wearing a hoodie and jeans, enjoying the refreshing crispness of the fall air and the warmth of the flames.

And winter? It's a less popular opinion, but I love winter. I love winter for basically just one reason but it's a really big reason: I adore snow. I always have.

(The summer after eighth grade I went on a three week trip to the British Isles with a student ambassador group. In the report I wrote about the trip, I drew many contrasts between the countries I visited and my home. One was this: "I prefer the climate here in Ohio. It is hot in the summer, which is good for going swimming. It is cold and usually fairly snowy in winter, which is good because I like snow. And it doesn't rain too much. In the British Isles, it doesn't get too hot or cold, and also I wouldn't like all that rain." Growing up in Columbus, though, I was often frustrated by how it didn't snow as much as I wanted in the winter, so it's fitting that I ended up living somewhere with a much snowier climate.)

I think most kids love snow. Unlike a lot of people, I just never "grew out of it." Actually, I was thinking about why snow, for most people as they age, goes from a source of excitement to a source of annoyance. I think it's largely (not entirely, but largely) because for most adults, snow more than anything else is a source of major delays to their commutes. So they forget the exhilaration that snow brought when they were kids. I'd say this is another way that America's car culture saps the joy from people's lives. (What does that mean? you might ask. People have to commute to work and snow will slow those commutes no matter what. What does that have to do with "car culture"? And I would then point out that if we didn't have so much sprawl - which was enabled by our obsession with freeway building - and if we had better public transit, then the aggregate delays caused by snow to people's commutes would be vastly smaller.)

Just as the first warm day of spring when I can go for a nice bike ride is incredibly exciting to me, the first major snowfall of the winter is also incredibly exciting. And the funny thing? Even as the cold of winter drags on into March and I find myself yearning for warmer weather, all it takes is a nice heavy snowfall and that giddy, childlike feeling of excitement comes back. I love sledding. I love going for walks in the snow. I love the peace and tranquility that envelop the city on a snowy winter night. This past winter I started going for mountain bike rides in the snow and I love that too.

Due to various events in my life, over the past, honestly, more than ten years, it's been rare that I've been able to fully appreciate a good winter. This past winter was a good one and I really savored it. There is just something so beautiful about a landscape covered in a fresh blanket of snow. There were several times in the last few months when I went for a walk in the ravine and found myself just full of awe at how much beauty there is in the world and full of gratitude for being alive to experience and appreciate all that beauty. Just being alive really is such a gift.

So yes, I love all the seasons. If I had to live in a place with only one type of weather, I'd probably pick in the 70s and sunny. And if I lived in a place like that, I'd enjoy the weather, but I'd never get excited about it. Whereas in a place with four distinct seasons, I find great excitement in all four. Life is all about change. I guess there's just something reassuring and comforting about those predictable, cyclical changes that the seasons bring. I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for a lot of things.

Home

I've been thinking this year about what makes a place a desirable one for me to call home.

I've lived in Ohio for my whole life. One year in Canton, seventeen years in Columbus, and now seventeen years in Cleveland. Undoubtedly that's molded my views, what I find comfortable in a place to live. I wonder to what extent those views are inherent to me, and to what extent they're a result of where I've lived, or of life experiences that I could have had no matter where I lived.

My sister has lived in New York City for more than a decade. Earlier this year I visited her there and I found it to be a great place to visit but my suspicions were confirmed that I could never see myself living there. Even if the higher cost of living could be ignored, there's one very important obstacle to my ability to enjoy living in such a place. I really, really like spending time in nature. I've realized that it's very beneficial to my mental health. New York is a huge city that is basically devoid of anything resembling wilderness. Spending time in nature for an NYC resident requires going far out of one's way. It's not something you can just casually do after work. I'd go crazy in a place like that.

Two weeks ago I returned from a trip to another, very different, part of New York State - my family's annual Adirondacks vacation. I love visiting the Adirondacks every year. The mountains and lakes and trees and air are refreshing to the soul. In fact, I realized that there are three places now that have come to feel at least a little something like home to me. Cleveland, first and foremost. And Columbus, of course. The Adirondacks are the third. (And yes, there was a period of time last year when Nashville also felt like home, but that's obviously no longer the case.)

I have two interests that I feel especially passionate about, though - nature is one, and music is the other. Although I could imagine myself living in the Adirondacks (setting aside the fact that there's not much there in my current line of work) more than I could in New York City, the huge reduction in concertgoing opportunities would be hard to bear. And although the Lake Placid dining scene has improved a great deal since my family first vacationed there, I'd also miss the many wonderful restaurants of all different cuisines I can frequent back home.

New York City, of course, has far more to offer in the realms of live music and dining than Cleveland. And the Adirondacks have more nature to offer than Northeast Ohio. So for someone who is strongly pulled in those two conflicting directions of city life and outdoor life, Cleveland is a nice middle ground.

