Originally Published by ZEEK.

Humanity’s current alienation from nature is unprecedented. As Wendell Berry explained in his seminal 1977 work The Unsettling of America, we are confronted with a “crisis of culture,” reflected in a “crisis of agriculture,” rooted in the simple fact that modern people have become disconnected from nature and the natural cycles we depend upon for survival. In less than fifty years, modern Western culture – particularly in the United States – has shifted from relying on small family farms that dotted the countryside to relying on an industrial food system run by massive corporate farms.

This rift from our food source is mirrored in our everyday relationship to nature. Richard Louv explains in his recent work, Last Child in the Woods: Saving our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder, that “our society is teaching young people to avoid direct experience in nature,” at the cost of mental, spiritual and physical health. Citing research that the rise in Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), obesity, and autism could be directly related to what he calls nature-deficit disorder, Louv concludes that “[t]ime in nature is not leisure time; it’s an essential investment in our children’s health (and also, by the way, in our own)”. (Louv p.120).

In my personal spiritual journey, I have found Louv’s conclusion to be profoundly true – that through deep nature connection, I have been able to heal and find clarity in my personal life. I see an expressed need for a return to nature in others as well. Disconnection from nature fuels increased spiritual seeking and an urgent desire to find meaningful community.

As a disproportionately urbanized people, Jews exemplify the modern trend toward nature-disconnection. We are, however, also uniquely situated to reclaim a cultural heritage that will guide us back into a deep relationship with nature. We think of Judaism as an urban religion, but our 3,000 year-old tradition is deeply rooted in an ancient aboriginal mindset and way of being that is inherently connected to Creation. As Rabbi Gershon Winkler explains in Magic of the Ordinary, “in its aboriginal form Jewish spirituality has less to do with religion that it does with direct, uninhibited experience with Creator through Creation.” (p. 11). Winkler further explains, “What was once a holistic spirit path that encompassed all the nuances and dynamics of the spirituality of earth and body ha[s] over the centuries mutated into a parochial focus on religion as an institution by itself.” (p. 12). At its core, Rabbi Winkler teaches, Judaism “emphasizes the sacredness of the earth, and that all organisms, even stars and planets, are imbued by the Creator with a divine consciousness.” (p. 7).

Until the very recent establishment of the State of Israel, the greater part of the Jewish people have been cut off from an enduring land connection for the better part of the last two thousand years. Given the state of nature disconnection we experience in modern life, it makes sense that “aboriginal” Jewishness is dormant today. Yet, we need look no further than our Torah portions, prayers, and yearly holiday cycle to see that our earth-based traditions are within easy reach.

The Torah teaches that the human (Adam) is made of the earth (Adamah). (Genesis 2:7). In our Creation story, after everything in nature but Adam has been created, G-d turns to Creation that came before Adam and proclaims: “Let us make Adam in our image, after our likeness.” (Genesis 1:26). Strikingly, this is the only moment in the Torah where G-d speaks in the first person plural (“we”), signaling a critical aspect of the Creation story. As the 17th Century Rabbi Cordovero explains, “in creating the human, G-d incorporated all of the attributes of all the animals and plants and minerals and so on that had been created up to this point. In each of us, then, are the attributes and powers of all the creatures of the earth.” (Cordovero, Shi’ur HaKomah, Torah, chpt. 4.). Fundamentally, our tradition teaches that we are inextricably connected to and reflected by nature. To disconnect from nature is to disconnect from ourselves.

Our prayers provide constant reminders of our essential nature-connection. In the psalms, we are reminded that not only humans, but all of Creation relates to and praises G-d. (Psalm 145:10 – “All your creations praise you”; Psalsm 148 – “Praise the Creator sun and moon, all bright stars … mountains and hills, fruit trees and cedars, wild and tamed beasts, creeping things and winged birds”; Psalm 150:6 “All souls praise G-d”).

