“Would that trees might speak
on behalf of all things that have roots,
and punish those that wrong them!
(J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion)

“All the trees seem to chat among themselves,
All the trees seem to chat with the created beings.”
(Genesis Raba 13:2)

There will always be tension between what we say and what we want to hear. In the complex art of the communication, Ortega y Gasset has taught us that when we speak, we always say more than we mean to say, and always less than we mean to (1). And as if that were not enough, the person on the other end always has the option of choosing, out of all the things that we say, which things to listen to, or even of choosing to listen to absolutely nothing of what we say.

Our tendency of not listening to certain kinds of messages possibly occurs most frequently with all things that transcend the linear, and which do not necessarily fit within classical schemas of communication. So in reality it is not a case of the trees not speaking—as Tolkien maintains—but of the fact that many of us do not usually pay attention to the messages that the trees and the world in general share with us.

In the Tradition of Israel, many trees have played a lead role in transmitting messages and teachings that transcend their own time and location. The idea behind this piece is to share some of the histories of those trees, and to recuperate several of these messages still relevant in our time.

The first tree, the first garden: force of law

Our botanic excursion inevitably must pass through the Garden of the Eden, the first space ever devoted to trees, as well as to plants and animals. “And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after its kind, and tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after its kind; and G_d saw that it was good. […] And G_d said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, on which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for food.” (Gen. 1:12, 29).

It was in this first context of paradise (a word that, not coincidentally, originally referred to a “garden” or “royal park”) that man settled down, only then to absent himself from the Divine Presence upon eating something he shouldn’t have. This first meal would likely revolve around the most important tree to be found in Eden. Its significance did not lie in its taste, but in the message it engraved in the first man and in subsequent generations. The message concerns nothing less than the instauration of the Law, which gives meaning and context to man’s actions: “And the Lord G_d commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden you may freely eat; But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat of it; for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” (Gen. 2:16-17).

The existence of this “You shall not (eat)” that manifests its force of law precisely when man disobeys and eats, will make Adam and Eve understand that they are not omnipotent and that one cannot do everything. The first tree in pre-history sets the stage for history to appear, in the moment the first man and the first woman accept their mortality and the profound difference that separates them from their Creator. In that moment of awareness the door to reencountering G_d is opened. In the words of Santiago Kovadloff:

“In contrast to G_d, man distinguishes himself—in the highest sense of the word; he opens himself up to experiencing the value of his particularity, and he affirms it. And in that self-comprehension man becomes an eminent reality, i.e., as a temporality reconciled with itself […] If there is any meeting with G_d at all, it is because no synonymy is possible between Him and man. It is the difference between One and another that gives rise to coincidence. Heterogeneity is what feeds proximity, and it reinforces it [...] When he gives up what is beyond his grasp—excellence, man reaches his catharsis and affirms his unfinished state without bitterness. As a creature, he grants himself access to the Creation and feels himself to be its participant. The heartbeat outside himself is revealed to and by him in differentiation.” (2)

The tree of knowledge of good and evil therefore confronts us with the eminent fact that we are limited, finite and mortal beings. We are beings that, in order to reach their potential, need to be aware of our own capabilities and of their necessity of tying them to legal conditions that regulate their daily affairs within the appropriate frameworks. When he knows the Law, man has acknowledged himself, and from that moment onwards the history of humanity begins to retrace its steps. At that point other trees will have to make sure we are given new messages.

Almond trees: Leadership, Rivalries Competition, and Destruction

There is an unforgettable post card from Israel that shows the almond trees along the road to Jerusalem in full bloom. Anyone fortunate enough to know that road will recall the white flowers that often adorn these trees in the weeks leading up to the beginning of spring.

In the Biblical text there are two stories that revolve around the almond tree, and many are the messages channeled by our tradition through this figure.

The first is found in Numbers 17, and tells of the divisions and conflicts that arose following the uprising of Korach and his followers. The text tells us of the difficult situation all the protagonists were in: G_d insists that Moses and his brother Aaron step away from the congregation, so He can destroy them and start a new project with a new people. Moses and Aaron refuse, but their leadership is checked by a people who not infrequently dream nostalgically of returning to the land where they were slaves.

In this complicated context we read: “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, Speak to the people of Israel, and take from every one of them a rod according to the house of their fathers, from all their princes according to the house of their fathers twelve rods; write every man’s name upon his rod. And you shall write Aaron’s name upon the rod of Levi; for one rod shall be for the chief of the house of their fathers. And you shall lay them up in the Tent of Meeting before the Testimony, where I will meet with you. And it shall come to pass, that the man’s rod, whom I shall choose, shall blossom; and I will make to cease from me the murmurings of the people of Israel, whereby they murmur against you” (Num. 17:16-20).

The rivalry for leadership of the people manifests itself through the metaphor of rods that blossom: The man whose rod—the symbol of leadership par excellence—bears fruit will be the one to guide the people across the dessert. The man whose rod bears fruit will know (along with the rest of the people) that G_d is on his side and will stand by him in his arduous task.

In this sense, it is perhaps not surprising that Aaron’s rod was chosen as the one to bear fruit, hence establishing for all to see that the sacerdotal family (along with Moses) would be the ones to lead the people: “And it came to pass, that on the next day Moses went into the Tent of Testimony; and, behold, the rod of Aaron for the house of Levi had budded, and brought forth buds, and bloomed blossoms, and yielded almonds.” (Num. 17:23).

