New Year for the Trees

In the dream I am walking through a gentle wooded area with sunlight finding it's way through the new green of spring. Wild flowers surround my feet. Butterflies have broken out of their cocoons. The only irritation is that I am following someone who is just our of earshot. As I try to listen, the trees flatten and become one dimensional walls that create a tunnel. My focus changes from wild flowers and butterflies to fear of being in a tunnel. Running replaces walking yet there is no escaping the dark entity following close behind who will possess me just long enough to create the simultaneous feeling of fear and relief from waking up from a nightmare. Unsure that I completely trust the waking reality, I flood the room with the overhead light when I realize that I have to go to the bathroom.


In the morning, my small, somewhat sparse studio apartment is just the way I left it. The bathroom welcomes me with a warm shower.

After work I open the mailbox and find a flyer inviting me to an event: Finding Your Besheret (Find Your Soulmate) where I am likely to meet other Jewish singles with their biological clocks ticking who have a noncommittal new age interest in Judaism.

I call the number for more information.

“How did you hear of our spiritual Jewish community center?” says the unemotional woman on the other end of the phone.

“I took a class on applying Kabbalah to everyday life.”

“And?” I pause for a moment unsure of what she is asking.

“That's it. The class was advertised in the newspaper.”

“What did you learn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you applying the Kabbalah to your life?”

Shifting my focus from the singles event I said, “Maybe a little. I'm taking a yoga class.”

“It's a beginning. Have you tried meditation? We have a meditation class beginning next week.”

I look down at the flyer to refresh my reason for calling.

“Could I just sign up for the workshop on Finding Your Besheret?”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two and no besheret?”

“I guess not. Do you have one?”

“I'm married to the teacher. What's your name?”

“Sam,” I think about the teacher being unavailable in a class full of wannabes.

“Your full name.”

“Samantha Katz. Sorry.”

“Wear warm clothing and bring a dessert to share.”

That night while eating tofu and broccoli, I browse recipe books containing rich desserts and feel hopeful.

With an apple tart in hand, I feel less hopeful when I see the class has a few more women than men. I put my tart on the table next to the other desserts, some homemade like mine and some in unopened packages, and sit down in the circle. The teacher/Rabbi/spiritual leader who is married to the woman on the phone is over six feet tall with height enhancing frizzy orange hair and a matching orange beard. His shoulders are broad. Freckles cover his pale long sensitive fingers that I can imagine spread across piano keys. Instead he takes out a guitar and quietly begins strumming and humming a wordless melody called a Nigun. When the circle of about twenty seem settled, the red haired Rabbi sings out his instructions.

“Close your eyes and sing.”

This seems easy enough even though I find myself peeking to see if it's time to open our eyes. The singing of the Nigun grows louder then stops gradually as we follow the Rabbi's softening voice.

“Open your eyes and smile at both your neighbors,” instructs the Rabbi.

On my right is a tall woman of about fifty who has big hair like the Rabbi although it's greyish brown and arches up several inches beyond her forehead. Her classically hooked nose is disproportionately large compared to a small slightly puckered mouth and beady bespectacled eyes.

“Hello.” She smiles with a closed mouth

“Hello,” I say feeling comfortable.

On my left is my mailman.

“What are we doing here?” he asks me.

“Are you Jewish?” I ask him.

“I traveled as far as India where I met a guru who advised me to return to my roots. So, here I am rediscovering my roots.”

“And delivering mail.”

“Good benefits, fresh air, descent pay and I don't bring my work home with me.”

Next we are instructed to introduce ourselves to the circle and name a tree that we love and say why we love that tree. Feeling unprepared, I immediately regret saying pine trees because I like the way they smell. All I can think of is cardboard car deodorizers that hang from the rear view mirror.

“Today,” says Rabbi Bob, “is Tu B'shevat the new year for the trees when the first fruits reemerge in the land of Israel. Why talk about finding your Besheret or your soul mate on Tu B'shevat?”

We follow Rabbi Bob's question with a discussion about rebirth and making new discoveries through relationship.

“Imagine what it would be like,” the Rabbi says, “to meet someone on the day of your wedding or shortly before your wedding as part of an arranged marriage. How would that person become your besheret?”

The tall woman sitting next to me whose name is June raises her hand like we're in elementary school.

“Intention?”

“Intention,” Rabbi Bob looks around the room. “What is your intention when you enter into a new situation or new relationship?”