The Shema, the central Jewish prayer that teaches us to listen, teaches that G-d is the infinite, unifying force of all things in Creation (“G-d is One”) and directs us to love G-d with all of our heart, soul and might. (Deuteronomy 6:4-9). The subsequent verses of the Shema demonstrate how inextricably connected we are to Creation and the consequences of our disconnection. If we follow the path of love outlined by the Shema, we are taught rain will nourish our grain for bread, grapes for wine, and grass for our cows; but if we go astray and worship ‘alien gods,’ the rain will dry up, and trouble will follow. (Deuteronomy 11:13-17). While many recoil from this last portion as an idle threat of a vengeful, paternal G-d, given today’s reality of global climate change and Wall Street gone awry, we may understand this not as an irrelevant edict but as ancient wisdom and warning that articulates an intricate relationship of action and consequence within an ecology more tightly woven than we currently understand; one which we might heed through a shift in our lives and culture.

The Jewish tradition is provides us with a built-in operating system that connects us to the earth by connecting us to the cycles of nature. Rabbi Jill Hammer explains, “The cycle of the Jewish year, like many calendrical cycles, takes note of and weaves itself into the natural seasons: Passover falling in the spring, the new year of Rosh Hashanah in the autumn, Chanukah in the winter, and so forth. One of the most important ways of tying the earth to the spirit is to fully celebrate the holidays as they pertain to the seasons and cycles of the earth.” (Tel Shemesh, telshemesh.org/eight/#n1).

As we deepen our understanding of how Judaism today relates to our aboriginal roots, we will gain more understanding of how to relate our modern traditions to our ancient earth-connected ways. For example, the traditional period between the 17th of Tammuz and Tisha B’av, where we mourn the destruction of the Temple, is based on a more ancient tradition. At the beginning of the summer solstice, at the onset of killing summer heat and drought, our Babylonian ancestors annually mourned the death of the “life-death-rebirth” deity Tammuz (namesake of the month Tammuz) (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tammuz_%28deity%29). This is not to suggest that we should return to worshiping Sumerian gods, but that we can reconnect to our ancient roots to more deeply understand our current cyclical daily, monthly and yearly practices as they relate to the natural world around us.

Returning to earth-based roots of Judaism is the goal of Wilderness Torah (www.wildernesstorah.org), which I co-founded and co-direct. With the mission to awaken and celebrate the earth-based traditions of Judaism to nourish the connections between self, community, earth, and Spirit, Wilderness Torah creates experiences aligned with the cycles of nature and the cycles of our lives. Through an annual cycle of land-based pilgrimage festivals, one of its primary program areas, Wilderness Torah celebrates holidays in their original context. At the Sukkot on the Farm Festival, for example, multi-generational community gathers on a local, organic farm for 4 days to immerse in the essence of the harvest holiday, while renewing the ancient water libation ritual performed in Temple times (www.eberlatlivinglab.org/sukkot-waterrain-ritual), to awaken our consciousness to the central role of water in our agricultural cycle and our lives.

When I asked Tali Weinberg, a friend, colleague and former farm manager for the Adamah farm at the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center, why we need to reintegrate our earth-based roots back into Judaism, she explained: “When humans are disconnected from the earth, we are not only separated from an intimate knowledge of the sources of our food, medicine, shelter, and all the things we need to sustain our lives, we are separated from our sense of human identity. This is equally true for Jews with regard to an authentic sense of Jewish identity. Jews cannot know their Jewish selves without this connection.” At a time when concern for the environment and Jewish identity are both at all time highs, there is no better time to reclaim and awaken our aboriginal, earth-based ways as a means toward strengthening the Jewish tent today and inspiring the next generations of Jews to truly understand what it means to embark on Tikkun Olam.

On April 18, my co-steering committee member Sylvia Frankel and I were invited to speak to the congregation of St. Andrew Lutheran Church in Beaverton, Oregon, a nearby city most famous for being the home of Nike. It was an opportunity to address the congregation for one of a series of learning and study sessions; this one was called Food and Spirituality from a Jewish Perspective.

About 25 people attended, including Lead Pastor Mark Brocker and Associate Pastor Robyn Hartwig, and members of the St. Andrew Green Team, a group of congregants who work on sustainability issues within the St. Andrew community.

My co-presenter Sylvia is a Professor of Jewish Studies at Lewis & Clark College and also teaches at the Florence Melton Adult Mini-School in Portland. She spoke first, talking about the ancient Biblical connections between Jews, the land, and food, as well as the practice of gleaning. I talked about social justice in Jewish faith and practice, and how that relates to food, fair treatment of farm workers, and environmental stewardship as a Jewish ethic.

The group was very receptive, commenting on aspects of our talks, and asking provocative questions, including how to preserve the dignity of poor people in need. I mentioned Maimonides‘ eight levels of charity, the highest form of which is self-empowerment of the poor.

This was a great opportunity to do interfaith community engagement; both Sylvia and I really enjoyed the interaction and hope we can participate in other interfaith discussions about ethical and sustainable food. We’d like to thank Ecumenical Ministries of Oregon, an interfaith nonprofit based in Portland, which hosted an Earth Care Summit in February, where we met members of the St. Andrew community.

Anyone else have similar experiences, within a Hazon CSA or otherwise? Please share!

Listen to our new PODCAST, Episode 5 by clicking here!

Co-Founder Julie Wolk sits down with me on the latest Hazon Podcast. Listen to what Wilderness Torah is doing to revitalize the American Jewish Community. Also, don’t forget you can subscribe on iTunes by searching “Hazon”.

Also, don’t forget that it is Earth Day this week, so check out all the options going on in your area. For a good listing, check this website out

They have a map where you can choose where you live and find out what is going on near you!

And finally, for those in the New York area, come see “Tapped: The Movie,” a documentary about water usage and safety in America. It is screening at 5 pm at the Cowin Center at Columbia University (between 120 and 121 streets on Broadway). If you are one of the first 100 people to arrive at 4 pm, you can exchange a plastic bottle for a FREE Klean Kanteen! So look into your recycling bin and grab a plastic bottle. If you come after the first 100 people, you will get a great discount on Klean Kanteen.

The month Nisan begins tonight and with it, so many associations. Last year, I wrote about the practice of refraining from eating Matzah from Rosh Hodesh Nisan (i.e. tonight) until Passover. Most people make, if any, the association of dreaded Pesach cleaning and preparation. I’ll be writing some about that in a few days or next week, God willing, but for now, let’s stick to things connected specifically to Rosh Hodesh Nisan.

One association fewer people make is that Birkat haIlanot, the blessing over blooming trees, is typically said in the month of Nisan:

ברוך אתה ה” אלוהינו מלך העולם שלא חיסר בעולמו כלום וברא בו בריות טובות ואילנות טובות ליהנות בהם בני אדם

Barukh Atah Adonai Eloheynu Melekh haOlam, sh’lo hisar b’Olamo kloom, uvara vo b’riyot tovot v’eelanot tovot lehanot ba-hem b’ney adahm

Blessed are you, Hashem our God, King of the universe, for nothing is lacking in His universe, and He created good creatures and good trees in it so that people can enjoy them.

( * There are a few variations of the blessing. This is the way it appears in the Shulhan Arukh. I suppose if you’re learning this for the first time, you’re learning it from me; say it the way you were taught it.)

The occurrence and wording of the blessing make sense: we tend to bless God for those things that benefit us and happen at specific times (think holidays.) We also make blessings on anything enjoyable (Birkhot haNehenin.) But there is more to this practice than simply making the blessing. First, you have to see the tree. It is not enough to know that this is when it will happen or to hear that someone else saw it. Second, it is the blossom or flower of the tree that you must see. Third, we say the blessing only when we see this happen to/on a tree that produces edible fruit. Finally, each person says this blessing only once per year, upon seeing such a bloom for the first time.

Among the purpose of blessings is to compel us to see the beautiful in the ordinary and in the extraordinary and to appreciate these as gifts from God. Birkat haIlanot has a particularly beautiful way of doing this. “One who goes out,” says the Shulhan Arukh, “in the days of Nisan and sees trees from which a flower is blossoming, says [the above blessing.]” (OH 226:1) Truthfully, the later scholars tell us, the blessing is not connected only to this month, but that this is the time when trees typically bloom in warmer countries (the Shulhan Arukh was probably compiled in Tz’fat and was based on material “the Mehaber” previously compiled there and in Adrianople, Turkey.)

This blessing fits into a category known as Birkhot haRe’iyah, blessings of seeing, made when seeing things: rainbows, lightning, certain people, oceans and, of course, trees in bloom. Sometimes it is hard to look at something in nature and see a spark of God in it, have a spiritual experience from it. How much harder it is to look at people, especially the ones you don’t like, and see God in them. All the soft-spoken rabbi talk about “the image of God” in the world won’t make that easy. These blessings help. Notice that the rule isn’t that one should go out looking for such a tree. When you go out, starting around now, it says, you have to observe everything around you; don’t necessarily look for a tree, but when you spot one–which means you have to observe everything around you–say this blessing.