It's not just Cleveland, though, that fits me so well. It's the specific location I now call home, in Cleveland Heights, a large suburb just east of the city proper. I live on a lovely street lined with large trees (much like the one on which I grew up) in a neighborhood where I can easily walk to numerous restaurants and bars, a drugstore, a grocery store, a bakery, a movie theater, and a library. At the same time, just a mile away from my house, and easily accessible within minutes by bicycle or on the way home during my short commute from work, is a gorgeous park system, running along the course of the Doan Brook waterway. Roughly marking the border between Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights are two beautiful lakes (Horseshoe Lake and Lower Shaker Lake) at which great blue herons and other wildlife can be spotted, and in between the two lakes, there is the Nature Center at Shaker Lakes.

The early evening moon reflecting off of Horseshoe Lake.

A wintery scene at the Nature Center.

Lower Shaker Lake at sunset.

My mountain bike leaning against a tree in front of a very calm Lower Shaker Lake reflecting the sky.

The lakes are beautiful, but undoubtedly my favorite part of the Doan Brook waterway is Roxboro Ravine, a narrow gorge that takes the brook downhill from Lower Shaker Lake. I've written about the ravine before, on more than one occasion, and in fact dubbed it my favorite place in the world. Cleveland is known for its great "Emerald Necklace" of Metroparks surrounding the city, and the Metroparks are certainly a reason for civic pride, but the ravine, a park hidden in plain sight in the middle of a residential neighborhood and that most people don't know exists, is to me more wonderful than anything the Metroparks have to offer. One can walk down a trail just tens of meters away from an at times busy street and instantly be transported to a place that feels like it could be miles away from civilization.

Certainly there are more remote and more secluded and yes, more beautiful natural locations that I've visited in my many travels, including in the Adirondacks, but there's just something extra special about the ravine existing in this rugged and gorgeous state right smack dab in the midst of densely populated inner ring suburbs, and the instant escape it provides from city life. Due to the thick tree cover, steep walls, and rushing water, there are places in the ravine where if one didn't know better, it would be easy to think there were no other humans for miles around. I've had so many great times there over the years, going running, hiking, riding my mountain bike, and (of course) getting engaged to Cara.

The ravine and the lakes are truly a treasure, cherished by many who live in the area. So it might be hard to imagine the threat they faced half a century ago. A plan was put forward that, had it come to fruition, would have made the Heights a far different place from the one I now love to call home.

In 1964, Cuyahoga County Engineer Albert Porter proposed the creation of a new system of freeways to connect the eastern suburbs to downtown Cleveland. These freeways would have run through Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights - the Clark Freeway would have run almost directly along the path of Doan Brook.

I have been aware of this history for some time, but recently, perhaps due both to my continuously growing love for Doan Brook and my growing unease about all the troubling changes happening in our country and world, I've taken a greater interest in learning more about this history. I happened upon the existence of a limited run 2011 book called The Legacy of Clark Freeway Fighters that recounts the history with a focus on interviews with the now elderly women who took the lead in fighting the freeway plan, and I quickly decided to track down and purchase a copy for myself. Once I had the book in hand, I fittingly took it after work one day to the spot by the ravine's waterfall where I've come to enjoy doing so much of my leisure reading. As it turned out, a seemingly endless torrential downpour stranded me under the rock overhang there for almost two hours (much longer than it took me to read the book), but I didn't really mind. I had nowhere else I needed to be, and it was great fun to experience the sights and sounds of the storm, including the sudden rapid expansion of the waterfall, as well as the two very wet raccoons I spotted in a tree on the other side of the ravine.

Getting back to the Legacy book... as I sat there, and began reading the book, and looked at the map of the proposed freeways on one of the early pages...

...I suddenly felt overcome with emotion, as I thought about the wonderful community I call home, and the fact that one of the freeways on that map would have run a stone's throw away from the waterfall by which I sat, and another of the freeways would have run pretty much right through or next to the house in which I live. In one of my recent posts, I wrote, "It's absurd the extent to which our society has prioritized fast automobile travel over so many other things that are so much more important." In that post my focus was on the lives lost as a result of that excess prioritization of fast automobile travel, but those lives are just a part of the "so many other things that are so much more important." I'm so, so grateful to the residents of the community who knew their homes and parks were more important than the ability to get downtown a few minutes faster and who got together and organized and succeeded in stopping the freeway plan. And not only did they stop a negative outcome, they turned it into an additional positive outcome, as the Nature Center at Shaker Lakes was intentionally created at the site of a proposed freeway interchange to help demonstrate the value of what would be lost if the freeways were built.

