Words of the Spirit - THE TREES AND THE STORM
This past weekend will be remembered for far more than being the first long weekend of the summer of 2022.
I happened to be away in the US, participating in a series of Reconstructionist movement events and meetings. It took until Sunday morning, after tuning in to CBC radio online, for me to grasp the massive impact of this past Saturday’s storm.
As of this writing on Monday, May 23, there are still tens of thousands without power, and many whose workplaces, neighbourhoods, transportation routes or homes remain impacted. And yet, I can see in the tweets, the announcements from various services and city institutions, along with the work of many wonderful local leaders, the pulling together of caring community that characterizes the best of who we are, how we can respond in the face of crisis.
I know, for some of you have told me, that in the moment, amid the maelstrom, there was fear. Even as I can hardly imagine experiencing the ferocity of this derecho, I can imagine the stupefying, stunning effect of witnessing its power. This is a truly human and appropriate response, one that our ancients knew well. There are easily dozens of psalms that call out phrases about fear, about being in the depths, in the maelstrom, cast into darkness, and wondering – pleading – about the source of safety and help.
These are the right moments to call out, and also to question and wonder. When we are able, when our systems calm down, then we see the detritus not just of the storm, but of the fear itself, the evidence that we may have come through in one piece, but not without falling to pieces.
There is a phrase from the contemplative and nature-besotted Rabbi Nachman of Breslav, he who taught that to pray in a field of grass means that every green blade then enters into your prayers.
The phrase has been set to music, and we sing both a familiar setting by Baruch Chait, as well as newer interpretations, including this one by Elana Arian. The song reminds me, each time I hear or sing it, that fear is ultimately something very intimate and familiar, an inescapable element of the human experience.
What induces fear may also be, incongruously, a source of awe. Watching the videos, captured by random webcams, of massive trees shaking into splinters, this strikes me as well: the life-giving powers in the natural world, when disturbed and disrupted, can become forces of destruction.
When we meet to observe Shavuot this year, to celebrate the giving of Torah, we will sing etz haim hi – it is a tree of life. To honour the tree that is torah, and the festival, we’ll turn our attention to the changes that are being wrought in the natural world to such an extent that they are, globally, harming the planet and all its inhabitants. As one American newspaper reported: “Derechos often strike along the northern periphery of heat domes, where conditions are ripe for powerful thunderstorms. Indeed, very unusual early-season heat swelled over eastern North America on Saturday, with numerous cities in the eastern United States setting records.”
As the felled trees are slowly being cleared from our streets, let’s make manifest the life-giving and nourishing messages from the natural world, and from our tradition, that call us to be stewards of the planet, given the garden to till and to tend (Genesis 2:15). We shall face our fear, and we shall care for the trees, and each other.
Rabbi Liz
