An invitation to deep time

Take a moment to imagine our ancestor Abraham sitting down beside a large oak tree in the heat of the day (Genesis 18:1). He plants his tired feed between the knobby roots, leans back against the wide trunk and slides his body down, taking a seat in the crook of the tree, resting his back against its thick bark and closing his eyes. 

Who knows how much time elapses before the story resumes. I am not yet interested in what comes next. I am interested in what happens to our ancestors when they sit down beside a big old tree, and what happens to us when we do. 

A story is told of Honi the Circlemaker, who sat down beside a carob tree to eat some bread. Sleep overcame him and he slept. A cliff formed around him, and he disappeared from sight and slept for seventy years. When he awoke, he saw a certain man gathering carobs from that same tree. Ḥoni said to him: Are you the one who planted this tree? The man said to him: I am his son’s son, meaning his own grandson (B.T. Taanit 23a). 

The motif of sitting by an old tree is an invitation into deep time, to enduring inter-generational wisdom. Deep time is one of the gifts of ancient spiritual practices that come to us across generations and continents. Every week we sing prayers that have been recited for thousands of years, on nearly every continent and in every political context. It is why beloved melodies are referred to as “Mi Sinai” from Sinai. It's code for, really, really old. And not in a bad way. In a tried and true ever-lasting way. 

This week, I too found myself taking a nap under a large old London Planetree, absorbing the vibrations of its toad-like trunk. It was planted more than 100 years ago. I wonder who planted its seeds and who else had rested against its speckled bark. Leaning against an old tree helps me to feel a part of the vastness of creation.

Did you know that the universe exploded into existence about 14,000,000,000 years ago?
I can’t even conceive of time on that scale.

If all of geologic time on earth was depicted in a 24-hour clock, the moon emerged at 15 minutes, the earth at 12 noon, dinosaurs at 11 pm and us humans in the final minute, at roughly 11:58:43 PM. We are the last blip of creation, negligible in the history of the universe. 

This week, as the news comes so fast, with the explicit intention of overwhelming and demoralizing us, I am finding this awfully comforting. These fun facts come from one of my favorite books called “Older Than Dirt,” gifted to me and my kids by a beloved cousin. I returned to its comical (both funny and illustrated) approach to human history, taking refuge in its scientific rendering of “deep time.” It is a way to remind myself that humans are making a guest appearance on the clock of the earth. 

Sometimes the best antidote to anticipatory anxiety is staying close to the present moment. But for those who don’t relate to meditation and mindfulness, here is another approach. This week, I have been zooming out as far as possible to gain some much needed perspective, some geologic breathing space from our current political horizon. Right now four years feels like a long time. It's been helpful to remember that it won’t even register on the earth’s clock!

When the rabbis imagine the world to come, they describe it as yom sh’kulo shabbat - a time that is entirely shabbat. And therefore the inverse is true as well. That shabbat is a taste of the world to come, summoning our souls to enter time that is otherworldly; to exit the daily details of our calendars and rest our weary souls against the tree of life. 

Shabbat is our weekly invitation into deep time. A return to primordial time, to creation itself. Let yourself taste the pleasure of simcha and menucha, joy and rest. Take a break from your devices and the newscycle, play a board game, gather with friends for a meal, linger at the table, and sing your way through services. May you emerge refreshed and resouled, and ready for a new week.