Essay #13: Mount Airy Forest

Yesterday I had the day off work, and I spent the morning as I normally do on days when I have off and my children are in school: hiking. I went to Mount Airy Forest with a friend from work, and we did a little over five miles on an unseasonably warm Friday morning. Mount Airy is pretty special. It's the largest Cincinnati Park at 1,459 acres, and it's one of the few places within the 275 Loop where a hiker can get some decent mileage (most suburban Cincinnati parks don't have more than 2-3 miles of trails). While you can't escape the sounds of traffic, you can escape the sights of it. There's a section where you walk along a ridge, and you can look out on the forest beyond. Since it's December, the forest floor is covered completely in fallen leaves. It's hard to believe that such a place exists only seven miles from downtown.

Recently Mount Airy has received a bad reputation from some sexual assaults that occurred there a couple years ago. In fact, the first time I tried to make plans to hike there, a friend warned me off: you can't go alone, she insisted.

Still, I eventually visited anyway. I usually hike alone, and I wasn't going to give up that many real hiking miles close to my home. The first time I hiked, it was on a cold and dreary Friday in April of 2022. I was practicing for my summer backpacking trip, so I wore a 40-pound pack. Certainly the park didn't look promising in such weather, but I completed the trail nonetheless and only saw one other person--a benign-looking old man. I hiked a second time on a muddy day in early April of this year, and the third time I visited, in late May, I did my longest hike at eight miles. That third time, it was bright and warm, and the park's shelters were full of families celebrating Memorial Day. I took a trail that wound through the park's Arboretum. It was the first time I really appreciated what the park had to offer, beyond mileage.

There's the old adage that everyone is better than their worst moment. That has to be true of Mount Airy too. After all, it was established in 1911, so a history that long can't be all sunny. I was surprised to learn that it's actually a man-made forest, so the beautiful canopy I looked out on didn't even exist a hundred years ago. That's something to admire.

Essay #12: Christmas Concert

Yesterday was the annual Christmas concert at school. After we got through the band performance--which sounded like a group of 6th graders who just received their instruments for the first time--and through the middling entry-level choir, we arrived at the selective choir's performance. We got a new music teacher several years ago, and he's done wonders with our music program. Their voices are in unison. The lyrics are crisp. Half a dozen boys step forward for confident, clear solos.

It's a sort of surreal experience, seeing the rambunctious energy (or, alternatively, sleepy ambivalence) prevalent in the classroom transformed into a joyful whole. Sure, the boys know what teamwork means; after all, they regularly work as one for sports or extracurriculars. And individual students know what it means to create art; some produce stunning photographs or deeply personal paintings. But I think it's one of the few times the boys come together in pursuit of beauty.

Afterwards, the students left to perform at the girls' school across the street. Later, I heard one bragging about the impression his solo made on the opposite sex. He might claim choir is all about the "rizz" (it's Oxford's Word of the Year, but thanks to my students, I've been familiar with the slang for quite awhile), but I'd like to think I know better.

Essay #11: New Leaves

Both my monstera and my fiddle leaf fig at home have new leaves. It seems like it should be too late in the year for new leaves to emerge, particularly on these plants, which don't push out new leaves often (this is only the seventh leaf on the monstera!). I worry that they've been fooled into thinking it's spring by the unseasonably warm patches of weather. Still, I won't deny the excitement of seeing the light green growth unfurl.

The monstera leaves emerge out of a previous stalk, first as a tightly-wrapped point. Over several days, the "wrap" gently loosens and the shape of the leaf begins reveal itself. The monstera is fenestrated, so there's large holes in the new leaf, which will be about the size of both my hands. The new leaf is about half-unwrapped at this point. I have to resist the urge to hurry its unfurling along.

The new fiddle leaf fig leaf grows out of the top, usually opposite the last leaf to emerge. It begins as just a tiny, light green half moon, then gradually grows up while getting wider. When it reaches full-size, it'll be far darker in color and match the size of my hand, but right now it's only a couple inches tall. Already it has deep, reddish-brown veins all along its back. 

I'm proud of both of these leaves; their indifference to the fact that it's December. I want to be like them--stretching out toward the sun, regardless of the shortening days and the lowering temperatures.

Essay #10: Sentimental Movies

On Saturday, I took my girls to see the new Trolls movie. One of the previews was for Ordinary Angels, what appears to be a treacly, Christian-message film about ordinary citizens banding together during a snowstorm to get a young girl who needs a kidney transplant to the hospital. As the trailer music swelled while people in small-town-USA rushed out to clear the roads by hand with their snow shovels, I rolled my eyes--and simultaneously restrained myself from bursting into tears. 

Last night, I watched Dawn Wall, a documentary about two climbers' attempt to be the first to free climb a multi-pitch ascent on El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgensen had been trading off climbing; neither would go ahead until the other had successfully completed the previous pitch. However, at one point, Kevin gets stuck for days on Pitch 15, and Tommy eventually climbs ahead, completing the most challenging pitches and giving himself just a few moderate climbs to go before reaching the top. He could easily have completed the climb, with headlines blaring "Tommy Caldwell only person to complete the Dawn Wall." Instead, he refuses to finish without Kevin, sticking with him for several more days until Kevin finally succeeds on Pitch 15 and can complete the rest of the climb.

The scene where Tommy chooses to wait has none of the over-the-top sentimentality of Ordinary Angels. Tommy makes the pronouncement mumbling over a camp stove, almost nonchalantly insisting he wants to summit together. There's no hug or soulful eye contact. Nonetheless, again, I had to restrain from bursting into tears.

I've long feared sentimentality, so much that I've reflected on my aversion on past occasions. On my review of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, I wrote, "Maybe it's not possible to write about deeply loving relationships without being a bit sentimental. I guess that's okay too. I've reached a point in my life where I know I value those more than anything else, so I suppose it's only to be expected that my tastes in literature would reflect it." I couldn't help but feel buoyed by the joy of Dawn Wall the rest of the evening. I even texted two friends I hadn't spoke to in awhile. 

Of course, none of this means I'll watch Ordinary Angels. I'm not that sappy.

Essay #9: Neighbors... and Taylor Swift

I debated about what to write from yesterday. I was tempted to talk about Taylor Swift. Amelia choreographed a dance to "22," which she performed for me and Clara, and afterwards we watched a bunch of Swift's music videos. Even though I'm not really a music person, I understand Swift's popularity. There's an unabashed joy in them that's infectious--as evidenced by the fact that "twenty-two-ooh-ooh" has been running through my head all day.

Still, these are my essays, and they can be about whatever I want, so I've instead chosen to write about neighbors. We're getting our kitchen table refinished, and yesterday the craftsman, Rick, called to arrange to pick up the table that night. Jeremy's out of town for work, and I was worried about Rick and my ability to lift the heavy table out the door. When Rick arrived, it was clear that, though I'm strong, the table was going to be too heavy. I texted two of our neighbors to see if they could assist, and John was over less than a minute later, cheerfully helping Rick load the table into the truck.

We have two families of neighbors that have been indispensable to us: through raising children, navigating Covid, and fighting the alienation of middle age. I have countless "lifting a table into a truck" stories to tell, though I won't recall them all now. Still, I'm incredibly grateful for these neighbors' physical help and emotional support through the past decade. 

Essay #8: Overalls

Amelia and Clara have two pairs of matching overalls, identical except for the size. Jeremy's mother, Marian, bought them for Amelia a year or two ago at my suggestion, and she purchased two sizes since Amelia's so petite that bottoms often don't fit well.

Now that Amelia's a little older, she can fit in the larger pair, and so we passed along the smaller ones to Clara right before Thanksgiving.

Overalls inspiration hit, and both girls wore them for three days straight over Thanksgiving break. The first two days, Clara put Amelia's mustard-yellow sweatshirt on top, and we told her she looked like a teenager.

I was never moved much by adorable kids' clothes. I don't buy frilly dresses or absurdly fancy shoes. No boutique all-cotton rompers with woodland creatures. I never purchase the girls matching outfits. We still get most of their clothes that aren't hand-me-downs from the used children's clothing store.

But, man, do I love the overalls.

Is it their folksy charm? The wide, casual leg? The sense that they're making a statement?

Clara wore the overalls again yesterday, over a pink top. She always insists on wearing leggings underneath, for reasons I still don't fully understand. And all day long, whenever I caught a glimpse of those denim bibs, I smiled.

Essay #7: "You Are Strong"

On Saturday morning I took the Strength Train Together class at the Y. It's traditional full-body strength training, albeit choreographed to music and done as a group exercise. I've been taking the class twice weekly for two years now. As we did one of our deadlifts, I glanced at myself in the mirror. I could see the definition in my shoulders and biceps. I could see my thigh muscles, firmly supporting the weight.

Later in the afternoon, I visited the Cincinnati Nature Center. I hike there a lot, and I've done each trail dozens of time, but I'd never done them in a single go, completing the 11-mile "Perimeter Trail." I had only planned on doing a moderate hike--maybe 4-5 miles--but suddenly it seemed the perfect time to do the whole thing. It was a beautiful day. I could have worn a t-shirt, even though it was December. After three and a half hours, I finished, a little hungry and my knees only a little sore. 

It was a day where I felt strong.

This feeling of strength is new to me. I wasn't athletic as a kid. Sure, I ran around at recess or in the woods behind my neighborhood, but I never played on any sports teams. In gym, when we had to play softball, I'd choose the outfield, and unless the ball landed directly at my feet (I never tried to catch it), I'd stare at it as if it were a meteor or something--not something I was responsible for.

My self-perception didn't change much as an adult. In college I joined the fencing club, but I was a poor fencer, and in later years, I abandoned fencing myself to run the club and our competitions. I worked out in my late 20's but stopped when I got pregnant with Amelia. I did twice-weekly lifting with a trainer after Clara's birth, in a desperate attempt to reshape my mangled stomach, but I was overwhelmed and exhausted by working and caring for two small children. I only lasted six months. I knew who I was: small, weak, unable.

Two years ago, I started climbing at a local gym once a week with a friend. Climbing requires strategy and technique, but it also requires strength. Still, I'd doubt myself. I had to fight the sense that I looked silly, a middle-aged woman floundering on the wall. On one evening session, I was bemoaning my lack of ability on a certain route. "I'm just not strong," I said. My partner turned to me and said simply, "You are strong."

It was the first time someone told me that. And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe it was true.

In the last two years, I've sent challenging 11-rated routes in the gym. I've climbed in Red River Gorge. I've completed a week-long backpacking trip though Yellowstone Park. I've hiked fifty miles of the West Highland Way in Scotland. Something has changed in how I view myself.

Still, there are days when I have my doubts. I'm still frustrated by a body that betrays my age and motherhood, regardless of what activities I do. So I try to embrace days like yesterday. Days when I feel strong.