From the Rabbi
Holy friends,
That's how Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, of blessed memory, used to address his friends and students and colleagues: with the Yiddish phrase heilege chevre, "holy friends." I love the way this form of address elevates each of you, and reminds me that as I write to you, I am writing not only to my friends and congregants but to holy beings, made in the image of the One.
So: dear holy friends! We've entered the coldest part of the year. Though each day grows longer by the tiniest of margins, these days and weeks often bring the deepest chill of Berkshire wintertime. And yet our tradition
calls us, at the full moon of Shvat, to celebrate the sap beginning to rise in the trees around us -- and the spiritual sap beginning to rise in our hearts as we approach the festivals of spring.
For the kabbalists of Tzfat, the Jewish mystics whose teachings offer a myriad of poetic ways to understand our God and our tradition, Tu BiShvat offered an opportunity to take a magical journey. We live, they taught, in four worlds simultaneously: the world of action, the world of emotion, the world of thought, and the world of spirit or essence. The Tu BiShvat seder which they developed features four different kinds of tree fruits, each symbolizing one of these "worlds."
These same mystics liked to imagine the infinite blessed God through the metaphor of a tree, with roots here in creation and branches flowering in the ineffable heavens. Or maybe it's the other way around: from the divine Root flow all the blessings which sustain us here in the branches of the world! We'll explore these ideas and more in our various Tu BiShvat celebrations this year: two celebrations geared specifically toward children, and another -- on the evening of February 8, the night of the full moon -- geared toward adults. I hope you'll join us, even if this is a holiday with which you don't (yet) feel a connection.
February may feel like bleakest midwinter, but on the Jewish seasonal calendar it's the first great leap toward spring. Four weeks after Tu BiShvat comes Purim, our festival of costumes and noisemaking and merriment. Four weeks after that, the first night of Pesach. (And on the second night of Pesach, don't miss our community seder here at CBI. More about that in the next newsletter, for sure.)
In other, warmer, climes, Tu BiShvat comes as spring is actually beginning. But as a celebration of the sap rising, it always seems exactly right to me as a celebration for our place and time -- we celebrate divine sap rising in the cosmic tree right around the time when our neighbors who harvest maple are celebrating literal sap rising in the sugar maples which grace our hills. My own favorite "sugar shack" is Ioka Valley Farm on route 43, and I'm already looking forward to bringing Drew there this winter for mini corn muffins with maple butter. Maybe my family and I will see some of you there.
Judaism is a tradition with deep intellectual riches and an endless library of spiritual teachings and interpretations. But festivals like Tu BiShvat remind me that our tradition is also an earthly, embodied one, linked to the cycles of the moon's waxing and waning and to the ancient agricultural calendar by which our ancestors lived. Tu BiShvat was originally the date on which trees (regardless of when they were planted) celebrated their "birthdays," as only trees of a certain age could be harvested for the annual Temple tithe -- but over time it grew from being simply a date in the Israelite Farmer's Almanac to being a festival for celebrating trees and their edible abundance as a symbol of God and the endless flowering of divine blessing in our lives.
My teacher, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, has suggested that "Tu BiShvat should make us aware of and thankful for the trees around us. Go into your backyard and thank the trees that give off oxygen and provide shade for your house. Blow a shofar for your trees!"
Whether or not you blow a shofar, I offer this invitation: take some time this month to notice the striking brightness of the full moon shining on snow, the silhouettes of trees limned with frost, and see whether you can perceive the beauty and the holiness in these manifestations of winter. (As the psalmist tells us: God gives us snow like wool, and scatters hoarfrost like ashes.) And as you ponder the dreams of summer held in seed catalogues (or in catalogues extolling t-shirts and swimwear), imagine that all of your hopes for the future are curled tight into the kernel of this moment, waiting for the right moment to unfold.
Blessings for a sweet winter season,
Rabbi Rachel Barenblat