Of course, the timing of the blessing makes sense because people mark Rosh Hodesh Nisan and it’s around now that trees start to bloom in many parts of the world (at least in the northern hemisphere.) But I posit that there is another reason. We start paying attention to blossoming trees tomorrow because in a certain way, that’s what tomorrow is all about. Rosh Hodesh Nisan is a time to remember that redemption is on its way. Just as we must do with trees, beginning tomorrow, if not all the time, we have to start looking around. Miracles can (Nisan from Nes, miracle) happen at any time anywhere. Maimonides even defines a miracle this way: when something unusual but within the limits of the natural order happens at precisely the right time. Usually we don’t notice miracles until after they’ve happened. Most scholars hold that you can’t say Birkat haIlanot after the actual fruit comes out; the whole point of the blessing is to thank God for potential. Right now (Rosh Hodesh begins in a few minutes here on the East Coast) is a particularly auspicious time to be thinking about potential. Our redemption as a people and as individuals is as close and as evident as the blossoming trees. Only by remembering to bless it will we remember–and merit–to see it.

Hodesh Tov!

Many camps have begun to implement green practices, taking action to decrease their carbon footprint, and impart a positive environmental message to their campers.  Steps have included forgoing paper, plastic, and Styrofoam in favor of using reusable tableware and reducing non-biodegradable waste, using solar power for heating, providing campers and staff with environmentally friendly water bottles, changing light bulbs to reduce carbon emissions, and more!  Several camps have also planted gardens and are teaching their campers about healthy cooking and organics.

This summer a new, innovative, Jewish camp is opening that will make and teach environmentalism as a lifestyle.  Eden Village Camp is a pluralistic, co-ed, overnight camp rooted in the Jewish vision of an environmentally sustainable, socially just and spiritually connected world.  The camp experience will include organic farming, wilderness trips, natural building and service projects, art, music, and sports.  Campers will have fun while deepening their appreciation for themselves, their communities, and the natural systems sustaining us.  Eden Village is one of six nonprofit overnight camps that will open in summer 2010 as a result of the Specialty Camps Incubator run by the Foundation for Jewish Camp (FJC) and funded by the Jim Joseph Foundation.

Much like its partners and associates, FJC strives to be, and helps its community be, more environmentally conscious.  At the biennial FJC Leaders Assembly, March 14-15, 2010, the Foundation is taking steps to be environmentally-minded.  From sending out invitations made with soy-based inks and printed on 30% post-consumer waste, to limiting the use of handouts, paper, and other materials.  In addition FJC has chosen a hotel that is mindful of being green, will not be handing out bottled water or providing plastic cups (instead, asking everyone to bring water bottles which were sent out in advance), is creating sustainable menus, using naturally grown food, and sourcing as much local food as possible, has been asking registrants what they are doing to help the environment, will hand out reusable bags made from recycled material, and is making recycling bins available all over the conference.

Of the dozens of sessions offered at the Leaders Assembly, one touches on the commitment to environmentalism. The Greening of Your Camp, will address how the treatment of camps and the earth affects campers’ overall summer experience.  It will explore how camps impact the planet, running a camp in a sustainable manner, and how camps can make even more changes than what they are currently doing.

Would you like to attend Leaders Assembly?  Join hundreds of camp staff, community professionals, lay leaders, and philanthropists March 14-15^th, 2010 at the Westin Jersey City Newport, in Jersey City, New Jersey for a singular experience filled with learning, sharing, and innovation.  www.JewishCamp.org/leaders

When Job reflected upon the wisdom of God’s creation “Truly the ear tests words as the palate tastes food” (12:11), could he have been alluding to the remarkable evolutionary development of the bones in our middle ear?  According to Natalie Angier in her article in the Science Times section of the New York Times today,

“Imagine what a dinner conversation would be like if you had decent table manners, but the ears of a lizard.  Not only would you have to stop eating whenever you wanted to speak, but, because parts of your ears are now attached to your jaw, you’d have to stop eating whenever you wanted to hear anybody else….Sometimes its the little things in life that make all the difference – in this case, the three littlest bones in the human body.  Tucked in our auditory canal, just on the inner side of the eardrum, are the musically named malleus, incus, and stapes, each minibone, each ossicle, about the size of a small freshwater pearl  and jointly the basis of one of evolution’s greatest inventions, the mammalian middle ear.  The middle ear gives us our sound bite, our capacity to masticate without being forced to turn a momentary deaf ear to the world, as most vertebrates are.   Who can say whether we humans would have become so voraciously verbal if not for the practice our ancestors had of jawboning around the wildebeest spit.”