It was the women of the community, members of garden clubs and civic organizations, "little ladies in tennis shoes" as they called themselves, who took the lead in the fight, and it was a wonderful thing that the editors of this book were able to obtain (via interviews conducted by students at The Intergenerational School in Cleveland) and share the decades later perspectives of some of those women. I'd like to share with you a few of my favorite quotes from the interviews.

"I just couldn't believe that they would put a freeway through there. It was too beautiful of a park.... Many people who lived east of Shaker Heights and beyond just couldn't wait for the freeway to be built because they wanted to hop onto it and whiz downtown.... It is a challenge to get other people to appreciate nature because they're accustomed to looking at it but not seeing it." - Kay Fuller

"The whole thing is just unthinkable and Albert Porter, then County Engineer, boasted that he was not afraid of a bunch of Shaker Heights matrons being able to interfere with his freeway. He was stomped on in the end. I think it was the first time in many people's lives that they realized that they could do something.... I think that it should be evident to young people that with a well-organized protest - and this was very well-organized with lots of people with expertise in many areas - you can achieve a lot. The lesson is you can't say, 'I can't possibly do that.' or 'We can't possibly stop that.'" - Gloria Reske

"Activism was in the air. The Civil Rights Movement was inspiring to everybody. The fact that there were people out there who were fighting for their rights, and who were marching, and really taking a position, often at great risk to themselves, was a model for us. If they can do that, what are we doing sitting around doing nothing, twiddling our thumbs? When people were so active in defense of their rights, how could we just sit?" - Kathy Barber

"My mother was a tremendous nature lover and we would drive down to her hometown in Wellington, which we thought of, as little girls, as a very long trip - it was 60 miles and she liked to go the hilliest way. We would get to the top of a hill and she'd stop the car and gasp, 'Let's just look at this beautiful view!' This sort of excitement about beauty was a big part of her life and that carried over to me and I hope to my children." - Sally Burton

I'll be forever grateful to those "little ladies in tennis shoes" for standing up for what was right and for helping preserve and shape for the future the amazing place I now call home. Their actions and the effects of those actions are a lesson for us all of the importance of activism, and it's a lesson that's especially important today. We all have a role to play in deciding what the world in which we live and in which our children will grow up looks like. Not all such actions will be successful, but if no one takes action on an issue, failure is assured - you never know until you try. And in a world with so many big and seemingly consuming threats, the Freeway Fighters remind us that even at the small local level, people working together can make a meaningful difference.

It does occur to me that the Freeway Fighters had advantages that many activists don't. It saddens me to think of all the other communities, disproportionately populated by people with less wealth and darker skin, that have been destroyed by America's obsession with freeway building. How many other places with homes and parks just as beautiful as those in my neighborhood have been torn apart so that people who lived somewhere else could "hop onto" a freeway and "whiz downtown"?

(It's also worth noting that the Shaker Lakes are not natural lakes but were created by the Shakers who settled in this area in the 19th century - so human beings are capable of shaping their environments for the better as well as for the worse.)

Near the end of the book is a short essay titled "Proving That Trend is Not Destiny" by David Beach, director of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History's GreenCityBlueLake Institute. It's a great distillation of the issues that I want to highlight in this post so I'm going to quote extensively from it:

In a narrow sense, Albert Porter was right. In the '60s he was the Cuyahoga County Engineer, and when he looked at Cleveland and the eastern suburbs he saw that there was going to be a mess if more roads were not built.

With his rational, engineer's mind, he studied projections of population migration and increasing traffic flows. He saw that the east side was going to need more road capacity to keep traffic flowing smoothly - a lot more capacity. Indeed, the east side would need enormous freeways in multiple locations, so everyone would have easy freeway access.

The overriding concern was "the convenience of the motoring public," as the highway planners were fond of saying. Our whole society had to change so more people could drive more cars faster. And this made perfect sense if you cared more about speeding through places than the quality of places - if your vision of "progress" was the development of a sprawling, frenetic, high-mileage, high energy-consuming society.

For Porter, these were the inexorable trends, and he had to plan for them. But some people in the path of those freeways refused to be held captive by such trends. They believed, as urban critic Lewis Mumford once wrote, that trend is not destiny. People can have a different vision. Behaviors can change. Different public investments can be made. And the trends can be deflected to create a different future.

So they rose up and stopped the freeways that would have destroyed what they loved about their communities. The battle against the Clark Freeway, especially, became one of the iconic struggles for conservation in the history of Greater Cleveland. It was a training ground for dozens of community and environmental activists. It inspired thousands of people to believe that they could have a voice.

Fifty years later, this area on the east side of Cleveland is the hole in the regional highway donut. It's a very inconvenient place for the motoring public. And that is wonderful!

A lot of people who don't live in the Heights complain about the lack of convenient freeway access to this area. I've come to realize that my home is a great place to live not in spite of the lack of convenient freeway access. It's a great place to live in large part as a result of the lack of convenient freeway access.

