Earth Etude for 10 Elul

Return to the Land of Your Soul

by Adina Allen

In Genesis we read that God places Adam in the garden “to serve it and to guard it.” In the rabbinic imagination there are many possibilities for what this description could mean. It could mean that the first human was given the practical task of keeping the garden watered so that plants would grow, or perhaps of protecting the vegetation of the garden by keeping the animals out of it. However I think there may be another, more thrilling motive to explore in imagining why this task is the task first given to human beings.

Anyone who has had the privilege to tend a garden through all the seasons knows the magic that can be found in this enterprise. Being connected to a piece of land over a period of time gives us constant opportunities for noticing, not just the big, beautiful changes like bursts of colors when the perennials pop up for the first time, but the subtle day to day or even hour to hour changes of seedlings growing, working their way up through the soil, unfurling tender green leaves and pulsing down grounding white roots. Tending a garden can helps us to learn the value of patience, of waiting and watching and letting things happen in their own natural time.

Over the cycle of the year the garden teaches us to understand that change and growth are constantly happening. Even in the bitter cold of winter, under mounds if ice and snow, garlic that is planted in the fall takes root and flourishes under ground, hidden from our watching eyes. In the spring, we see the bright stalks of green shooting out from the soil, but the seeds were alive and growing before any of that came to the surface. Tending a garden gives us the opportunity to be in contact with the inspiring strength and humbling fragility of life, and can help us to understand our place in the nature.

In reading this phrase “to serve it and to guard it,” we can ask what, exactly, are human beings meant to be serving and guarding? While the obvious answer, of course, is the garden, I think that there is another possibility. Through the physical act of gardening, we are not only tending the land, but we are tending ourselves. There is an intrinsic relationship between cultivating the soil and cultivating the self. As we work on transforming the earth on behalf of plants, we are, ourselves transformed. Perhaps what we are meant to be serving and guarding is not only the garden, but also the nefesh, the soul.

This High Holy Day season may we have the courage and strength to till and to tend our own souls. May we clear away the weeds that no longer serve us, may we have patience as the seeds within us germinate, and may this work cause the garden within us to flourish.

Adina Allen is a fourth year rabbinical student in Hebrew College's transdenominational program in Boston and a Wexner Graduate Fellow. The is the rabbinic intern at Adamah: The Jewish Environmental Fellowship, Adina's passion lies at the intersection between Judaism, ecology, and creativity. Prior to rabbinical school Adina was the Assistant Editor of Tikkun magazine. She has been a contributing scholar to the interfaith blog State of Formation for the past three years. In her free time Adina loves to ferment foods, bake bread, run around with her dog Barley, and stand on her head. More of her work can be read at www.adinaallen.com.

Earth Etude for 5 Elul

Personal Reflections for Elul: Mindful Turning to the Path of Love

Rabbi Jeff Foust

For me, the key to the entire Jewish New Year period comes in the month of Elul, the Hebrew month which precedes Rosh HaShanah. I often have heard people complaining about being weighed down by all the emphasis during the holiday on the mistakes and wrong doings in our lives that we need to repair. Elul reminds us that the very foundation for the spiritual work that we do at this time of year is returning (in Hebrew Teshuvah) to a loving relationship with the Source of all life, with each other, with our own higher selves, and with the ecology of our earth household. Feeling this love provides me with both the support and the motivation to reciprocate the love and to work through and resolve anything that’s getting in the way of that loving relationship. Then even if someone else is still unable to open their hearts, at least my heart can be open.

This emphasis on love is at the very center of the meaning of Elul, which comes from its initials which point to a passage from the Biblical Book, the Song of Songs: Ani L’dodi V’dodi Li/ I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me.”

Becoming aligned and feeling at one in love is also a central part of our ritual of blowing the Shofar, which is done every weekday morning in Elul. We begin and end with the call of Tekiah, the single blast of the shofar, which powerfully resonates with our underlying oneness in love, and with the reality of love and reconciliation always being there for us if we only open our hearts to it. The other two broken blasts of the Shofar, the Shvarim and the Teruah, represent the broken places in our lives, and are bookended and held in love, while with the support of the One Who is the Source of all life, love, and blessing, we work on our Teshuvah, our return to living in loving relationship.

Rabbi Jeff Foust is Jewish Adviser and member of the Spiritual Life Center at Bentley University. He is a student and teacher of Kabbalah (embodied spirituality) emphasizing the integration of the spiritual, intellectual, emotional, and material aspects of our lives. He is also active in building positive interfaith relations, in pastoral care and counseling, leading creative services and lifecycle events, and teaching a wide variety of subjects  such as Profits and Prophets, Biblical Pathfinders; Davenology (How to Make Prayer Real); Kabbalah, meditation, and creative movement.

For anyone interested in an opportunity to taste first hand some of the spiritual depth of this Elul experience of Tehshuvah through love, including the shofar blowing, Jeff will be leading a free global satsang guided meditation and discussion teleconference on September 6/ 19 Elul at 11:30 AM Eastern Daylight time. The hosts for the Satsang/Higher Knowing teleconference are  Boulder’s Humanities Team and Portland Oregon’s Rev. Anakha Coman. Connection details will be posted at www.rabbijeffreyfoust.com. 

Earth Etude for 3 Elul

Enfold me, Earth

By Carol Reiman

Enfold me, earth,
Entwine your thick limbs
With mine;
Lift me up above
Your blushing beauty,
Opening me to your new day.

Show me how to know you
As we whisper in each other's ear--
Willow rustle,
Sizzling spray upon the sand;
How I meant to help,
How I hurt you,
How we can heal
In easy forgiveness,
How I can keep you as
You keep me--whole.

Dance in freedom,
Moving together,
None to crowd out
Both our voices--yours and mine--
Gulls' cry, sudden thunder;
Rushing torrents, oaks riven
Into fresh surfaces
For new growth.

Groom me to your model,
Shaker of change,
Mentor of shores that welcome
Both fresh and salt;
Teach me to leave
My shell behind,
For other use
As home for hermit crab.

Reach for fresh tastes,
Those not yet sampled;
Urge your passion onward,
Twist, turn, recombine.
Yet hold me, earth,
In your warm embrace,
As I seek to reach
The Consciousness
Of Creation
In the New Year.

Carol Reiman's past year has been one of exceptionally active change and adjustment in the Boston Metro area.

Earth Etude for 2 Elul

The Earth Is Crying Out in Pain

by Rabbi Katy Z. Allen

“The Earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof.” (Ps. 24:1)

The Earth is crying out in pain. Yet, its beauty and mystery shine forth, ever ready to calm us, inspire us, strengthen us, and remind us of our smallness in Creation. We walk in the woods and find wonder in the spring wildflowers. Eagerly we bite into the delicious bounty of the late summer harvest. In awe we gain inspiration from the night sky, a sudden and unexpected rainbow, a brilliant sunset.

The Earth is crying out in pain. Yet, we climb in our cars and drive to the mall, spewing noxious chemicals into the air as we go. We buy what we need and what we want, gobbling up the Earth’s limited resources, entering eagerly or reluctantly into our consumer culture that tells us that this object will make us happier. We turn on the heat in the winter and the air conditioning in summer, needing, wanting to be comfortable.

The Earth is crying out in pain. Day after day, images flash across our TV and computer screens of floods and fires and famine and drought and war. We hear catastrophic predictions of the impact of climate change on our planet. Consciously or not, fear grips us. We wish it wouldn’t be so. We feel helpless.

The Rule of Context and its subset the Broken Windows Theory: Our microenvironment – the immediate context in which we find ourselves and the peer group in which we stand – has a profound influence on how we behave. If the subway station is dirty and urine soaked and the windows of nearby abandoned buildings are broken, no matter how upstanding we consider ourselves, we are more inclined to litter, to evade paying our fares, and even to commit a crime.

Bystander Syndrome: If we collapse of a heart attack in a public place we are more likely to get help if just one person is nearby than if there are one hundred. Most will walk by us. After one person has stopped to help, only then are others also likely to stop.

The Earth is crying out in pain.

