Growing up in a family that celebrated only the major Jewish holidays — and then, celebrated them mainly with meals — I will admit that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were never my favorites. I suspect the same is true for a lot of kids: Not having a deep understanding of the High Holy Days makes it seems as if the days’ predominant features are forcing you to think about all the ways you’ve screwed up over the past year and depriving you of food.
The half-dozen or so times I attended services growing up were on Rosh Hashanah, and though some of them were of the more hippie-leaning variety, very little of what I saw and heard there did anything to dissuade my feelings, which were ambivalent at best. Sometimes my parents would take us to a local lake, and we would all be quiet as we tossed in stale breadcrumbs. I was “throwing away my sins” — that much, I got. But I was inevitably bored, and definitely never felt any personal connection to the act.
Until, somewhere along the way, I realized: The High Holy Days can kind of be seen as the start of a great big do-over. And I’ve always loved the concept of the do-over.
Though I haven’t been a student in a while, I still associate this time of year with buying fresh school supplies, crisp notebooks, organizers. They’re physical reminders of the fact that you’re starting at square one. As summer ends, there’s something universally sweet about the idea of considering where you’ve been in the past year, what you’d like to accomplish in the next, and then wiping the slate clean. This is, after all, why so many people join gyms at the start of a new year: This year, they’re saying, things will be different.
So why does it seem so strange to think of the High Holy Days as just another opportunity for newness? Part of it, in my mind, is that Jews don’t really do the whole “confession” thing. In the multiple lighthearted discussions I’ve had with Catholic-raised friends on the similarities between our respective cultures, the constant presence of guilt often comes up as a touchstone. But then, there are some departures.
In the play “Angels in America,” one of the main characters, who is Jewish, goes to a rabbi for consultation about an inner conflict. When the rabbi tells him, “You want to confess, you better find a priest,” the man says, “But I’m not a Catholic. I’m a Jew.” The rabbi’s response: “Worse luck for you, bubbeleh. Catholics believe in forgiveness. Jews believe in guilt.”
I think the duration of the High Holy Days can be seen as a chance to counter that statement. Each year, when the leaves turn, we’re asked to reflect. To reconsider how we live our lives. And then to actually voice our dissatisfactions (even if only to ourselves). It’s only after acknowledging them that we can let go of old grudges and complaints, and rightfully commit to being “better” — whatever that might mean for each individual.
No, I didn’t get that at age 12, when I went with my parents to toss crumbs into the water at the Berkeley Marina. I’ll probably feel different about Rosh Hashanah (not to mention Judaism as a whole) 15 years down the line from this moment, too. But for now? I like where I’m at.
In 2009, living in New York and going to grad school at Columbia — and getting Rosh Hashanah off from school, a first for this California kid — I decided to forgo the many organized services in my school community. Instead, I headed for Jackie Kennedy Onassis Reservoir in Central Park, a serene escape in the middle of the city. I’d only been living in the city for six weeks, was thoroughly alone, and had no idea what to expect from the coming months.
Of course, we never do. A week or so later, on Yom Kippur, I went to a break-the-fast dinner at a classmate’s house with a dozen or so new students and acquaintances — from across the whole spectrum of observance — whom I would count among my best friends by my program’s end.
But that afternoon in the park, it was comforting, personal and (dare I say it) holy to be there in that ritual, by myself, cleaning my slate to make room for the new challenges and experiences of the year ahead.
Emma Silvers lives in San Francisco. Reach her at [email protected].