Tashlich by the Hudson

Yes, the world is going crazy right now. And not fun crazy, all silly jokes and clown noses. Just rabidly insane. We all gather into tight little tribes, glaring out at the world, trying to hide our fear by looking tough.

It’s harder to be Jewish right now than it has been since the end of World War II, or at least it feels that way to us, although almost none of us is old enough to remember what it felt like then, so who knows? 

But we do know that antisemitism is rising, that although most of us are entirely safe, statistics show that physical attacks have risen as well, although the numbers still, thankfully, are low. It would be good if we could all stick together, but very real differences in belief and behavior seem to make that hard.

But sometimes it can happen, and that can be beautiful.

Last Sunday afternoon was a case in point.

It was the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Usually, people do tashlich on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, but this year that first day fell on Shabbat. That meant that we couldn’t hear the shofar and we couldn’t cast our sins into the flowing water that would carry them away until Sunday.

Taschlich is born from folklore — a kind way of saying superstition — and it’s symbolic, but it can be powerful. Because Rosh Hashanah falls during the time when summer already is edging over into autumn, it feels liminal. Sunset’s getting noticeably earlier; often, by the time people finish lunch and make their way over the river, the sun is far enough down to make a gold path over the choppy gray water. And it’s the time of year that the sky is most likely to be that deep blue that I think of as the September 11 hue; that terrible day was somehow made even more painful because of the extraordinary beauty of the blue out of which those planes fell.

There hasn’t been a complete September 11 sky so far this year but there have been days then it came close. Last Sunday was one of those days.

My dog Timmy and I walked down through the layers of Riverside Park and under the Henry Hudson Parkway to emerge west of it, just above the river, right across from Fort Lee and Edgewater. Timmy and I walk there often, and we’re used to seeing other dogs and their people, runners, and bikers. But this time, we saw Jews. Knots and bunches and intently talking pairs of Jews.

Everyone goes to tashlich by the Hudson. There are Jews in black hats and in long-past-their-prime jeans, in long skirts and in short shorts. People tend to gather with other members of their own shuls, but soon they branch out. Nobody there knows everybody, but many people know lots of other people. The barriers break down. We are all there by the river, to cast away our sins, at least symbolically, and also to renew our friendships and to display our solidarity.

It’s beautiful.

Because tashlich is minhag, not halacha — it is a custom, not the result of a legal mandate — and because it is symbolic, it’s not necessary to throw bread. In the last few years, many communities have been asked not to toss bread into the water. It’s not good for the environment or the aquatic creatures who will eat it. We’re told that there’s no need to throw anything. If you want to, the suggestion continues, try lettuce, or birdseed, or small pebbles.

Someone had left a stand holding two fairly big bins; each held some kind of small seeds. There was a sign by the stand, telling everyone who was interested in doing Tashlich please to take some of the seeds. The sign was unsigned, and no one was watching. People were taking what was being offered.

It was beautiful.

And we’re doing well too. Despite the very real differences in theology, practice, and politics, we all stood together and caught up with old friends and petted dogs and talked as the sun got golder and golder and then started to disappear.

I do believe that there still is hope.

—JP