Without this development, we’d have no Passover or Tu Bishvat seders, no motzi or kiddush, no singing or word games with friends over dessert in the sukkah.  The convivial conversations that turn mere eating into the pleasures of dining, the “words of torah over the table” (m.Avot 3:3) that make Jewish meals Jewish meals would be impossible.  In this fall season, surrounded by the beauty of the changing leaves, the bounty of the harvest on our tables, and the words to describe them and share with good company, I feel such gratitude.  “Blessed are you God, ruler of the world, oseh ma’aseh bereshit -who crafts the work of creation.”

We are in the final days of Sukkot, one of Judaism’s three harvest festivals, and one of my favorite times of year. The traditional observance of Sukkot: building a booth, decorating it with greens and seasonal fruits and veggies, eating and sleeping under its roof through which we must be able to see the stars, all highlight and make holy things we do every day: living in our homes, eating meals together, even sleeping. Perhaps this is why I look forward to Sukkot so much, or perhaps that it often coincides with my birthday (I’m still young enough to enjoy rather than dread it), or perhaps simply that it happens during the autumn, my favorite season of the year.

Judaism is particularly connected to food, and Sukkot especially to the bounty of our fall harvest. Now is the time for the first apples of the season, in all their amazing varieties, for winter squashes, for root vegetables, and for the last of summer’s abundance: the tomatoes, the zucchini, the pesto made from homemade basil. It is a time to celebrate the simple pleasure of growing and cooking and eating.

This past year, I’ve been involved with Portland’s chapter of Tuv Ha’Aretz. You may have participated in one of our previous programs, like the Jewish edible garden bike tour led by Beth, or our first canning workshop. But by far the most interest we’ve generated is with our gleaning parties, which are happening now. We’ve gone out to our partner farm, Sauvie Island Organics, three times now (and we hope to go more), and with the help of over 20 people, we’ve been able to harvest over 700 lbs of food, all of which we’ve donated to local food pantries. It’s been a wonderful experience to be out on the farm picking beans and squash, getting to know new people and, most of all, saving good food that would otherwise go uneaten and giving it to those in need.

That’s what I want to talk about tonight. The flip side of Sukkot, the season of bounty, is deprivation. While my sweetie and I have been able to eat like kings this summer from our very own front-yard garden, many in our community never get to eat a fresh tomato or cucumber or any other produce, for that matter. There’s been a lot of “food news” recently, about the locavore movement (eating food grown or produced within 100 miles of where you live) and about other sustainable food movements that keep cropping up like mushrooms. One of the most inspiring pieces of news I’ve heard in awhile was Michele Obama’s White House vegetable garden, and the farmer’s market she recently championed, that’s now open in front of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Along with all this celebration of fresh local food, however, there’s also been discussion of “food deserts,” areas in which there is no full-service grocery store, and access to healthy fresh food is, at best, a challenge, and at worst, nonexistent.

My neighborhood in NE Portland, which is mostly low-income, was, not too long ago, a food desert. Now we have a New Seasons and a Safeway within walking distance. But despite this, fresh produce is still not a regular part of many of my neighbors’ diets.

Awhile back, I had several discussions with friends and acquaintances, including a local farmer, about why low-income people don’t eat local, fresh, organic food. I was surprised at their responses (I’d characterize these folks as liberal progressives). One person said that if people just stopped buying soda they could afford fruits and vegetables instead. Another said that if people took the money they spent on drugs and alcohol and used it for food, they could afford to eat properly (he was apparently equating the term “low-income” with “substance abuser,” something that really surprised me). Several people commented, in rather disparaging ways, that if people understood more about nutrition and health they’d make better choices. Not one of the people I spoke with talked about the cost of food as a barrier to eating more produce. As a low-income person myself, I was amazed at these responses.

Last winter, I did some volunteer work for the Oregon Food Bank, summarizing the findings of several focus groups they’d conducted among low-income people who were struggling with food insecurity and hunger. Here’s what some of them said:

“The cost of vegetables is so expensive right now. Even lettuce, you know? It’s like, ‘Oh, there’s no salad tonight.’ So if there could be more vegetables, more meat, that would be ideal.” Another added, “More fruits. All I can afford is bananas and apples. Or oranges sometimes when they’re cheap.”

Families reported the overall cost of food was rising, and that fresh fruits and vegetables are particularly expensive, often unaffordable. Parents are profoundly aware of the expenses associated with providing nutritious, balanced meals for their children. One parent told her son, “I’m sorry we don’t have enough this month. We have to keep a roof over your heads. It’s one or the other.”

Parents reported frustration at their inability to provide their families nutritious meals with a balanced variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. One parent said, “My daughter, she’s 10 and she loves, she wants to take an apple every day for a snack, and I’m just like, “Oh, you can’t,” and I feel bad, you know, because it’s just an apple, but it’s not in the budget right now.”

Here are some statistics from the Oregon Food Bank:

Of people receiving food assistance,

•  46% of households had at least one member working.

•  30% of households had one or more members working full time.

•  43% of families with children had at least one full-time worker.

•  67% of households reported incomes less than 100% of federal poverty level.

•  40% cite higher wages as critical to improving their situation.

•  55% of households report that they receive food stamps.

•  65% of these households say their monthly food stamps last two weeks or less.

According to a study published by the Center on Hunger and Poverty at Brandeis University, Oregon is number one in the nation in hunger and food insecure households.

These statistics, particularly that last one, are shameful. It is unconscionable that people go hungry in the richest country in the world. Oregon’s legacy of hunger is not new, unfortunately, and is partly due to the disappearance of traditional jobs, like logging and fishing, that sustained people in smaller communities. It’s also a result of low wages and high costs of living, and a number of other factors too complex to go into here.

As we move from the bounty of Sukkot into the joy of Simchat Torah, which celebrates our essential text, the Torah, and our survival as a people, let us be mindful of those who long to buy apples for their children but regretfully pass them by. These people are our neighbors, our friends, our co-workers, even perhaps ourselves. Let us recommit ourselves to the true promise of Sukkot, and work to provide healthy affordable and delicious food for everyone. Chag sameach and shabbat shalom.

For ways to alleviate hunger and food insecurity in your community, check out the end of my previous post, Is the Food Movement Elitist, and if so, Does it Matter?

Building a sukkah is easier said than done when living in an urban apartment building. When we tired of fashioning one in the kitchen next to a tall window using poles, string, and s’khakh (in this case evergreen branches) we embarked on the adventure of a communal urban sukkah outside our building’s basement. Only a handful of building residents protested, claiming that the sukkah violated the separation of church and state (don’t ask). Most, however, were interested and curious. What has transpired over the years is something we never would have imagined. Next to the bike racks and behind the trash, five diversely Jewish families transformed a concrete slab into a behavioral enactment of sustainability.No matter what kind of sukkah is built, the structure alone enacts a natural order where humans and earth exist in partnership.  The openings in the s’khakh direct our eyes to the sky. The outdoors brushes up against our skin. The fresh air fills our lungs, and the night air chills us. The fruits and vegetables that we hang and for which we give thanks give energy to our physical selves. All remind us of the sacred bond between our planet and our bodies.

City views through the s'khakh

The sukkah provides many opportunities to teach and symbolize our commitments to sustainability. All five families don’t observe similar kashrut or sustainability practices but when share the sukkah we are all green. This year we are making decorations from things we have found in the park– fallen branches, pods, leaves, and nuts – to demonstrate that even city landscapes are a transformation of nature, an idea given to us by Susan Miller, an art teacher at NYC’s Abraham Joshua Heschel School.