The mailman, whose name is Jon, has long legs that keep bumping into mine. I'm not sure if I should move my leg or pretend not to notice while claiming my territory.

Rabbi Bob then walks around the circle reaching into a canvas bag to hand us each a flashlight. We put on our warm clothes and walk outside into the woods behind the Jewish Community Center.

On the way into the woods June tells me that she grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family and now belongs to the Unitarian Church. I tell her that I grew up knowing I was Jewish because my parents liked to eat bagels and lox. We are both, for some reason, interested in finding a Jewish husband.

The mailman is walking next to Rabbi Bob. They are about the same height. I wonder if they are talking about something religious, romantic, spiritual or mundane as where they grew up or what they majored in as undergraduates.

Rabbi Bob begins humming softly again as we form a circle. His breath is visible when he open his mouth to speak.

“The first fruits of spring aren't here yet.”

Everyone laughs. I look at Jon to see his smile.

“Turn off your flashlights.”

As my pupils widen to take in the cloud covered moonlight and one bright planetary star, I begin to see details on jackets, hats and evanescent faces.

“I'm not sure I need to say anything,” says Rabbi Bob. “I hope that turning off your flashlights helped you to celebrate with the trees.”

“What are we celebrating again?” says a man not looking any taller than my five foot five yet a lot wider.

“Does someone have an answer?”

The mailman spoke up without raising his hand.

“Tu B'shevat. The Birthday of the Trees. The first fruits. We turned off our flashlights allowing our pupils to gather light to experience the emergence of manifestation.”

Following a silent response I can hear the crunching of ice coated leaves as people are beginning to fidget because the cold has taken over.

“Let's turn on our flashlights and continue this conversation inside where it's warm.”

“I second the motion to move inside,” says the man who wondered what we are celebrating.

Inside there is a new woman who has placed a platter of fruit and nuts in the center of the desserts.

“Would everyone like tea?” she says in greeting.

“This is my wife, Deb, who most of you spoke to on the phone. My guess is everyone would like a warm drink.” We nodded our heads in Deb's direction.

After saying a prayer over the platter of tree food, we each eat a fig then tuck into the rest of the dessert.

The man, who I had previously only seen delivering my mail, boldly sits down next to me and begins telling me his life story as if I had been waiting to hear it.

I learn that he grew up in Chicago with a little more religion than me.

“We were holiday Jews, not even high holiday Jews.”

“Hanukah and Passover?”

“Hanukah was my favorite. I never liked eating all that matzah on Passover.”

“You liked the presents.”

“Didn't you?”

“We celebrated Christmas.”

“Both your parents are Jewish?”

“Both are Jewish and we celebrated Christmas for fun. My father put up the Christmas tree the day before Christmas and we threw it out the following day so my grandparents would see it. Even though they weren't religious either they didn't want to see a Christmas tree.”

“You could have told them it was a Hanukah bush.”

“Is there such a thing?” I say ignorantly.

“Never mind.”

“When I was twelve I asked my parents if we could celebrate Hanukah. When they agreed I became excited enough to save enough of my allowance and odd job money to buy a gift for each member of my family. My father gave me, and my younger sister and brother, one gift per night when he came home from work.”

“Did you light candles.”

“No, we didn't light candles or celebrate other than to receive our one gift per night for seven or eight nights. Dad didn't understand why I wasn't more appreciative of the Yahtzee game. I was twelve and wanted clothes, jewelry and make-up.”

“I thought you wanted to celebrate Hanukah.”

“I did, but it wasn't that much fun for us. The following year we went back to our Christmas tree.”

After our holiday conversation, I learn that Jon is a mailman because he is a poet, is divorced and is partially responsible for a ten year old daughter who he may be following to Kansas City because the daughter's mother may be moving there for a job. Kansas City, I calculate, is at least 1200 miles away.

June, who has been talking to the short chubby man who needed clarification on what we were celebrating, suddenly speaks up so everyone can hear.

“Who made the apple tart.”

“I did,” I look away from the mailman and speak to the group.

“It's really delicious.”

“If I die and go to heaven,” says our teacher Rabbi Bob between bites, “and they don't have this apple tart, I'm putting in for a transfer.”

In another dream I am in bed with a large plate of pasta. There is tomato sauce but no Parmesan, no vegetable and no Italian bread so I'm slightly less comfortable and slightly less happy than I would like.