How can we fix the Earth’s “broken windows” and fill its “abandoned buildings” so that we stop committing crimes against it? How do we find the courage to be the first to stop and help the fallen stranger, our planet?

The Earth is crying out in pain.

As we engage in teshuvah, as we re-turn, as we turn again and again and again toward all that is holy in life, let us hear the Earth’s cry and not be afraid. Let us band together with our neighbors to transition to a more resilient and gentler society. Let us find the courage and the strength to stop rushing and to extend a helping hand to the broken Earth. Let us remember that although we may not be guilty, we are responsible. Let us take heart with the knowledge that every journey begins with the first step. Let us know in our hearts that we are not alone.

“The Earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof” (Ps. 24:1)

Rabbi Katy Z. Allen lives in Wayland, MA. She is a chaplain at the Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, MA, and the founder and leader of Ma'yan Tikvah - A Wellspring of Hope, a congregation without walls that holds services outdoors all year round. Through the Nature Chaplaincy Program of Ma'yan Tikvah, she leads interfaith programs connecting nature and spirituality.

Earth Etudes for Elul 5772

Rosh Chodesh for the month of Elul, 5772, lasts for two days. Saturday is the last day of the month of Av and Sunday is the first day of the month of Elul, and together they mark the beginning of a month-long period of reflection as we travel through the remaining days leading up to Rosh HaShanah, the New Year.

Summer is still with us, and the hot, humid days of August often carry thunderstorms, but already the nights are coming earlier. The warm days and the early evenings convey a sense of urgency, for we know that the cooler days of autumn are not far away. As we enjoy these days outdoors, we also know that the call of the shofar not far away. It is time to begin to prepare, to unpack, unearth, and explore, to be ready to engage with the One on the holiest days of the year. It is time for teshuvah, re-turn, return to the One, the Mystery, the Spirit.

To help us on this journey, we at Ma’yan Tikvah have again gathered from among ourselves and our friends a series of reflections for the month of Elul, divrei Earth – teachings that connect Earth and Torah – which we call “Earth Etudes for Elul.” Through the coming weeks, we will be posting Etudes on selected days of the month of Elul.

We invite you to join us for our occasional reflections on the journey through Elul.

Parshat Pinchas - How Much Strawberry Shortcake Should I Eat?

by 

Rabbi Katy Z. Allen

This week's Torah portion, Pinchas, contains instructions about how the Israelites are to divide up of the land once they arrive: "The Lord spoke to Moses, saying,  'Divide the land among the tribes, as an inheritance according to the number of the names: with larger groups increase the share, with smaller groups decrease the share. Each is to receive its share according to its enrollment.'" (Num. 26:52-54). The land is to be divided up among the tribes, and it must be done fairly. It matters not only what is done, but how it is done.

The Chasidic Rabbi Zadok HaKohen Rabinowitz, known as Pri Tzadik, commented on a passage from the Talmud that was discussing that Jacob remained alone by the river without his family to remain with certain possessions, and he says, "That which is not created for this specific person is like stolen property when they are in possession of it, and thus [the righteous are careful] not to take possession of it." When we take that which is not due to us, we are stealing! But, that which is ours, which comes to us from G!d, the Pri Tzadik (quoting earlier rebbes), says that we have an obligation to appreciate it: "a righteous person is obligated to enjoy an object which is fitting for them even if it means risking their life."*

This passage makes me think about eating (though I could also think about how much gas or electricity I use or how many clothes I own, or...). Jewish tradition teaches us to recite a blessing before we eat and again after we eat, acknowledging the holiness of the food, acknowledging G!d's role in putting food onto our plates. We acknowledge that G!d brings forth bread from the Earth, that G!d is the creator of the fruit of the earth and of the tree and of all kinds of sustenance, or that all is according to G!d's word. But what if we eat too much, not just satisfying our appetite, but continuing to eat, filling our bellies to overflowing? What if we eat too fast and gobble it down, rather than savoring it and appreciating each bite? What if we enjoy our food so much that we eat more than our share?

First, we haven't divided - not the land, but the fruit of the land, fairly, larger groups having a larger share and smaller groups a smaller share. Instead, as a small group of the wealthiest on the planet, we have taken a large share. And, according to Pri Tzadik, we are stealing! I can think of many times when I have gotten up from a meal at a restaurant or a dinner of something I really like (strawberry shortcake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream being the most recent example) and have said to myself, I ate too much. I have eaten more than my share, and so, following the Pri Tzadit, I have stolen. I have stolen by taxing the Earth too much, using resources of water and soil and fossil fuels that were not my allotted portion. I have stolen by not properly appreciating the portion that is due to me, instead feeling that it is too little and that G!d should give me more. I have stolen by not leaving some of that food in the store or at the farm stand for someone else to have.

Culturally, we have a tendency to always have more food at a simcha (joyous event) than we need, perhaps carried over from a time when eating was one of the few enjoyments open to us. But Margaret Atwood, in her poem, "The Moment," reminds us that, as the Psalmist says, "The Earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof." (Ps. 24:1) "The moment when, after many years / of hard work and a long voyage / you stand in the centre of your room, / house, half-acre, square mile, island, country / knowing at last how you got there / and say, I own this, // is the same moment when the trees unloose / their soft arms from around you, / the birds take back their language, / the cliffs fissure and collapse, / the air moves back from you like a wave / and you can't breathe. / No, they whisper. You own nothing. / You were a visitor, time after time / climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. / We never belonged to you. / You never found us. / It was always the other way round."

When I eat too much, I am in essence saying, "I own this," about something I do not really need. I am taking more than my share. I am stealing.

And so, I think of words I wrote at another time when eating too much was on my mind, and I try to remember as I eat that both how I eat and how much I eat are acts with the potential for greediness and distance from G!d, or for holiness and connection to the Divine:

יהי רצון ה' אלהינו, מלך העולם, שעם כל נגיסה מהאוכל שלפנינו נחשוב עליך ועל כל ברייותיך שאין להם די לאכול. תעזרנו בבקשה לאכול רק מה שאנחנו צריכים כדי להיות שבעים ולא יותר, לאכול לאט ולא למהר, ולהרגיש אותך בתוכנו ומסביבנו בכל עת ובכל שעה. ברוך אתה ה', מקור הכל

May it be your will Adonai our G!d, Sovereign of the Universe, that with every bite of the food before us we think of you and of all of your creatures that do not have enough to eat. Help us, please, to eat only what we need in order to be satisfied and not more, to eat slowly and not quickly, and to feel you within us and around us at every season and at every moment. Blessed are you Adonai, the Source of all.

Amen.

*This material is posted as part of Jewcology’s “Year of Jewish Learning on the Environment,” in partnership with Canfei Nesharim.  Learn more at http://www.jewcology.com/content/view/Year-of-Jewish-Learning-on-the-Environment. 

To the Stars and Back - Our Quest for Connection / Part 7 of 7

If I am to authentically hang on to my pluralism, if I want to be true to my belief that we should each be allowed our beliefs, I must allow you to believe what you want, even if you want me to believe something else. I must remember that it is what we do with our beliefs that makes a difference in the world. In some important way, it doesn’t really matter what we believe, whether in G!d or in stardust, or in fairies. We all come from the same place, we all came into being on this planet. We have the same carbon and hydrogen atoms in each of us as in the stars and the crust of the Earth. We all are born and we all die. What does matter is what we do and what we say. Our words and our actions have impact. And there will be points on which we will never agree, for if you kill me, it is because it is OK with you, but if I kill you, it surely will only be OK with me.

And so, let us look to the Big Picture and to the details. Let us see the world through an ecological lens – the lens of relationships among organisms and their environment.[1] Let us figure out how to be Zusya, how to be ourselves. Let us ask ourselves: Who am I? What are my gifts? What is unique about me? What is universal? What is my relationship to my environment? How am I separate? How am I connected?

When I look up at the stars, I know that I am small. I know that the same stars shine above the heads of 7 million other people. I know that the Universe goes on and on and on for such a great time and distance that it feels infinite even if it is not. I know that we were both born. I know that we both will die. I know that you and I are more similar than we are different. I know that I want to choose, each and every day, to hold love in my heart and not hate. I know that the world is good.

