Dear Friends,
Last week, Raina and I had the chance to take a truly unforgettable trip through the Inside Passage of Southeast Alaska. And I have to say—it was one of those experiences that just stops you in your tracks. Not just because of what we saw, but because of what it made us feel.
We were surrounded by wildlife—sea otters floating on their backs like they owned the place, harbor seals chilling on rocks, humpbacks breaching in the distance, orcas cutting through the water, and yes, even a few bears lumbering through the trees and pulling salmon from streams. We got up close to a glacier—massive, silent, breathtaking—and kayaked through floating chunks of ice while a curious harbor seal kept an eye on us. We hiked alongside a river fed by melting snow, and everywhere we looked nature was showing off.
But the moment that’s stayed with me the most? It wasn’t the whales or the glacier or even the bears.
It was a quiet afternoon when we anchored in this serene little cove—picture still water, surrounded by untouched forest. We got into kayaks and paddled out, and pretty soon, we realized we were floating right in the middle of a kelp forest.
Our guide explained that kelp forests are like underwater rainforests—they’re full of life and essential to the whole marine ecosystem. And this one was thriving. That alone, he told us, was pretty amazing.
Because not that long ago, this kelp forest—and many like it—had nearly disappeared.
Why? It’s all about balance.
Sea otters are a key part of the food chain—they eat sea urchins, which, in turn, eat kelp. But over the years, the otter population dropped. First because of overhunting, and more recently because orcas started eating otters after their usual prey—like seals and sea lions—became harder to find.
With the otters gone, the sea urchins took over. And they absolutely devoured the kelp. What was once a lush, life-filled forest turned into what scientists call an “urchin barren”—pretty much an underwater desert. That collapse affected everything—fish, birds, crabs, even the shorelines the kelp used to protect.
But then, things started to turn around.
About 25 years ago, thanks to conservation efforts, the otters started coming back. And once they did, they got to work—eating the urchins, restoring the balance. And little by little, the kelp came back. And with it, the whole ecosystem started to rebuild.
One scientist put it like this: “These localized recoveries show how resilient kelp ecosystems can be if the balance is restored.”
That line stuck with me. Because it’s not just about kelp.
It’s about life.
It’s about the world we live in—and what happens when things get out of balance. And maybe even more importantly, it’s about what can happen when we start to put things back in balance.
Judaism has a lot to say about this. From the very beginning, we’re told we’re not the owners of this planet—we’re its caretakers. Genesis says that God put us in the Garden “to work it and protect it.” In other words, use it, yes—but take care of it while you do.
And there’s that famous Midrash that paints the picture so clearly: God walks the first human through the Garden and says, “Look at all this beauty. I made it for you. Don’t mess it up—because if you do, no one’s coming after you to fix it.”
That’s not modern environmental activism—that’s ancient spiritual wisdom. Thousands of years ago, our tradition already knew that everything is connected. That pulling one thread can unravel the whole thing.
But here’s the good news: the kelp forest also teaches us that what’s broken can be fixed. Nature’s incredibly resilient—if we help it find its balance again.
We often talk about tikkun olam—repairing the world—in the context of human relationships or justice. But what if we also took it literally? What if tikkun olam meant cleaning up our oceans, restoring coral reefs, protecting endangered species?
Rav Kook, one of the great Jewish thinkers of the last century, wrote: “Every small part of the universe is connected to the whole. When one being suffers, the entire system trembles.”
We’re not separate from nature—we’re part of it. We don’t live on the Earth. We live with it.
So yeah, I went to Alaska and saw some otters. But I also saw something much bigger—a reminder that healing is possible. That small changes, even tiny creatures, can have massive impact. That even when it seems like the damage is done, life can grow back if we just help create the conditions for it.
And it reminded me that we, too, are part of that bigger picture.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen