Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

Below is a photo of eager, premature buds on the little weeping cherry tree we had planted last spring. We never saw it bloom last year -- we bought it after bloom-time. So during our record-setting February warmth, of course, it started to bud. "Don't do that!" I thought, each time I went by. "No more buds!" My grandmother, who lived with us during my childhood, planted a magnolia tree on the front lawn. It was an eastern exposure, and the tree stood completely at the mercy of cold spring winds blowing across the Delaware River. In the 20 years Granny lived in our house, she saw the tree bloom only 3 times! Every other year, a late cold snap or snowstorm would cause the buds to blast and fall. In the morning, there they'd be, littering the ground around the tree. So I'm afraid the same will happen to our weeping cherry, as the storm named Stella sweeps toward us. Though the tree itself won't be harmed, our spring may be a bit less colorful th

February 10th -- Double-Digit February! -- is a day I celebrate with a friend from work. It seems like a meaningful date: winter is fast passing, and March lies just over the crest of the hill. One year he gave me a card with a big "10" on it, obviously meant for a tenth birthday. But I loved it, and have it still. I have started to look at garden and plant catalogs in earnest. At our last house, I had a beautiful flower garden. But for the last two decades, I haven't had time for gardening. With retirement approaching at the end of June, I will have time to devote to weeding. I need to shake off the laziness of winter. Looking forward: it's something I have had a hard time with lately. Since the election, in fact. As the news out of DC went from bad to worse, I found myself sinking into the mire, numb and numb-er. My greatest desire has been for sleep, for escape. But we can't give in to the numbness, can't become complacent. We will keep watching and p

I'm very afraid, but I'm not sure how to explain the disquiet gnawing at me. I've been looking for a metaphor to describe my growing trepidation about the impending Trump administration. The comparisons to Hitler have already begun to seem shrill, though they may, in the end, prove accurate. Well-reasoned articles on psychopathy and Trump have absorbed me for many months, but I can't go there (yet). I read a historical novel, many years ago, entitled, Night Falls on the City. It described the fragile brilliance of 1930s Vienna, prior to the Anschluss. But that's not quite right as a metaphor, either. Hitler's annexation of Austria was virtually bloodless. Many Austrians headed for the borders, but there was plenty of unforced cheering and flag-waving. That's a bit closer to our reality, but ... Then it hit me. The Edge of Night. The Edge of Night  was one of the earliest soap operas on American TV. Running from 1956 through 1984, it had a noir  feel