simchat torah
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and musings…
The season of our rejoicing
From the front windows of my childhood home on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, I watched the Hasidic men stroll along the pedestrian path. Eyes downward cast, hands clasped behind their backs, somber faces, they walked alone, or in pairs, or in groups of three. They walked slowly, silently or speaking in whispers. The scorching New York City summer sun beat down to meet the steam rising up from the pavement, and the secular set were dressed in shorts and tank tops. But the Hasidim were dressed head to toe in black wool.
When the sentry of trees that shaded the sidewalk changed into their brightly colored holiday clothes, the community did the same. A cool breeze sashayed between the branches, fanning the groups of young girls in their new navy skirts and white blouses, their hair as slick and shiny as their low-heeled shoes. They walked alongside their mothers, rolling prams along the promenade. The men walked as they always did, many of them now in black silk robes and fur hats, shoes shined, their sons walking silently beside them. The very air smelled sacred, serious—but not somber.
Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur passed, and the energy changed—lightened—as the men lightened their steps and walked a bit more briskly, carrying strange bouquets of palm fronds with branches of willow and myrtle, and boxes containing bright yellow citrons. The fire escapes and balconies of the apartment buildings they passed sported flimsy rectangular huts with walls made of plywood or of white sailcloth, and droofed with woven bamboo mats—temporary structures to remind them of the transitory nature of life, and of the days when their ancestors were nomads in the desert for forty years.
And so it was amazing to see these same men, when passing by the plate glass windows of the synagogue, dancing wildly, spinning about and leaping in the air, all the while clutching Torah scrolls to their hearts and hoisting them into the air as they circled round the bima. It was Simchat Torah. They had just finished reading their beloved Torah in its entirety, portion by portion over the course of a year, and now were beginning again, taking it from the top. What new insights awaited them? What new mysteries were going to be revealed, secrets that they'd missed before?
But this celebration wasn't limited to the grownups. Children marched behind the men, waving flags and carrying jelly apples on sticks. Women stood to the side, joined in the singing, sometimes clapping along.
In my synagogue, where women wear tallit, are called for aliyot, and read Torah from the bima, women join in the dancing with the men and everyone takes turns carrying the Torahs round the sanctuary. And, although the dances may not be quite as acrobatic as they were in that little shul on Ocean Parkway, the celebration is no less inspiring.
But the best part, in my mind, is when a Torah scroll is completely unrolled and stretched out from the bima to the front door of the synagogue. The congregation stands on either side of the aisle, arms outstretched to support the parchment (everyone is careful to keep their hands from touching the parchment). The reader stands by the door to chant the final verses and then races up to the front to begin again with Beresheet, and I'm filled with awe of the eternal cycle of life, of existence itself, of endings and beginnings—an old woman stubbornly grinning with naive, unabashed hope for the days yet to come.
And just as joy knows no limits of gender or age, neither do jelly apples. I always make enough for everyone, young and old.
So what shall we eat?
I mean, besides jelly apples.
In my family, no one wants to take the time to sit down and eat a formal meal in the midst of festivities. Fun finger foods are de rigueur. I’ve done a few riffs on my own recipes here. Spinach falafel? I usually add just a bit of spinach to my falafel, as you can see in the recipe. Here, I add more. Cilantro tahini? Tahini with cilantro added before processing.