But why did almonds bud on Aaron’s staff instead of another kind of flower or fruits? What is the message behind the choice of the almond tree? Rashi, a French commentator from the eleventh century, answers: “Almonds bud more quickly than any other nut. Hence, he who opposes the priesthood will be punished quickly.”
In this way, it would appear that the message of the almond tree lies in its precocious budding and maturity. In the case of the rivalry over the leadership, it appears that not only did Aaron turn out to be the most suitable person to occupy that place, and whose leadership prospered on account of his knowing how to create situations that bear specific fruits, but those who opposed him were punished without further delay.

Many years later, this idea of quick punishment would be incorporated in the words of a prophet, who, in this case, announced the destruction of Jerusalem: “Moreover the word of the Lord came to me, saying, Jeremiah, what do you see? And I said I see a rod of an almond tree. Then said the Lord to me, you have seen well; for I will hasten My word to perform it.” (Jer. 1:11-12).

Jeremiah sees these almond trees that were part of the landscape he was accustomed to, being from Anatot, to the south of Jerusalem. And these almond trees announce the alacrity with which punishment would descend upon the people and the city. Or, quoting the words of the Midrash:

“An almond tree takes twenty-one days to fully mature once it buds, which corresponds to the days between the sixteenth of Tamuz, when the wall was torn down, and the ninth of Av, when the Temple was destroyed.” (Ecclesiastes Raba 12:8)

The almond tree, and along with it the symbol of the speed with which punishment approaches and arrives, also speaks to us with its silence, calling the people, every one of us, to repent and realize how much has to be done and how soon in order make amends (if at all) for our wrongdoing. When almond tree is not seen, nor its voice heard, cities are constantly in danger of being destroyed, and with them, all they contain.

The carob tree: transcendence and continuity

Trees do not go unnoticed in the Talmud either, where they teach us a great many morals. One of these belongs to a beautiful story, whose main character is a mysterious figure called Honi haMeaguel, who, as per rabbinical tradition, was learned enough to make rain fall in times of drought. In one of the Talmudic treatises, Honi is taught a lesson in transcendence and continuity, as it happens by a man planting a carob tree:

“R. Johanan said: This righteous man [Honi] was throughout the whole of his life troubled about the meaning of the verse, ‘A Song of Ascents, when the Lord brought back those that returned to Zion, we were like unto them that dream.’ (Psalm 126) Is it possible for a man to dream continuously for seventy years? One day he was journeying on the road and he saw a man planting a carob tree; he asked him, How long does it take [for this tree] to bear fruit? The man replied: Seventy years. He then further asked him: Are you certain that you will live another seventy years? The man replied: I found [ready grown] carob trees in the world; as my forefathers planted these for me so I too plant these for my children. Honi sat down to have a meal and sleep overcame him. […] and he continued to sleep for seventy years. When he awoke he saw a man gathering the fruit of the carob tree and he asked him, Are you the man who planted the tree? The man replied: I am his grandson. Thereupon he exclaimed: It is clear that I slept for seventy years.” (Ta’anith 23a)

This story, which essentially seeks to elaborate on certain exegetic aspects of the psalm and whether it is possible (or not) to dream for seventy years, teaches us about continuity and transcendence through the figure of the man who with his profound wisdom cannot make rain fall but who understands that the world is only sustained by actions that go beyond the I that needs answers in the now. Unlike the life of constant consumption that gradually consumes us, as Zygmunt Bauman describes so well, the man in our story allows himself to rest on the fortitude of the carob tree in order to show Honi that we are to the extent that we do, and that our progress on earth depends significantly on what we can bequeath to those who come after us.

If, instead of planting for posterity, we were to direct our efforts solely at creating things to be used in the moment, there would be no possibility of projects that transcend us, and through which we can aspire to a realm of continuity. Thus, we see the juxtaposition of the speed of the almond tree that buds quickly, challenging us not to eternally rest on the laurels of inaction and indolence, alongside the slowness of the carob tree, helping us to think about far-reaching projects that can attain the perspective of generations working hand in hand on this kind of shared construction.

Conclusion

“Is the tree of the field a man?” the Torah (Deut. 20:19) asks in the context of the laws of war and the rules of carrying out a siege. In the original context, the answer to the question is no, and since there is no similarity between man and tree, man is prohibited from making excessive and thoughtless use of trees in times of war.

At a different level of interpretation, however, the answer could be yes, which is why the people of Israel in the Midrash have been compared with various kinds of trees, each referring to different attributes. At one point the people are like olive trees, since they will never be abandoned by G_d (Exodus Raba 36); elsewhere, they are like palm trees (Genesis Raba 41) and figs (Yalkut Shimoni Joshua 1), since nothing of these is wasted; lastly, a third text compares the people of Israel with the vine, since it grows with strength and vigor (Exodus Raba 44).

As we can see, trees still have much to teach us about attributes that can help us reflect positive values that complement each other in our day-to-day lives. It is in this sense that Heschel maintained that when man becomes aware of the world around him and when he can manifest his devotion to the mystery of the creation, both trees and man align themselves in harmony and together sing in honor of G_d. (3)

All things told, it would appear that our tradition seeks to teach us that only when we make ourselves capable of opening our eyes to the world around us, do we manage to return to that other fundamental tree residing in the Garden of the Eden, which still resides with us in the present day. The Torah, neuralgic point of our people and identity, has been described as being the Etz Chaim, as the tree of life located at the center of paradise. Perhaps the challenges that rests with us lies in being able to listen once and for all to those messages the trees have to share with us, and to cling to that tree of life that gives sense and horizon to the life each of us wishes to lead.

(1) J. Ortega y Gasset, What People Say: Towards a New Linguistics
(2) S. Kovadloff, El enigma del sufrimiento, pp. 66-67
(3) A. J. Heschel, Man is not Alone, pp. 39, 41