While I still continue to be enthralled by the sequoias and their lessons, I spent last week amongst the pepper trees. Last spring, I was selected to be a part of a Clergy Leadership Cohort through the Institute for Jewish Spirituality, and with thanks to the Wise community for the time and space, I spent last week at our second mindfulness retreat—this time at Brandeis-Bardin Campus.
According to their website, “the iconic peppertrees, planted during the 1950s, are now a signature feature of the campus, providing shade and beauty. These trees symbolize the campus’s enduring commitment to environmental stewardship and natural beauty.”
It turns out that pepper trees were a popular California decorative tree—an evergreen that requires very little water and can provide shade in harsh conditions. I also learned that California pepper trees are considered fire-resistant; their foliage is less flammable than many other trees, and even if burned, they often survive because they can quickly regenerate from their root system. And as I spoke about on Yom Kippur, there is something quietly powerful about a tree that knows how to endure, to come back, to stay alive when circumstances are not ideal.
But not all is idyllic with the pepper tree. Because of its expansive root system, pepper trees can cause serious damage underground. They are aggressive, and because of their rapid spread and ability to outcompete other plants, they are considered invasive in much of California. And so today, on Tu B’Shevat, I want to invite us to sit with that tension.
Tu B’Shevat is often called a Jewish Arbor Day—the birthday of the trees. Seasonally, Tu B’Shevat is a marker of the coming of spring; the almond trees bloom in Israel, and we are invited to celebrate rebirth and a reawakening of life. For the mystics, this vegetal celebration is meant to mirror a personal, spiritual renewal.
Tu B’Shevat invites us to celebrate growth (and trees!). And maybe the pepper tree complicates that celebration, or maybe it deepens it. The pepper tree thrives on its own terms—strong, resilient, well-adapted to its environment. And yet, its expansive root system can make it hard for anything else to grow nearby.
Mindfulness, as I am studying and practicing through my cohort, is about learning to pay attention. Through that lens, Tu B’Shevat can become not just a celebration of trees or resilience or renewal, but an invitation to da’at, attentive awareness: to ask where we are rooted, where we are spreading, and who else is affected by the space we take up. Standing among the pepper trees, I found myself holding that tension with gratitude and curiosity, and with the hope that our growth—personal and communal—can make room for more life, not less.
Rabbi Sari Laufer