The Hallelujah Tree

Dear Friends,

Smack in the middle of Prospect Park stands a majestic tree with dozens of dancing arms and an enormous protective lump jutting out at eyes’ height. Its chunky roots sprawl out and cover the area beneath its trees all around its fat trunk, far too wide to hug. I’m not the only one attracted to it, which is evident by the dollops of paint in different colors that people have left on that protective lump, in the way that is done to holy trees in India, or the Jerusalem mountains. It’s been there for a while, probably eighty or ninety years according to a ranger I met there once, who also explained that the lump is a scar, evidence of a disease that overtook the tree, forcing it to grow the lump over the sickness.

When my third son, Manu was a baby most mornings would begin with a run in the park to this special tree. He would look out from his stroller at the lake, the trees, the sky, the ducks, geese and seagulls, hearing his father sing his morning prayers. Then the stroller would stop, Manu would be pulled out from his stroller, and be walked around the big tree to the sounds of this strange and beautiful Hebrew word: Halleluyah. His little hands would touch the tree. As he grew, his little voice would utter a syllable or two: Ha, or lu, or luya. Halleluyah was one of his earliest words. It meant Tree.

Nowadays Manu goes to daycare, so I don’t make it as often to the tree. It’s not as fun without him. But on Tu Bishvat, the New Year for Trees, I go. Two years ago I asked the tree what it would like for its birthday. It sent me on a Don Quixotian mission: “Reach out to the ultra-orthodox community,” she said, “and see if you can find allies who would begin a culture shift there away from using the immense amount of plastic utensils that they waste.” The strict demands of Kosher laws often lead them to rely and enormous amounts of disposables. So I wrote some letters, spoke to a few people, and ultimately failed that herculean task.

Yesterday, Tu Bishvat, I received a different message. With the recent news of the ice in the arctic shrinking at incredible speed, the Amazon forests raped and burned, Australia, California, all the disasters of the past year, I expected a dire call to action. I was surprised:

“Inspire change through the appreciation of the beauty that is,” said the tree, “rather than the threat of beauty lost.” She quoted scripture:

“עבדו את יי בשמחה, Worship God with happiness.”

I looked around at the surrounding forest, the birds flying from branch to branch, the semi-frozen lake, the people walking by with their dogs. Trees, I thought, are the embodiment of the word local. They live what is in front of them and around them, not what is beyond. Suck in the water from the earth, absorb the sun from the sky, be in the stillness, sway in the wind.

We have learned a thing or two about what local means in this pandemic. Perhaps we have more to learn. Perhaps we can still practice being in our place more, seeing the tree across the street, the bird on the windowsill, the sunlight, the falling snow. Perhaps this summer we might make it out to Bear Mountain, or Harriman, or to one of our local beaches. Perhaps we might even make it out to our local natural spots this winter, or make an extra walk to the Hudson, Central Park, or around the neighborhood in a way that allows us to absorb the beauty we live with, and to experience that fleeting sensation: happiness. And perhaps that happiness, if we can find it, will give us the encouragement we need to work with hope for this planet that we live in, and love.

“Then,” as our Shabbat prayers tell us, “all the trees of the forest will sing with joy.” And us along with them.

HALLELUYAH!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha