Tossing bread into the ocean on the Jewish New Year

On Sunday, hundreds of Jews in LA will walk to the beach. 

There, they will throw handfuls of bread crumbs into the water, symbolically casting all the sins of the past year upon the tides.

It’s a tradition called Tashlich, and it’s one of the more delightful rituals of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. 

On Sunday, hundreds of Jews in LA will walk to the beach.  Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

Not everyone goes to the ocean — any body of “living waters” will do. 

That means anything with a natural flow through it can be used for Tashlich. A river, a spring, a lake — all qualify. (A swimming pool does not.)

Water is a symbol of life, and purification, in the Jewish tradition. Many Jewish rituals involve immersion in water — which is, in turn, the source of the Christian sacrament of baptism. 

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But at Tashlich, we do not immerse our bodies. We let go of the past.

I have fond memories of many years of walking to the beach in front of Gladstone’s restaurant in Pacific Palisades, pre-fire, with Ziploc bags full of bread, and a growing brood of children in tow. 

There, bemused, bikini-clad beachgoers would watch us as we gathered in our finest clothes near the water’s edge, or climbed the rocks on the breakwater, reciting prayers and psalms before chucking our crumbs into the sea.

People take part in a Tashlich ceremony on the first day of Rosh Hashanah on Wednesday, Sept. 8, 2021, at Venice Beach in Venice, California. Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

Hundreds of people would make their way to the sand, over the course of the afternoon, often accompanied by a rabbi or cantor carrying a shofar — the horn of a ram or kudu, which is sounded at the New Year as a call to the faithful to repent. (The Hebrew root of the word “shofar” is the same as the root of the word for “self-improvement.”)

The children loved Tashlich. The older ones loved to compete with each other to see who could throw their bits of bread farthest. 

The naughtier ones, forgetting the purpose of the whole exercise, loved to test their aim on a seagull or two. 

The little ones often took several tries before throwing a piece that actually reached the water. 

And once in a while, the call of the shofar — bright and sharp from the ram’s horn, low and mellow from the kudu — would rise above the sound of the waves.

In the years before my family and I moved to Palisades, we used to walk the length of the Santa Monica Pier, tossing bread alongside the bemused fishermen. 

People take part in a Tashlich ceremony on the first day of Rosh Hashanah on Venice Beach on Wednesday, Sept. 8, 2021, in Venice, CA. Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

One year, a seal entertained my daughter by nibbling at our discarded crusts of bread as they floated on the waves.

Each year in Palisades, we would meet friends at Tashlich from different congregations. Palisades has two — one Orthodox synagogue affiliated with the Chabad movement, and one Reconstructionist congregation, on the liberal side of things. 

There’s an old joke about a Jew rescued from a desert island, who had built two synagogues. “That one, I pray in; that one, I refuse to enter.” 

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But at Tashlich, all of the boundaries seemed to collapse. 

Why do I write in the past tense? There will still be services in Palisades this year. The rabbis are determined to restore their communities. 

Sadly, many of us are still far away. We have yet to return home.

People take part in a Tashlich ceremony on the first day of Rosh Hashanah on Wednesday, Sept. 8, 2021, on Venice Beach in Venice, California. Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

I divide my time between LA and Washington, DC. Our house is not yet repaired. Our neighborhood is still in ruins.

This weekend, I will walk with my family to Rock Creek — a humble stream that runs through the nation’s capital city before joining the mighty Potomac. 

The creek is beautiful, in its own way — heavily forested, with an occasional bridge spanning the banks. 

But it is polluted: You can toss your bread in the water, but you dare not swim there.

Every time I visit Rock Creek, I think back to Palisades and the hidden waters of Temescal Canyon. There, the creek flows over waterfalls, clean and crisp.

The fire, and the mudslides that followed, destroyed the familiar trails alongside the canyon, and buried the secret rock pools we used to visit. 

It will be years before a new trail is built, and the rock pools are gone forever, at least as we knew them.

I remind myself that I have to let go of that. Rebuilding can never restore things exactly as they were.

Some things are lost. And some things — new things, perhaps better things — will take their place.

I look forward to coming back — to the familiar ritual of Tashlich on the beach, to the glittering light of the afternoon sun on the Pacific, fading ever so slightly as summer turns to autumn.

And I will think of everyone I know in Palisades — those who have left, those who have come back — and wish everyone a sweet, happy New Year.

Joel Pollak is the Opinion editor of the California Post.