I read another book recently called Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology. It's a collection of personal little stories (published in 2012) about what makes Cleveland the place it is and I liked it a lot for the diversity of perspectives it presented to paint a realistic picture of Cleveland with all its grandeur and all its flaws. As I read the book, I of course enjoyed every mention of a place that was special to me. The beginning of Stephanie Gautam's "One that Denver Lost" especially struck me:

As a child growing up in Cleveland Heights, I felt that my hometown was a paradise. The ravine off North Park Boulevard was just steps from our duplex on South Overlook, yet to me, it was a wilderness promising adventure and otherworldly discoveries.

I never set foot in Cleveland Heights as a child, and yet as an adult, the ravine to me has been much as it was to young Stephanie. I've found so much adventure and made so many discoveries there. How wonderful it would be to grow up in such a place. How much we owe to the activists who preserved it. And how important it is that we carry that same spirit of activism into the future.

My favorite place and the two loves of my life

I've written before about my love for Roxboro Ravine, the section of Doan Brook in Shaker Heights in between North Park Boulevard and Fairhill Road. It's a really wonderful place, and a sort of hidden gem that doesn't attract nearly as much traffic as most parks in the area, which I think is due in large part to the fact that most people don't know about it. Cara once told me, while we were on a walk there, that it was a "special" place. Later on that same walk, I asked her to marry me, so I obviously agree with that assessment. About a year ago, after visiting the ravine for the first time after her death, I mentioned on Facebook that I had realized it was my favorite place in the world. I still feel that way.

I've been going to the ravine a lot recently. I think visiting there has become a sort of spiritual thing to me. For one thing, I love nature, and being able to enjoy the seclusion and all the beautiful trees and rocks and rushing water in a spot that is right in the middle of a residential neighborhood near where I live and where I work (I've recently taken to stopping there on my drive home from work) is wonderful. But beyond that, Roxboro Ravine is so tied to some of the most important experiences of my life.

I suppose that started in the summer of 2006. It was in the ravine that I broke my arm, just days before Cara and I (still "just friends" at the time) took our first trip together, to Washington, D.C. to see the band Ozma perform. As a result of my injury, Cara had to do all the driving and she also helped me with simple tasks such as opening a bottle of water. As the celebrant at her funeral so eloquently put it, "Their first meaningful time together was Cara as caregiver; Jeff as the patient."

Walking the trails of the ravine now brings about many emotions in me. Certainly feelings of happiness, peace, and contentment, but also feelings of loss. I'm reminded of how much I miss both of the two major loves of my life. You see, although Cara is the only person I've ever been in a relationship with, she was not the first love of my life. The first love of my life was distance running. It was easily my greatest passion throughout both high school and college; I pursued achievements in cross country and track with much greater vigor than any of my academic pursuits. After my collegiate running career was over and I found myself doing almost all my running on my own, the ravine became my favorite place for a run. The combination of beautiful scenery and rugged, challenging trails is something I've rarely found elsewhere, and located within easy running distance of where I lived, it was perfect. Now, as I walk those same trails, as much as I enjoy the experience, I wish so much that I could once more feel the wind in my hair and see the foliage rushing by as I barrel down those trails at a fast running pace.

The last time I went running for real was last summer, almost a year ago. I had not run for several months because of an issue with my left hip. I decided to try going for a run in the ravine for old times' sake. I loved it, but my hip did start to hurt again afterwards. Despite this, I proceeded to run the 5k at Breathe Deep Cleveland, Cara's lung cancer charity event, later that week. In fitting tribute to her, I was the first finisher. Unfortunately, my hip started to hurt a lot more, and continued to bother me greatly for over two months. (Cara experienced a lot of pain in her left hip due to a bone metastasis, so perhaps this was also fitting?) Every time since that I even begin to try running for distance, I feel that same pain coming on, so I stop.

By the way, I sometimes see or hear people who can and do run talk about how they don't enjoy running. I have to say this tends to grate on me, because there's little I enjoy more than going for a really good run, but I'm unable to do that.

There are times when I feel like I miss running even more than I miss Cara. Not all or even most of the time, but there are times.

There are also times when I miss Cara more than I could possibly miss anything else.

Actually, recently I've been missing Cara more than I had in quite some time. I see this as a good thing. Why is that? The reason is that the chronic pain and depression that I was suffering from throughout the winter have significantly improved. This has had the effect of allowing me to feel all sorts of emotions, normal emotions, that were sometimes difficult for me to feel. Happiness, but also sorrow. But not the crushing despair that I felt at many points during those very difficult months.