The structure of sukkah creates a place of energy where relationships can transport us all to a higher place.  It isn’t easy to co-habitate in a sukkah. The first family to claim a spot at the table  inevitably considers the late arrivals to be intruders, and the later arrivals experience the first families as dominating the space. Yet, when we finally sit down and eat together, we find commonality amid our differences.  When non-Jews come to the sukkah, they feel included and interested in our Jewish life.  The door of the sukkah is always open and so too are our hearts as we welcome not only everyone, but all the aspects of ourselves and each other that closed doors ordinarily enable us to hide. One elderly grandfather, now deceased, hobbled out of his wheelchair, over a step in the concrete, and stood to say Kiddush every year, even though his back was hunched from illness. Maintaining the behavioral discipline and ethical respect that enables five different families to dine and entertain together year after year has brought a shining presence of goodness to our lives.

Finally, our  sukkah creates an environment of hope.  Giving thanks for the harvest prepares people and the earth for the next crop.  Is this not a metaphor for how apprecitive humility creates future justice and deeds of loving kindness? A shared dwelling with an open door incarnates a small scale version of who we can best be as people. Giving thanks through observance signals our belief that such a world is to come, especially if unique families can share a dwelling year after year after year. Such beauty is often brought into the sukkah from the natural world. In the case of our ramshackle urban sukkah, we have to create the beauty from within, and transport it back out into asphalt assault of city life.

Recently, Michael Pollan linked the reduction of medical costs to the even more controversial reformation of the food industry, what he calls the elephant in the national debate about the health care crisis. While Washington dukes out the legislative challenges to securing a healthier national environment, the country’s children have already returned to another school year and the Jewish New Year is upon us. Can we really wait for all this legislation to be enacted? Not me. I’m joining others who believe that change begins at the kitchen table. This year we are going to do a family food tashlich and symbolically cast away the elephants in our own refrigerators, the habitual bad food practices of everyday life.

1) Casting away disembodied eating

We’ll be taking more family expeditions to Farmer’s Markets or the local produce section of the grocery store. We’ll be talking to the kids about how food is grown and introducing them to more farmers who make cheese, grow food and milk cows or goats. Our most recent hero is the cheese guy from Olde Oak Farm in Orono Maine. Teaching children about food’s origins will help them respect eating it. It will also signal to our kids how much we care about them. Active concern about what goes into your kids’ bodies and foods sacred relationship to the earth, teaches them that their body really is a temple. A healthy regard for the physical self reflected by parental behavior helps children establish good personal boundaries. Good personal boundaries are the foundation of healthy eating and respect for limitations.

2) Casting away processed foods

When we journey to the river’s edge this Rosh HaShannah, we’ll take a pinch of processed food. This is to establish that sound eating is a spiritual goal as well as a health one. When healthy eating is only about rules it robs nutrition of its aesthetic merits. Eating healthy expresses a love for self, other, nature, pleasure, and, by extension, that which we know as God.  While banning processed foods, we’ll be emphasizing  sugar as a spare pleasure by home-baking with whole grains, unprocessed sugars, and sweetener substitutes like agave nectar.

3) Casting away disconnection

Not only are we going to eat together we are going to prepare meals together.   Shabbat dinner is a great opportunity for this but not the only one. Even school lunches can become a fun family activity.   Cooking with kids teaches responsibility, self-reliance and collaborative thinking. Dining together promotes relatedness and non-verbal emotional synergy. Eating healthy  food together is almost countercultural, a shared family brand that can help your children stand up to the pressure of consumerist messaging.

There is no reason to wait for Washington to do something about our country’s health and food crisis. As Michael Pollan says, changed consumer patterns brought on by transformed eating patterns will send a message to congress, not to mention the food industry. Yet, I wonder. When the year heats up with everyone’s dreams, goals, beloved passions, do you think we can keep up our taslich (think cold nights in February when the kids are exhausted, the parents have work piled high and even the family pets are dragging)?   Any other thoughts about how individuals and families can bring on Michael Pollan’s food revolution in the year to come? Maybe bread baking?

