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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Final Word

The Final Word

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Last night’s Holy Thursday service included a tradition that my church has (fairly recently) instituted, the washing of the feet. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples at that long-ago Passover supper, assuming the role of the lowliest servant, modeling the behavior he asked his followers to share: to serve others.

If only it were as easy as joining the queue to wash and be washed. But it’s increasingly difficult to be a good person, to understand and not judge, to give others a second, third or even fourth chance. We don’t live in easy times. Of course, first-century Jerusalem was no picnic either.

On Good Friday (and other days, too), I like to re-read one of my favorite Michael Gerson columns. Gerson died in November 2022. I often wish he were still alive and writing. He wasn’t afraid to discuss his faith or his struggles — or to be joyously optimistic when the times called for it.

One of those times was Good Friday. Not that things started off well: ” It would have seemed that every source of order, justice and comfort — politics, institutional religion, the community, friendship — had been discredited,” Gerson wrote. “It was the cynic’s finest hour.”

And then, he wrote, something happened: “The cynics somehow lost control of the narrative.” Even those who believe the body was moved must admit that “faith in the figure Rome executed has far outlived the Roman empire.” For those who believe, Gerson said, Good Friday and Easter legitimize both despair and faith. But most of all, they remind us that God is on the side of those who suffer, the side of those who hope.

“There is a truth and human existence that cannot be contained in a tomb. It is possible to live lightly, even in the face of death — not by becoming hard and strong, but through a confident perseverance. Because cynicism is the failure of patience. Because Good Friday does not have the final word.”

(A holy water font in the Cathedral of Seville in Spain.)

Many Worlds

Many Worlds

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The professor opened his lecture on quantum mechanics with the statement that people who said they understood it were not telling the truth, and he ended his lecture by saying, “I hope you’re now as confused about quantum theory as I am.”

My professor was repeating this story at the end of his lecture on quantum theory, which was, fittingly, the last class of the semester. Fittingly because how can you top quantum theory, especially when you (read I) can’t even define quantum theory.

Here are a few lines from my notes: “Because the measured electron is radically different from the unmeasured electron, it appears that we cannot describe this particle (or any other) without referring to the act of observation.”

Quantum mechanics both befuddles and ignores the Newtonian world view. Quantum theory “challenges our intuitions by having conscious observation actually create the physical reality.” It’s the stuff of science fiction. Only it’s not fiction. It’s the “most stunningly successful of all the theories in science; not a single one of its predictions has ever been wrong.”

From quantum has flowed the Copenhagen interpretation of Niels Bohr, who posits that there is no deep reality; that the world we see around us is real but floats on a world that is not as real. From quantum has flowed the Copenhagen interpretation number two, that reality is created by observation and there is no reality without observation.

From quantum has flowed the many worlds theory, the idea that innumerable parallel universes as real as our own exist. The fact that I’m writing a post on quantum mechanics is all the proof I need of the many worlds theory.

Runway 30

Runway 30

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It’s not your imagination, said my favorite meteorologists, the Capital Weather Gang. It really has been a windy spring. This was a few weeks ago, but the windiness has continued. It was so windy yesterday that Dulles-bound jets were flying over the house seemingly every few minutes. And these weren’t high-in-the-sky aircraft. I could almost have waved to passengers, had they been peering out their windows.

Unsettling, to say the least. A steady drumbeat of engine noise, deceleration, on top of winds that lopped a branch off a tree in front of the house and downed a tree the next street over.

What to do? Learn about it. Dulles uses Runway 30 when there are strong winds from the northwest, and sometimes, from what I can gather, it uses only Runway 30. That must have been what was happening late yesterday afternoon and early evening. It sounded as if every inbound Dulles flight was skimming the top of our house.

Things are a little more quiet today, but the wind has picked up … and it’s early yet.

(My favorite place to encounter Dulles-bound jets: on the ground.)

One-Hour Listen

One-Hour Listen

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In the days and weeks since the inauguration, I’ve been trying to understand the seismic changes rolling through the country. The daily newspaper is no longer cutting it. I need more information from more sources — and I don’t have unlimited time.

Enter the podcast. I have for years wandered aimlessly in the podcast universe. People I know swear by their favorites but I wasn’t sure what I liked. I’m still in the experimental stage, listening to a little of this and a little of that, craving intelligent discussion most of all.

And then, there’s the time element. Most podcasts tell you upfront how long you can expect them to last. (Even articles now supply reading times — but that’s another post).

A one-hour listen takes me from here to Franklin Farm, around the main loop and back again. Exercise for the body; food for the mind.

(Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Bluebells at Riverbend

Bluebells at Riverbend

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For the last few years, bluebell-viewing has been high on my spring to-do list. This year I worried I’d missed the flowers. Friends had traveled to prime spots and reported peak bloom. But by Saturday afternoon, with studies and errands out of the way, a chunk of time materialized. The weather was iffy — leftover clouds and sprinkles from Friday’s deluge — but I hoped that would keep the crowds at bay.

Riverbend Park is only 30 minutes away, but it’s another world. Unlike Seneca Park, where I’d seen bluebells other years, at Riverbend the Potomac is front and center: a dramatic backdrop for the delicate blooms. We walked a mile or so upriver — and bluebells were with us all the way. A profusion, a wonderment.

It’s one thing to witness beauty, to stare at it and soak it in. It’s another thing to walk through it. Movement heightens the experience, doubles and triples it. That’s how it was with the bluebells at Riverbend.

Left Behind

Left Behind

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I found the little guy on the deck yesterday, a fledgling that didn’t make it, a pile of bones and feathers and a faint blush of pink that promised the bright hues of a male cardinal.

I work in an upstairs office with two big windows overlooking the backyard. Sometimes there’s a thump when a bird hits the glass or screen, but usually it flies off and survives. Was this bird one that didn’t? Or did it starve? Unlikely given the bounty of seed so close at hand with our feeder, though juveniles can be crowded out there.

Nights have been cold lately. Could this wee creature have frozen in the chill? The pruned azalea offers less shelter than it did pre-shearing. Whatever took him, I hope it was quick and painless. Birds belong in the air and trees, full of breath and life.

(Maybe all that little bird needed was a house like this.)

Testing … Testing

Testing … Testing

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Last night I took the last multiple choice test of the semester … and I hope the last multiple-choice test I’ll ever take. It felt more difficult than the last one but not as crazy-making as the first.

To prepare for these examinations I study about 100 printed pages of notes. I read and re-read. I highlight in red pen and yellow marker. I note the main points of each lecture. I try to figure out what questions might be asked.

Most of all, I ask myself why I’m doing this. Worse yet, why I’m paying money to do this. These are moot questions now, I guess. My regular class work ends this semester. Next stop: thesis research and writing. It won’t be easy … but it won’t involve multiple-choice tests.

Cold Snap

Cold Snap

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I wore a parka and gloves on yesterday’s walk, and last night the furnace whirred off and on more than it has in weeks. Our up-and-down spring is down again … or up, depending upon your preference.

The chilly spring day has one thing in its favor. It pauses the procession of bloom. Today it’s paused the Kwanzan cherry at the peak of its resplendence. It was a tall, scrawny specimen when we bought it years ago. I didn’t even know what it was at the time. A cherry tree, yes, but what kind?

I didn’t know about the gnarled trunk it would develop or its splashy pink flowers or how it would bloom later than the Yoshino. This is a tree to be reckoned with: its roots have spread halfway across the front yard, which gives the mower a bumpy ride.

But for a few days in April, the Kwanzan takes our breath away. And this year, thanks to the cold snap, maybe it will take our breath away for a few days more.

Inside Out

Inside Out

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In the old days, my old days, I’d wake up and go running. No time for a warm-up. Later, when I was raising young children, I’d run whenever I could find the time. Now I have a freer schedule, and could theoretically hop out of bed and into the great outdoors. Only now I coax whatever I can from my brain before coaxing whatever I can from my body.

Still, it’s the odd day that finds me house-bound until evening. Yesterday was one of them. A cold rain fell from morning to late afternoon, and when I left the house at 7 for a meeting I was struck by the difference between outside and in — struck, I should say, all over again, since that difference is one of the reasons I walk in the first place.

What is it about stepping outside that immediately puts matters into perspective? Being under a big sky, open to the elements? The smell of the air? That’s what I noticed last night: the freshness of the air and the sounds of sparrows roosting for the night. It was only a few minutes out of doors, just long enough to climb into my car and drive away. But it was enough.

Horns Honking

Horns Honking

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I live close enough to Washington, D.C., to have made it to Saturday’s big protest on the mall, but a friend suggested we try a closer one instead. Which is how I found myself standing in downtown Manassas across from a cemetery and a Harley shop.

It was not an auspicious beginning, but things quickly picked up. By 12:30 there were hundreds of people lining the road, holding flags and signs, chanting “This is what democracy looks like!” Best of all was the support we received from what seemed like every other car that cruised down Route 28. I’ve never heard so many horns honking: from small toots to big blasts.

This demonstration won’t change policy, at least not right away. It felt like very small payback for all the jobs lost, lives upended, research torpedoed; for the tariffs and the firings and the chaos. But it’s a way to air grievances and feel a small sense of usefulness. And then, there were all those horns honking. They made it feel like a parade, a celebration. They made it feel like the start of something big.