Tu Bishvat: A New Vision for Collective Care

When is a time when you have felt supported by a group to reach an individual goal? What was that like for you? Think of an image or a feeling of that time. A moment. A person. A group. This is where I want to begin thinking about the upcoming holiday of Tu Bishvat (the evening of February 12 to February 13 this year) and its meaning for us today.

In Tu Bishvat, I see a call to pause and notice the profound interconnectedness that exists in nature—and what it teaches us about our own interconnectedness and how we might create models of collective care. 

Often called the “New Year of the Trees,” Tu Bishvat roots us in a deeper appreciation of the natural world. But if we let it, it can also be an invitation to reflect on how we, as human beings, grow and sustain one another in a world that often feels set up to do the opposite.

This invitation to think differently about our connections has been woven into Tu Bishvat from its earliest observances. In the Mishnah (which documents a conversation between rabbis after the destruction of the Second Temple, trying to figure out how to live a meaningful life in a world that doesn’t make sense—much like our own), Tu Bishvat was a practical date marker for tithing, a way to ensure that the bounty of trees was shared justly. 

By Rashi’s time (the 11th century CE), Tu Bishvat reminded us of our mutual responsibilities. In Devarim (Deuteronomy), Moses instructs the Israelites not to destroy fruit-bearing trees even during the most dire circumstances, like a siege: “Are trees of the field human, to withdraw before you into the besieged city?” (Devarim. 20:19). Rashi expands on this and reads it as an argument for care and stewardship: “Is the tree of the field a man… that it should be chastised by the suffering of famine and thirst like the inhabitants of the city?” For Rashi, the flourishing of the individual is inseparable from the health of the whole. Trees sustain us—and our responsibility is to sustain them in return. It’s a reciprocal relationship rooted in generosity and mutuality.

This idea of mutual care is echoed not just in how we treat trees but also in how we see ourselves in relation to the world around us. In the 16th century, the kabbalists of Tzfat reimagined Tu Bishvat as a spiritual practice, transforming it from an agricultural marker into a meditation on connection, reminding us that our care for the natural world reflects and deepens our care for one another. Trees, in this ritual, become a metaphor for how we can thrive—not in isolation but as part of an intricate and sacred web.

What the kabbalists intuited centuries ago—that unseen connections sustain us—finds new resonance in ecologist Suzanne Simard’s research. (See “Exploring How and Why Trees ‘Talk’ to Each Other: An Interview with Suzanne Simard” in Yale Environment 360 from 2016.) Her work shows that trees literally communicate with one another, exchanging resources and warnings through underground fungal networks. Forests, she explains, are cooperative systems where no tree stands alone. Her findings challenge the pervasive myth of competition as the only path to survival. “If it were all about competition,” Simard says, “then [a forest] would be a much simpler place.” Instead, forests thrive precisely because of their complexity—because every tree plays a unique role in sustaining the whole.

In my own life, I’ve seen how communities thrive when we embrace this truth. Whether it is working at my local co-op, supporting a friend, or paying my bills, the strength of the collective ripples out to lift the individual. Morgan Mann Willis offers a beautiful reflection on this: “Each tree’s elements are reliant on one another but totally unique in form and function. There is no competition or pressure to be the root or the trunk or the buds that bloom. Each tree is a universe, a master delegator, a puzzle, and a puzzle piece.” This image invites us to reimagine our relationships with one another.

What would it look like to live this way—to trust in the unique contributions of others while fully embracing our own? It might mean letting go of the need to compare ourselves to those around us and instead celebrating the distinct roles we each play in creating something greater than ourselves. It could look like leaning into collaboration, trusting that our efforts are part of a larger whole, even if we don’t see the full picture right away. Living this way might also invite a sense of freedom—knowing that we are enough, just as we are, and that our contributions, however small they may seem, are essential to the flourishing of the collective.

Of course, moving toward this kind of collective care is not without challenges. Living this way is countercultural—it asks us to challenge the narratives of scarcity and competition we’re so often taught and forced to participate in within a modern capitalist society. Choosing interdependence in a society set up for the opposite can feel exhausting. Communication, like the kind Simard describes in forests, can be messy and complicated. However, Tu Bishvat reminds us that this work isn’t just idealistic. It’s essential. Interdependence is not just a lofty dream—it’s the foundation for our long-term survival, growth, and healing.

As we observe this Tu Bishvat, I encourage us to look beyond the surface of the rituals we have inherited. To ask questions such as: What networks of care sustain us? How are we nurturing those around us—not just out of an obligation to “give back,” but out of a commitment to create a world where everyone thrives? And how might we let go of the need to stand alone, instead embracing the profound wisdom of the forest, where thriving together is the only way forward?

My bracha, my blessing, for us this Tu Bishvat is that we give ourselves the openness to envision a world that our ancestors and nature envision for us—one of interconnectedness, collective healing, and unique gifts.

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