Honestly, although Cara's death was a horrible thing, I really feel that for much of the first six months following her death, I felt more alive than I ever had before. I was instilled with a sense of urgency to take nothing for granted and live life to the fullest. I had many moments of deep sorrow, but I also had so many wonderful, life-affirming experiences, spending time with friends and family, as well as the fantastic trip I took to Colorado where I saw the band Belle and Sebastian perform at Red Rocks and also went on an amazing hike in the Rockies. Then, just after the half-year mark had passed, I was suddenly stricken with horrific, near-constant pain. And for most of the ensuing five months, not only did I no longer feel more alive than ever, I felt less alive than ever before. It was like I wasn't really living, only surviving. So now that there has been a real, tangible improvement in how I'm feeling, the contrast with how I was feeling a few months ago is amazing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not completely better. I'm still struggling with pain, but not nearly as bad as it was. At times I've momentarily gotten giddy just because I once again feel like a mostly normal person and can reliably enjoy the things I normally enjoy doing. I'm once more starting to feel a desire to (to quote a pair of socks that Cara sometimes wore to her treatments) "carpe the fuck out of this diem."

And perhaps that's part of the reason why I've been spending so much time out in nature, particularly at the ravine.

It was from 2007 to 2009 when the ravine really became a big part of my life. That was the first time that I was battling the pain issue I've been dealing with recently, as well as the depression that accompanied it in periods of time when the pain was particularly bad. Running those trails was my escape from it all. So I guess it makes a lot of sense that I'm drawn to the same place now.

Between the broken arm and the numerous walks we went on there, including the most important one that culminated in our engagement, the ravine was already tied to Cara for me in many ways. It was much more tied, though, to the first love of my life, running. Recently, however, I've (without really planning it) found a new way to connect the ravine much more deeply to my second and greatest love, Cara.

Since last fall, there were several times when I felt like I was getting better, only to go back to feeling worse again. The last time this happened was in early March. I was prescribed a low dose of the antidepressant Zoloft. The doctor told me it wasn't something that took effect immediately, but rather would take up to six weeks before I would really notice the benefits. So I wasn't expecting to feel better right away. But what actually happened, initially, was the opposite - the difficulty sleeping I had been having temporarily become much worse, and this resulted in my pain becoming much worse. I had a very bad two weeks.

The third week was when things started to turn around. During that week, I went to a Cavs game with one of my best friends and had a great time, I went to an amazing concert by Lucius at the Beachland Ballroom, and my parents visited me and enjoyed a dinner I prepared, one of my favorite meals that Cara used to make for me (sweet potato gnocchi from Ohio City Pasta with chicken and a cinnamon nutmeg cream sauce). So it was a good week, all in all, although I still had a long ways to go until I would be feeling nearly back to normal. I worried, as always, that the improvement would be temporary, but that time it turned out to be not another false start, but rather the beginning of a real trend.

Going back to that terrible two weeks now. On one weekend day during that time, a dreary, rainy day (matching my mood) I decided to just head out on a long walk. I thought it might make me feel better. And it probably was better than just staying in, but I was still feeling quite down the whole time. I walked from my house to the ravine. I headed down those familiar trails. And then I decided to explore a side trail that was not part of my regular running routes because it dead ends. This trail leads to the waterfall in the ravine. And there, on the north side of the brook, I discovered a neat little place - a ledge next to the waterfall that was covered by a rock overhang. I climbed up to the ledge (it almost seems like it was made for me, because I think a short person would have a much harder time climbing up there) and sat there for a while, staring out at the water that fell from the sky and the water that rushed over the falls. I was feeling very dejected. Wondering if my life would ever get better.

Some weeks later I returned to the same spot and marveled at how much better I was feeling compared to the last time I had been there. And then a thought occurred to me - it would be a nice place to sit and read a book.

During a phone conversation with Cara's mother some time around the anniversary of Cara's death, she brought up the tattoo Cara had on her back between the shoulders and asked me if I knew the significance of that tattoo. The tattoo, I told her, was a symbol from the Thomas Pynchon novel The Crying of Lot 49.

It was the first tattoo Cara had gotten. I remember her showing me her new tattoo during the summer of 2006 when we went to a movie together in Columbus. Cara was a big Thomas Pynchon fan, and obviously The Crying of Lot 49 was a book that had on impact on her. She gave me her copy of the book, oh those many years ago, and I also read and enjoyed it. During that conversation with her mother, I realized that I should read the book again.

I remembered my thought that the ledge by the waterfall would be a good place to sit and read, so one day I headed over there with The Crying of Lot 49 in one of Cara's messenger bags. I began reading the book, and memories rushed back from the first time I had read it. And I was right - that spot was a great place to read a book. It's sort of a hidden sanctuary. So then I decided I'd read the whole book there. It's not a long book (152 pages), so over the course of a few visits to the ravine I did just that.

There were several times as I read that I became very emotional, partly because of the content of the book but more because of the connection with Cara and the early days of our relationship.

There's one passage I particularly like, in which the main character remembers looking at a certain painting:

Oedipa, perverse, had stood in front of the painting and cried. No one had noticed; she wore dark green bubble shades. For a moment she'd wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry.

I certainly enjoyed the book the first time I read it, but I'm pretty sure I appreciated it a lot more this time, largely due to the life experience I have now and didn't have back then. And so I found myself wanting to talk about the book with Cara. We talked about it some back then, but in retrospect, I think it was at a fairly superficial level. There's so much more to discuss. But she's not here to have those discussions. And I want to ask her, what was it, exactly, that made you want to get that tattoo? (I may have asked her back then. I'm not sure.)

So that spot in the ravine became, in a way, not just my spot, but my and Cara's spot. (Thus joining the spot, near the other end of the ravine, where we got engaged.)

I had never read any other Thomas Pynchon, but I decided that I should. It's a way for me to deepen my connection with Cara in her absence. She also had in her collection the much longer novel Gravity's Rainbow, which I plan to tackle but have not yet begun, and the short story collection Slow Learner. Cara received Slow Learner from my sister for Christmas in 2008. (I had remembered that she had gotten it for Christmas, but not the year. I determined the year by searching my chat history for the book's title, which brought up a message from Cara on 12/29/08: "Mitters says Slow Learner is a good book." 2008, incidentally, was the one Christmas after Cara had moved to Cleveland but before we lived together. It's funny the way time goes by, because before doing that search I would have pegged the year Cara got that book as much more recent, perhaps 2012.)

And so I've been reading Slow Learner at the same spot in the ravine. It's a collection of Pynchon's very early work, and it certainly doesn't affect me the way Crying of Lot 49 does, but it's been an enjoyable experience. I've especially liked coming across things in the book that Cara underlined. She underlined the last sentence of the book's second story: "Whitecaps danced across her eyes; sea creatures, he knew, would be cruising about in the submarine green of her heart." I guess she  really liked that description. Again I wish I could ask her about it. In one of the other stories, she underlined a single word: "laudanum." Seeing this, I immediately tried to think of why she'd have underlined that one word. And then I thought, it sounds so familiar - like I've heard it in a song - a song by an artist Cara and I liked. But which artist, and which song? Andrew Bird, perhaps? After a little searching I was able to determine that it was actually a Decemberists song, "The Legionnaire's Lament." (In a nice bit of happenstance, I'm listening to that song right now - I intentionally listened to the Castaways and Cutouts album while writing this entry but the fact that I'm on that specific song at the same time I'm writing about it was unplanned.)

I have no doubt that Cara outlined the word "laudanum" because she recognized it from those Decemberists lyrics, but did she remember specifically where she had heard it? Or did she underline the word because she wasn't sure where she'd heard it and wanted to figure it out? And if the latter, did she ever figure it out? I'll never know.

Cara was a really amazing person. I knew her better than I've ever known anyone else, but as time goes by I realize there are many things about her that even I didn't know, and I wish I could have more time to talk to her about life, the universe, and everything, but I can't. And so there's a lot of sadness. But there's also a lot of joy that she brought and continues to bring into my life. Cara Sadness, and Cara Joy.

My life really has been a lot better recently than it had been in a long time. Last weekend I went to Columbus for the first time since Christmas. I was trying to remember when was the last time I went five whole months without going on any out-of-town overnight trips, and I couldn't think of anything. The fact that I went that long without taking any trips was definitely the result of the pain and depression I was experiencing. I had a really good time in Columbus. I spent some quality time with my family and also had fun hanging out with a couple of good friends from high school, and even had a chance encounter with a classmate I'm pretty sure I hadn't seen since high school ended, with whom I shared a very nice albeit brief conversation. I also went to another place where I used to love running, Battelle Darby Creek Metro Park, and enjoyed a long walk. I ran there many times at high school cross country practice, and also over the summer while I was in college. It's a great place. There are some very large hills, of which I have both fond and painful memories of running. I hadn't been there in many years, but all the trails were as familiar as if I'd traversed them just weeks ago. And again, I found myself wishing I could run those trails.

I remember that I once told Cara, some time in the year 2013 but before we knew she had cancer, that I didn't think I could ever be truly satisfied with my life if I wasn't able to run, because running was my greatest passion. The last few years have given me some new perspective on life, for sure. I no longer feel that way. I miss running a lot, and still hope I'll be able to take it up again some day, although I'm quite confident I'll never be able to do nearly the volume of running that I once did. I miss Cara a lot too, and I know that she's never coming back, but I also know that her spirit will always be with me.

Yet now I know something that I didn't know a few years ago. Even having lost both of the two greatest loves of my life, I can continue to have a very fulfilling life, because the world is full of amazing things to do, places to go, and people to meet.

I wrote most of this post Friday night and yesterday afternoon. As it turned out, yesterday was an amazing day, so I think an addition is in order! I went to see Florence + the Machine at the Blossom Music Center. Blossom is in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, so I decided it would be a good opportunity for another hike in the afternoon before I headed over to the venue. I enjoyed a great hike on the Lake and Salt Run trails beginning from Kendall Hills, another place with strong ties for me to both running and Cara. In April 2009, I ran a 25k trail race there. It was the first and only trail race I've run, and it was a great experience, with fantastic scenery as well as much more challenging terrain and elevation changes than any other race I've run. During the race, Cara told me that she got into a conversation with another woman who was also there to spectate. That woman was there to watch her son, and she told Cara about how her son was quite good at running. And he did do pretty well, finishing second place - about nine minutes behind me.

I guess one of the reasons I miss running so much is knowing how good I was at it, and also knowing that I never came close to unlocking my full potential.

Kendall Hills is also a place that Cara and I enjoyed visiting in the winter to go sledding. We had so much fun there. I walked by the spot where this picture of her was taken and couldn't help but think of it:

I also remembered the last time that Cara and I visited Kendall Hills, in July 2013. We went there to go on a little hike in preparation for our upcoming annual trip to the Adirondacks. I remember how much Cara was struggling on the uphills. Walking very slowly because she would become very short of breath if she went much faster. It seemed so wrong, because the whole time I had known her, she had gradually but steadily improved her physical fitness. Now she was having a hard time doing something that would have been easier a year before. She attributed the difficulty to the "asthma" she had been diagnosed with two months prior. It was very frustrating for her. It really seems, looking back, like we should have realized something more serious was going on. But who would ever suspect a 34-year-old never-smoker would have lung cancer?

All those memories were with me as I walked the trails, and I certainly felt sad at moments, but I very much enjoyed the walk. It's a great thing to have a national park so close to home. A notable aspect of this particular hike was the presence of a multitude of cicadas, having recently emerged after 17 years. The sound that filled the forest was incredible!

Next up was the concert. Florence + the Machine are one of my favorite musical acts, and I had never before seen them live (a few years ago I balked at the price of going to a show, and later came to regret not going). Despite this, I had been uncertain until quite recently about whether I was going to go. Why? Because I knew going to the show would be a significant commitment of both money and time (in particular, leaving the venue is a nightmare - once I got back to my car it took nearly an hour until I exited the parking lot). And I was afraid that I might be in a lot of pain and not have a very good time. It was only in the last few weeks that I became confident this wouldn't happen.

So I decided to splurge and get a GA pit ticket. It was the most expensive concert ticket I've ever purchased with my own money (only surpassed by the Springsteen show earlier this year that my dad paid for), but I figured why not? You only live once. I can only imagine how Cara would have reacted to seeing the price of that ticket. But it was worth every penny. I was perhaps ten feet away from the stage, and it was an utterly magical experience. Florence Welch brings so much energy and sheer joy to her performance, and that voice! Wow! Listening to her albums (over and over) did not prepare me for experiencing the same music in a live setting.

Before playing the title track "How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful" from her latest album, Florence asked the audience for one song to put away all of our phones. She said recently as she had been traveling to all sorts of interesting places, she realized she was spending too much time looking down at the phone in her hands. She also said that she had written the song while falling in love, and then when she started to look up and around her, she started to fall in love with everyone, and with all the beauty that exists in the world. You know what? At that moment I could really relate to what she was saying.

I could also relate to these lyrics in that song: "Maybe I'll see you in another life, if this one wasn't enough."

There was, near me in the audience, an annoying guy who kept yelling "No Light" over and over between songs. Because you know, if yelling it twenty times isn't enough, surely the twenty-first time will be the one that will convince Florence and her band to change their (already predetermined) setlist. At one point he even yelled "No Light" during a song - a quiet moment in an absolutely stunning rendition of "Cosmic Love," my favorite song from Florence's first album. At this, I turned toward him (I don't think I even made a conscious decision to do this, it just kind of happened) and exasperatedly told him to shut the fuck up. I can also only imagine how Cara would have reacted. She told me several times that it would really weird her out to hear me swear because she never had. Inwardly, I laughed, thinking about this.

It was such a great concert. I had so much fun. This is something that has happened a few times at concerts recently - Magic Man and Tokyo Police Club being the other notable examples - me just really having fun in a way I hadn't been able to do since last fall. The show last night was the best of all. I guess after Cara and running, I do have a third major love of my life, and it's music. And that one hasn't been taken from me.

As I drove home (finally having made my escape from the parking lot), it really hit me: I have my life back.

I'm always afraid that something bad will happen. I'll have another bad pain flareup. Or something else totally unanticipated. I can't help but be this way, considering everything I've been through. But for now, things are good.