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[1] Lappe, p. 15.

To the Stars and Back - Our Quest for Connection / Part 6 of 7

Another aspect of our connectedness is that we share with each other our need for each other. We can try to live “off the grid,” but it is not really in our genes to do so. Like those ants, we are social creatures. To live totally independently of all other human beings is not how we are programmed, and it takes a yeomen effort to make it happen. Just going to live in the woods isn’t truly getting away from others, not if we take even the smallest item with us or at any point in our seclusion need something we cannot find in the woods around us, for surely someone else helped to make the item. And if we make an item ourselves, did we learn to do so totally by ourselves, or are we bringing learning with us, learning that came from another member of our species?

Parker Palmer speaks of the need “to hold solitude and community together as true paradox…Solitude … means never living apart from one’s self. It is not about the absence of other people—it is about being fully present to ourselves, whether or not we are with others. Community … means never losing the awareness that we are connected to each other. It is not about the presence of other people—it is about being fully open to the reality of relationship, whether or not we are alone.”[1] Going out into the woods to live alone may be about deep listening, but it may also be about the solitude that is about the absence of people. It is a way to try to create stringent boundaries between ourselves and all other people. To set ourselves apart.

We all have and we all need boundaries. Our skin is our first boundary. Andrea Jones, in her essay about skin, begins with disconnection: “skin is the membrane that distinguishes self from world. Inside its margins: you. Beyond its flexy surface: everything else.” But, she ends with connection: “Skin differentiates but does not isolate…[it] does not hold the universe at bay. Instead it marks the seam that joins your existence to everything else.”[2] Or, in the words of Francis Moore Lappe, “Separateness is…the illusion…Mutually created and every changing – that is the reality.”[3] The reality of solitude that is connection to ourselves and community that is the awareness of connection to others – these are the details and the Big Picture, or perhaps the Big Picture and the details, or, most likely, both.

In the same way that our skin both separates us and connects us, religion is also a paradox of connection and disconnection. It helps us to connect to those who share a similar spiritual pathway, but it can disconnect us from those who are different – to the point that we may wage war on each other. So, too, our language, our culture, our foods, and our neighborhoods, both connect us and disconnect us. But one of the amazing gifts of being human is that we can learn new languages, we can open our minds to differences in cultures, we can try new foods, and we can travel out of our neighborhoods. So, too, can we reach across the boundaries of faith. Some of the most powerful moments of prayer I have experienced have been with people of different faith traditions, at the moments when together in letting go, we have touched a deep common well of strength and courage and connection.

Places such as religious institutions, have skin, too, usually known as walls. I went to a pluralistic rabbinical and cantorial seminary. At the Academy for Jewish Religion, we share our common connection to Judaism, but we practice our religion in many ways, and as we study together and struggle to find ways to gather in prayer that will meet all of our needs, we name and acknowledge that fact. And yet, when we leave this learning environment and go out to serve in the world, there are limits to the ways in which we can be pluralistic. In our synagogues and other institutions, we build a community, we make decisions, for we can’t do everything, and our decisions determine who we are. Our communities have boundaries that define who and what they are and how they do things. They have a skin that distinguishes them from the rest of the world. The question becomes, does an institution or a community use its skin to isolate itself, or to join itself to all that is around it?

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[1] Palmer, Parker, A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, 2009, Wiley and Sons, p. 55.

[2] Jones, Andrea, “Identity’s Edge,” Orion Magazine, January-February, 2007.

[3] Lappe, Francis Moore, EcoMind: Changing the Way We Think, to Create the World We Want, Nation Books, 2011, p. 16.

To the Stars and Back - Our Quest for Connection / Part 5 of 7

For each one of us, our vision or Big Picture is personal and unique, based on our individual life circumstances and our sense of who we are as a human being. And yet, for all of us, our universal realities intersect. We are all human beings, and like other organisms, we need food, water, air, and a place to lay our bodies down to sleep – even if that place is the street. A baby who is not sufficiently held and cared for – even if it has enough food and water – may fail to develop and gain weight due to a syndrome known as “failure to thrive.” Unlike most other creatures, in order to thrive, we human beings need some sense of love, hope, meaning, and trust. How these terms translate into a metalanguage that can be understood by all humans, I do not know. And just because we need love, hope, meaning, and trust, does not mean that we get them, just as we all do not get a livable home and enough to eat. But we are not ants and we are not maple trees and we are not fungi. We are human beings, with minds and with emotions, and our needs include those not easily translatable from language to language. And yet, like the ants and the maple trees and the fungi, we all share the Earth on which we live. Even as we fly off into space, we cannot get away from our connection to the planet upon which we evolved. It is home. It is our home. It is home for all of us, all 7 billion of us.

An important aspect of scientific research is the need to be objective. I have a friend who is studying science in a way that acknowledges the limits of our ability to do so. We can try to be objective. We can try really hard, and with some things, such as our concrete measurements, we can succeed. But we are governed not only by “seeing is believing,” but also by “believing is seeing.” Behind every measurement lie our beliefs. Behind every measurement is the decision of which measurement to take, and that decision – like all of our other decisions – is a very personal one, impacted by our own personal story of who we are and how we have gotten to this point in life. It is impacted by our family and our community, by our culture, our religion or lack there of, our race, our genes, our birthplace – physical, economic, and social. And, I would posit, our decisions are impacted by our ability or lack of ability to trust the unknown/Unknown and the unknowable/Unknowable.

Life events change us, and can change how we see the world. Trauma – a radical change in our immediate world – tends to change us. We want to keep ourselves safe. Sometimes we do it through anger, sometimes through escape into tightly knit communities, sometimes by embracing peace and serenity. We make choices. We make decisions. We make decisions about what to believe and what to do. And then, our decisions have impact.

To the Stars and Back - Our Quest for Connection / Part 4 of 7

Related to whether or not to engage with others and with the world is the matter of how we engage. Part of a Talmudic sequence of stories related to seeking forgiveness offers some options. “When a certain person injured Rabbi Zera, [Rabbi Zera] would repeatedly pass before him and invite himself into his presence, so that the injurer would come and appease him.” Moshe Halbertal identifies Rabbi Zera’s graceful entrance into the presence of one who had injured him as an action worthy of emulation that created the conditions in which it was possible for the injurer to approach him and ask for forgiveness in a way in which no one was humiliated.[1]

In the story that follows, Rav, on the day before Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement, at the eleventh hour for seeking forgiveness, goes to see a butcher who had slighted him. Rav’s colleague expresses concern that Rav is going to kill the butcher, and, in fact, the butcher rejects Rav’s presence, a supernatural event occurs, and the butcher dies. Halbertal points out that Rav’s strident intrusion when the clock is ticking for forgiveness is an act of aggression, influenced more, perhaps, by Rav’s need to be forgiven, than the butcher’s need to forgive. Rav got stuck in the details and forgot to see the Big Picture. He chose to engage, but with anger and aggression rather than humility and grace.

Let us ask ourselves, “Do I approach others with humility and love or do I approach with hurt, aggression, and anger?” The answer, as these stories show, makes all the difference in the world. Tenzin Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, teaches that, “While it is true that anger brings extra energy…[w]e cannot be sure whether its result will be positive or negative. This is because anger eclipses the best part of our brain: its rationality. So the energy of anger is almost always unreliable. It can cause an immense amount of destructive, unfortunate behavior.”[2] Gyatso posits that anger and hatred are always harmful, they are our real enemies, and we should find ways to cherish and develop passion and love. Holding a vision or a sense of our place in a bigger picture can help us to open our hearts and minds and souls, to be less afraid and less angry, and to feel more love and compassion. As we go through our days, it can be helpful to know how to hold our hand at arm’s length before us and, as we gaze at our hand, be able to shift our focus from the hand to the room beyond and back again, and to know when the focus is best on the hand, and when it is best on the view beyond to the Big Picture.

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[1] “At the Threshold of Forgiveness: A Study of Law and Narrative in the Talmud,” by Moshe Halbertal, Jewish Review of Books, No. 7, Fall 2011.

[2] “Compassion and the Individual,” by His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet, http://www.dalailama.com/messages/compassion.