Deep in the Weeds: Appreciating the Natural World

So much of the world seems to be worth ignoring. Whether that’s because we find it irrelevant, too complicated, or just plain boring, we have strong opinions about what deserves our time. Social media is partially to blame. After all, if something was worth knowing, it would already be on my feed, right? And politics and technology have had millennia to slowly alienate us from the world and from each other.

The holiday of Sukkot counters this attitude.

“What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

During Sukkot, there is a commandment to wave the four species that were meticulously selected. I say meticulously because the details of this commandment are surprisingly exacting. Everything from the color of the leaves to their arrangement on the stem is fair game here, and people will pay top-dollar for one of those elegant bumpy lemons. It’s a botanical beauty contest that might do well on HGTV.

There is deep symbolism to the four species. The date palm, willow, myrtle and citron are all notably distinct from one another, whether in terms of their shape, smell, or taste. They are likened to distinct types of individuals within society, or distinct qualities within the individual, and highlight that all four of these species must ultimately be waved together. It’s a beautiful metaphor for recognizing our unique natures and binding them together into something that resembles a compostable lightsaber.

Medieval polymath Gersonides writes that the commandment to wave the four species has a surprisingly simple purpose: to get us to notice plants. That requires some unpacking. If I ever forgot about plants, I guess shaking foliage in my face for a week would probably jog my memory. But who forgets about plants?

Turns out, a lot of people. There is a strange phenomenon called “plant blindness.” A large and growing body of research has shown that people, particularly urban people, are becoming oblivious to the plant life in their surroundings. We just tune it out, like background noise, and in the process, we become increasingly alienated from the natural world. Scientists have identified this as a major hurdle in conservation efforts. It’s difficult to get people to care about something that they habitually ignore.

Plant blindness is actually our key to understanding a much larger problem. As Emerson reminds us, even a weed is worthy of our attention. Its apparent irrelevance is just an indication that some untapped opportunity awaits us. But today, we seem to have lost this perspective. Anything that’s no longer useful or exciting to us, even if it once was, is reduced to a bothersome weed. And nowhere is this more apparent than in our relationship with the living world.

Numerous studies have found that children today are spending significantly less time outdoors than their parents’ generation, and it’s not good for them. Between the predictable physical consequences and the shocking psychological ones, it turns out that we need to step outside once in a while, absorb some sunshine, and feel ourselves as a part of this organic universe.

Judaism is intimately connected to our awareness of nature. Nineteenth century rabbi, Samson Rafael Hirsch, articulated this idea with exceptional flare:

I almost believe that all you homebodies will one day have to atone for having stayed indoors, and when you seek entrance to see the marvels of Heaven they will ask you, ‘Did you see the marvels of God on earth?’ Then, ashamed, you will mumble, ‘We missed that opportunity.’

How different were our rabbis in this respect. How they breathed, felt, thought and lived in God’s marvelous nature. How they wanted to awaken our senses for all that is sublime and beautiful in Creation. How they wanted to teach us to fashion a wreath of adoration for God out of the morning’s rays and the evening blush, out of the daylight and the night shadows, out of the star’s glimmer and the flower’s scent, out of the roar of the sea and the rumble of the thunder, the flash of the lightning. How they wanted to demonstrate to us that every creature was a preacher of His power, a monitor of our duties; what a Divine revelation they made of the book of nature. (Collected Writings, vol. 8)

The Jewish sages write that if the Israelites had never received the Torah at Mount Sinai, they would have sought moral inspiration from the natural world. Rabbi Hirsch reminds us that even after receiving the Torah, our connection to nature remains essential. It is our experience of the “sublime and beautiful in Creation” that inspires us to wonder, to explore, and ultimately to find spiritual relevance in this world.

It is our experience of the “sublime and beautiful in Creation” that inspires us to wonder, to explore, and ultimately to find spiritual relevance in this world.

I still remember the first time I saw an ant farm in grade school. I watched one ant climb down the same tunnel dozens of times, removing a single grain of sand on each trip. It was a lesson in complete selflessness and dedication, and it sparked a realization that the living world could be more than just interesting. It could be inspiring.

Sukkot brings this idea to center stage. Following the spiritual inner work that characterized Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkot asks us to turn that work outward and see what happens. Whether it’s by camping in our own backyards or waving an assortment of bespoke flora, Sukkot is our chance to discover the virtues in every weed.