Let me close this by saying that if you are depressed, for whatever reason, do not be afraid to seek out help. Of course, the sad truth is that depression itself can make it much harder to try to find the help you need. But it's worth the effort. Between physical therapy, medication, counseling, increased exercise, and several other factors, I do not know the size of the contribution of each to why I'm now in less pain and no longer feel depressed, but I do know it's a wonderful thing. And I hope that anyone else going through a similar experience can also get that assistance to find their way out.

Roxboro Ravine . . . it rocks!

I thought it might be fun to write some posts about neat places around Cleveland (this isn't entirely a music blog!), so now, while I'm still recovering from a broken hip, some words about one of my favorite places to go when I have my normal mobility.

I suspect that not many people are familiar with the term Roxboro Ravine. A Google search returns very few results. Here's one, though; I think it's where I learned the name:

Path down into the Roxboro Ravine (formerly known as Ambler Park), approximately where Bellfield meets North Park Blvd. (from Cleveland Heights Historical Society)

Quite pretty, isn't it? The spot pictured doesn't look exactly the same today, but anyone who has spent a lot of time in the ravine would have no trouble recognizing the image. I'm sure that a lot more people are familiar with the place known as Roxboro Ravine than with the name Roxboro Ravine, but at the same time I'm sure many people pass by it often while remaining unaware of the wonderful place hiding in plain sight between North Park and Fairhill roads in Shaker Heights.

I was certainly one of those people once. As a cross country runner at CWRU, I often ran along North Park, on the grass right next to the ravine. I undoubtedly glanced down into the ravine from time to time while running by, but (to my memory) did not venture down there at all for my first two years of college. I remember a run my junior year where a couple of my teammates suggested heading down the wooded trails there. I voiced my disagreement, worried that it might be dangerous and not wanting to risk an injury.

I've since been injured twice on those trails, but that hasn't hampered my enthusiasm for running there. The trails aren't inherently dangerous; they just require somewhat more care and surer footing than running on roads. The broken arm in particular was due to completely reckless behavior on my part - I was walking, on a fallen tree, across the brook that flows through the ravine. That was risky enough, but then, as I neared the end of the tree, I began to pick up speed. I guess I just couldn't wait a few more steps until I reached solid ground, and I paid the price for my stupidity when I slipped, fell backwards several feet to the ground, and caught myself with an arm that one glance instantly revealed was broken. I walked out of the ravine up to North Park and was lucky enough to immediately encounter some other people, one of whom was a student at the Case Medical School and drove me to the hospital.

So I've certainly had some adventures in the ravine. (Since learning the proper name, I still usually think of it as just "the ravine." Cara and I have another name for it, as well - "Leslie Anne Ravine," a pun on the Decemberists' song "Leslie Anne Levine." I'm not even sure now which one of us came up with it, I think it was her? We are pretty silly.)

Roxboro Ravine really is a fantastic place for running. In the past few years, I've come to enjoy trail running more and more. It's a great way to commune with nature, and it's much more stimulating to my senses and my mind than running on the streets. The trails in the ravine require more attention than most. There are all sorts of rocks, roots, sharp turns, and quick ups and downs to navigate through. None of it is excessively difficult if proper care is taken, but it's a much more rugged trail than what one might typically find in, say, the Metroparks. I have to say, somewhat egotistically, that running is more fun when you can run fast, and running fast through a rugged, forested trail full of twists and turns is really fun. I've covered the trails through the ravine so many times that my feet practically know each step of the way. I really feel lucky, living in an urban environment, to have such a great place for trail running so close by. (It also seems to be a popular place for mountain biking. I've never tried mountain biking myself, and frankly, the idea of doing it on some of the more treacherous segments of the ravine's trails seems rather scary.)

Running in the ravine is great, but sometimes it can be nice to take in the joys of nature at a more leisurely pace. Cara and I often like to go on walks or hikes together (again, I'm looking forward to getting back to doing this after my injury is all better!), and Roxboro Ravine is one of our favorite places for such excursions. We've traversed the trails there in all seasons. Our most recent hike there was on a beautiful spring day, and contained a cool surprise. As we walked, we noticed there was music coming from somewhere nearby. And not someone's stereo system - this was live music, played by a couple of brass instruments. After we walked farther down the trail, an upward look revealed the musicians' location. They were sitting on the back patio of one of the houses on Fairhill that overlooks the ravine (I'm really jealous of the people who live there). It was like having a concert performed just for us while we enjoyed a great stroll through nature.

That was a memorable hike, but definitely not as memorable as the one that took place on March 7 of this year. That was when Cara and I got engaged. Here's a picture of the spot where it happened, which I took just before the big moment (the ring, at the time, was hidden in my camera bag).






















Earlier in the walk, Cara had mentioned that the ravine was "special" to her. This secretly thrilled me, knowing what I was planning to ask her before we left the ravine that day. So I definitely agree, Roxboro Ravine is a special place, for many reasons.