New ways to think about the Jewish holiday of Tu Bishvat

Tu Bishvat has just passed, and the almond trees are blooming. I asked two of my friends to capture the meaning of this day on the Jewish calendar.

How expressive their thoughts are in what they have created. 

A Tu Bishvat Tale by Saskia Swenson Moss

When I was small, an equally small pine tree became my companion. Near the lichen-hungry stones that had formed the foundation of a 19th-century barn, a scraggly pine had rooted and forced its way up onto the lip of a little hill. When things were hard at home, when I needed space, I’d run out of the blue basement door down to the little tree. It was always waiting. It seemed to understand me. No words passed between us. But the wind blew my hair and its branches in the same breath, and I loved that little tree dearly.

Tu Bishvat, the birthday of the trees, was not part of my wheelhouse of knowledge back when I was a child. Neither were most of the Jewish holidays. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized, hey, there is a whole Jewish tradition centered around trees! 

I had moved across the country and was living in California. A Tu Bishvat Seder was being planned, and I was asked to help out. My heart leaped! Birthday of the trees! What a miracle to find a holiday that seemed to align with my earliest memories of nature!

The program was for the older residents of an independent living center. I was given the job of creating some talking points for folks to discuss before dinner as they munched on figs, dates, and nuts. I don’t remember all the questions I wrote. I know they were four in number. But I do remember the last one clearly. “Describe a time that you felt connected to the natural world.”

 I was proud of this question. In my head, I played with memories of the little crooked pine, the forest holding secrets, and the distant blue mountains – all part of the great outdoors imprinted on my soul.

THE WHITE plastic plates of nuts and fruits were unwrapped at each table. I went around, asking my questions, eager to hear the answers. Hungry for dinner, a few answers were quickly offered. “I feel relaxed hearing the ocean.” “I love hiking.” “I take my grandkids to the park and watch them play with leaves and sticks.”

I was planning to wrap it up but noticed that one table of elders was not participating.

I gently inquired why.

A man with a worn cap and white hair pushed back his chair and slowly stood up.

“We, at this table, do not have such good memories of Mother Nature,” he said slowly. “The snowy mountains, the blue lakes, the forests where we tried to hide – none of it stopped the Nazis. For us, during the war, nature was never our friend.”

Quiet.

I had never thought of nature in quite that way.

Today, in the Land of Israel, the very place where Tu Bishvat was born, I find myself circling back to his answer. The day that I write this is the 100th day of captivity for the hostages in Gaza. Deep under the ground, they are suffering. At the same time, quite soon the almond trees will begin to bloom.

So, have we held onto this Tu Bishvat as we did yesterday? Can we source hope from the trees, whose pink and white blossoms speak of renewal? Perhaps, but only if that hope fuels something larger. When human lives are imperiled, we can no longer stay in metaphor; we have to act.

The Melody of Tu Bishvat by Jake Shepherd

As new olim from South Africa, our aliyah has been a time of mixed emotions: the eager anticipation of new challenges and the sadness of moving away from family and friends. Added to this, our son-in-law is serving in the army, which has been bewildering and anxiety-laden.

However, underlying the tumult of emotions dominating my consciousness is an invigorating, inviting, and reassuring sense that is making itself felt. At first, this sense was almost imperceptible; but recently, when my wife and I contemplated the message and relevance of Tu Bishvat, I started to understand. Tu Bishvat is the new year for trees and marks the season of the earliest blooming trees in the Land of Israel. Judaism is linked to the Land of Israel in so many profound ways; there is a natural synergy where the people and the land resonate in a way I had never experienced before.

Up until now, living outside of Israel, I had never thought much of Tu Bishvat at all. The day held little meaning for me because it simply did not apply. A metaphor that comes to mind is a song sung without musical instruments. The lyrics may well be beautiful, but they lack the accompaniment that emphasizes the tone, mood, and rhythm of the piece. In addition, since Jews are a minority in South Africa, there is also an experience of being out of tune with society.

In some sense, it is only now that I am home in Israel that my Jewish experience is aligned with the country that I live in, the seasons I live through, and indeed with society itself. 

Tu Bishvat is not only a reminder that we are linked to the land, but it also celebrates new growth. It places a focus on the future and the seeds and fruit that are the basis of a new generation of trees. In many communities in the Diaspora, including South Africa, there is a tangible despondency that accompanies a community in decline. Therefore, this focus on new growth, which my wife and I feel personally, is refreshing and fills me with hope for a brighter future for Jews in the Land of Israel.

For me, my first Tu Bishvat in Israel is a realization that I no longer sing alone. I am accompanied by many, many other voices, some in harmony and others providing a melody that deepens and extends. Equally important is the rhythm provided by the Land of Israel: the soil that provides ancient accents, seasons that give the beat, and the air that seems to pulse with a new and vibrant tempo.

Music goes beyond intellect. It draws you in, lifts you up, and connects you to everyone around you. To be living in Israel after millennia in exile is a dream and a blessing. I always knew this intellectually, but it is only now that I live here that I can hear it sung.

A final word from the writer

In the past month, I visited the three forests – Kennedy Memorial, Bicentennial, and Ramot – where my wife and I and our three children planted trees 50 years ago. 

What a treat it is to have lived in Israel and have watched our trees grow. 