Navigate life’s holes by refusing to fall into them
MYcherry tree is dead.
We’ve had a tumultous18-year-relationship, the two of us. I planted it because I grew up with a pink flowering cherry tree right outside my bedroom window, and I wanted to recapture those memories.
But my grown-up version of this cherry tree had a perverse independent streak. It blossomed with white flowers every year despite my explicit instructions. Furthermore, it got moody when it came to bearing actual cherries. Every five years or so it would grudgingly produce a batch of cherries that we harvested in glee, relishing the mitzvos of terumos and maasros. Then the tree would decide it had pampered us enough and go dormant for another half decade.
Still, the tree grew big and strong, several stories tall, extending glorious green shade over our garden.
This past spring, the tree seemed especially sensitive. It bloomed with its white flowers and then sprouted dozens of small green globes, destined to be a fine cherry crop.
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