This blog is not the right place for it, but still, Roger Cohen has really gotten on my nerves over the last year or so.  His ranting about how wonderful Iran is and how great it is for the Jews there made me question my devotion to the New York Times.  His  piece “Advantage France,” in Sunday’s paper, about some of the differences between the French diet and the American diet, may have me beginning to change my mind.  I’ve only spent a few days in France, and only in Paris, but I’m guessing he’s exaggerating somewhat.  Nevertheless, the idea of Americans adopting any diet (or lifestyle, really) that required not only combining the ingredients and cooking them, but processing them to begin with (filleting the fish, making the pasta, etc) does sound beautiful and absurd.  The idea of connecting to food on a “gut” level and a geographic one far predates the terroir of which Cohen writes, at least in Jewish tradition.We learn from the early medieval tractate Avot de-Rabbi Natan (Version A, ch. 30, appears as ch. 31 in Vilna Shas edition) that “Rabbi Ahai ben Yoshaya says ‘One who gets grain from the market: to whom can he be compared?  To an orphaned child who is taken around to all the different wet-nurses but is never satisfied.  One who gets bread from the market: to whom can he be compared?  To one who digs his own grave and buries himself in it.  One who eats of his own [stuff, work, field?] is like a child who grows at the breast of his mother.’”

רבי אחאי בן יאשיה אומר הלוקח תבואה מן השוק למה הוא דומה לתינוק שמתה אמו ומחזירין אותו על פתחי מיניקות אחרות ואינו שבע. הלוקח פת מן השוק למה הוא דומה כאלו חפור וקבור. האוכל משלו דומה לתינוק המתגדל על שדי אמו

The standard commentary, Binyan Yehoshua by R. Yehoshua Falk,  indicates (in addition to the above-mentioned question of to which chapter the teaching belongs) that the problem with buying grain, at least, from the shuk is that it may not have been properly tithed, etc.  He reads R. Ahai’s words ritualistically, probably because he did not want the insult applying to his own community, which likely didn’t always farm, mill and bake all for itself and to which the laws of tithing no longer applied.  But let’s re-read it ourselves.

Unlike Roger Cohen, Rabbi Ahai makes no real comment about health in his aphorism.  Today we concern ourselves mainly with what our food will and won’t do to our bodies.  Rabbi Ahai’s concern seems instead to be about what our food will and won’t do to our souls, to our identities, to our selves.  Similarly, today we are concerned mainly with what the food will do to us after we eat it.  In contrast, Rabbi Ahai makes comparisons based on how people are already eating.

Let’s review the comment in reverse order.   The one who eats of his own land, work, stuff… this guy’s supposed to be the ideal, but the one to whom he is likened (one who grows at his mother’s breast) is mundane, even common.  The second part is super creepy.  Rabbi Ahai, and I guess Roger Cohen would agree, links this aspect of lifestyle to health.  We often hear people say things like ‘smokers are digging their own graves,’ etc.  But buying bread?  This seems exaggerated, to say the least.  Finally, the first clause has what would be regarded, especially after Camus, as a Sisyphean quality.  No matter where the orphan goes, his thirst cannot be sated.

I think Roger Cohen is being extreme and a little bit silly.  I also think he’s being unfair–it’s easy to wax nostalgic about France when you have a job that gives you the money and the time to go to France and have the kind of experiences he describes.  But I also think he has a point.  Disconnection from the sources of our food, according to Tradition, leads, in the best-case scenario to disconnection from our (or any other) land.  Many of the spiritual and communal goals we seek will likely go unfulfilled, no matter how hard we try to achieve them.  Scarier still is Tradition’s (and, l’havdil, Cohen’s) implication that not only what we eat, but even how we get it, may lead to poorer health and premature death.  And the silver lining doesn’t sound so great: it just means we get to be “normal.”

I don’t think we should all be farmers and I don’t even know if Rabbi Ahai was one. But still, I ask Roger Cohen, I ask Rabbi Ahai and I ask you:  how do those of us who don’t grow wheat, who don’t have access to a mill, who live in the city and who live in the diaspora (where it seems that, to Jews, there is a clear disconnect from the land and its bounty) save ourselves?

Mostly I keep returning to that Myth of Sisyphus.  (What can I say?  I buy my grain at the market… er, co-op.)  At least with regard to disconnect from our food, from getting dirty, from engaging with what keeps us alive, Camus is right.  Our lives have become absurd.  Although he was French and, according to Cohen, shouldn’t have to worry about such things, Camus says the only ways out are revolt or acceptance.  Those sound extreme.  I am about to walk to the co-op.  Tuv Ha’Aretz offers another way to get more connected to the source of food.  Education like that offered in posts here helps, too.  Hey Roger, on my way back from the co-op, I may have a baguette sticking artfully out of my bag.  No beret though.