For me, the Tree of Life is a banyan tree.
If you went to see the Great Banyan Tree in India, you would come across a large, old-growth forest. After searching four acres of woods for the Great Banyan itself, you would find a sign informing you that this forest is not a forest at all, but a single, ancient tree. Every one of the (apparently) separate, fully-grown trunks is in fact a branch of the Great Banyan, which propagates through an elegant method called layering.
In layering, an extremity of a plant is bent back into the ground and buried. Once underground, it becomes the root for a new, genetically identical plant to grow. Above ground, the plants appear to be entirely disconnected, individual entities. However, if you could look below the ground, you would find that they share roots; they are, in fact, the same plant.
Sitting back on my dirt-stained knees after a few hours picking peppers in the sun, I had time and opportunity to consider the growth of plants. I was participating in a program called Adamah (earth), a three-month Jewish farming fellowship. Over those first few weeks, I had packed so much information about farming, Judaism, and the members of my new community into my head that there had been no space or time to assimilate all these new experiences.
So as I stretched out my sore knees, everything I had taken in began to coalesce. The previous night, I had learned the Hebrew word for layering: l’havrich. Yet despite the relevance of the botanical concept to my farm work, what occurred to me now was the second meaning of the word. Bet-reish-chet, the three Hebrew letters which make up its shoresh, or root, also spell baruch, meaning blessing.
As I bent forward to pick another pepper, I asked myself: how is a blessing like a banyan? I dug my fingers into the dirt beneath the tiny plant and felt the slight give of a ripe pepper. Suddenly, I felt a pang of overwhelming gratitude, almost violent in its intensity. The entire life and purpose of this plant was being given to me in the form of its fruit, and I was being entrusted with its guardianship. A plant is like an infant; a bond of unspoken love is formed between it and the caretaker upon whom it is wholly dependent. Yet it also possesses the maturity of extreme age, its suffering nearly silent, its generosity complete and devastating. Touching a plant is like I imagine it will be to have a child, and also like speaking to the ghost of a great-great-grandfather. It connects me firmly to this moment and place.
I had the sensation that my fingers, cool in the dirt, were taking root. Beneath the ground, I discovered that they were not my roots but banyan roots. When I went below the obvious surface of separateness, I was not only myself but part of the pepper plant and each of the hundreds of its fruits, of the other Adamah fellows and of the ground at that moment and the sky at that moment, and part of all plants, and all people, and all the ground and sky everywhere at every moment that has ever been or ever will be. The strong roots of Hashem run beneath us, birth us and sustain us and define us all, regardless of how separate we may seem. I felt small and huge, like a small single branch of a Great Tree, and I found myself on my knees, and this was praying, this was blessing.
That was how I learned the art of blessing. Until that moment, I had approached Judaism from an intellectual, classroom standpoint only. Yet when I bent my knees to do physical work, I learned how to spiritually kneel down. I discovered that I have to immerse myself physically in the greater spiritual concept before stepping back and applying my rational mind. Thus, I cannot divorce my Jewish identity from my relationship with the earth. Spirituality and physicality, like so many other things, only appear separate. As such, sustainability in my lifestyle is a form of prayer. Ethical eating is a form of kashrut. Physical healing of the earth is tikkun olam. And, when I go to synagogue to pray, I am feeding something in my body and the earth as well as in my spirit. For me, being a Jew means I will no longer miss the Tree for the forest.