The cycle of the Jewish year never stops. Even in the face of wars, uncertainty, fear, and losses, we, as a nation, are always looking ahead to the time when once again we will be standing in front of The Almighty praying for a new, better year. At that moment, we are looking back and ahead at the same time. In general, Jews, even those who are deeply spiritual, are rational people. However, during the High Holiday season, we find ourselves drawn to some very mystical rituals.

There are many rituals that shape the experience of the Yamim Noraim, The Days of Awe, but one of the most indelible ones is Tashlich, which feels almost inseparable from Rosh Hashana itself. However, its uncertain origins show that it is not an original part of the Yamim Noraim liturgy. It is absent from the Mishna and the Talmud. The earliest records of it appear only in medieval Ashkenaz. Despite this—and despite occasional hesitation from rabbinic authorities—Tashlich has become firmly rooted in Jewish practice, not only for Ashkenazi Jews, but even for most Sephardim.

Tashlich does not come from a single source or moment in time. Instead, it emerges from layers: a verse, a metaphor, a story, a minhag, each of which add something of their own. Most sources point to the initial origins of Tashlich as a single word from Micah 7:19:

[God] will take us back in love,
[He] will hurl [tashlich] all their sins
Into the depths of the sea.

What is striking is that this is entirely a divine act. God is the One who casts away sins. There is no instruction for us to do something, no ritual attached to it. The Malbim, writing in the 19th century, emphasizes that even our intentional sins are removed so completely that they are no longer remembered. It is a promise of complete unearned compassion. It is through this verse in Micah that water as the medium to carry away our sins enters the ritual.

Throughout Tanakh, water is never just water. It carries tension within it. It is the source of both life and danger. It purifies, but it can also overwhelm. It is the Torah itself, but it also contains the chaos that threatens to swallow a person whole.

That tension comes through powerfully in the Midrash Tanchuma about Avraham on the way to the Akeidah. Satan places a river in his path. As Avraham enters, the water rises—knees, waist, neck—until he can barely stand. He cries out: if he drowns now, how will God’s command be fulfilled? Only then does the water recede. It is hard not to hear, in that moment, the echo of Tehillim: “Save me, O God, for the waters have reached my neck” (Psalms 69:2).

There is something deeply human here. The feeling of being overwhelmed—not only by circumstances, but by the weight of our experiences, by everything carried from the past year–is a universal one. On Rosh Hashana, that feeling is especially sharp. We stand in judgment in front of God, aware of how fragile we really are, unsure of what the coming year will bring. In the years since October 2023, this feeling of fragility of life has become even more personal—so much so that we find ourselves understanding our ancestors in a far more immediate and profound way. Seen in this context, Tashlich begins to make sense, not as a formal halakhic ritual, but as a human response to the vulnerability of the moment. A person goes to the water because the water says something they cannot quite say themselves. We feel freedom and we feel fear, all at the same time. We stand there, looking into something deeper than ourselves, and we imagine letting go of what pulls us under.

The book of Nechemiah presents another connection. On Rosh Hashana, the people gathered at Sha’ar Hamayim—the water gate—to hear the Torah read publicly (Nechemia 8:1). It is a moment of collective awakening, a renewal of the Divine Covenant. The setting is not incidental. Instead, the water marks a transition: from distance to return, from emptiness to fullness, from passivity to responsibility. In his book Antiquities of the Jews, Josephus mentions a decree of “Publius Servilius Galba, son of Publius, proconsul to the magistrates” that is issued for many provinces including the one of Halicarnassus stating that “Jewish men and women who so wish may observe their Sabbaths and perform their sacred rites in accordance with the Jewish laws, and may build places of prayer near the sea, in accordance with their native custom” (Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews:14).

And yet, with all these allusions to the connection between water, repentance, and Rosh Hashana, Tashlich is never mentioned in early rabbinic literature, which tells us that Tashlich is not a fixed part of the halakhic structure of the day. Instead, it is a custom borne out of an innate desire to cast off the heavy parts of ourselves. It developed precisely because there was space and need for it.

The first clear description of Tashlich in the form we know now comes from the Maharil, Yaakov ben Moshe Levi Moelin, who lived in the 14th-15th Century in Ashkenaz. He records the custom of going to a river on Rosh Hashana and reciting the verse from Micah cited above, connecting it to the midrash of Avraham crossing the water. Already here, the essential elements are in place: movement toward water, communal participation, symbolic action. (We do not seem to have the original version of the Maharil, but Rema, Rabbi Moses Isserles of 16th century Poland, cites the Maharil in his work, Darkhei Moshe, Orach Chayim, 583:2.) Some of the later authorities additionally reflect on the vulnerability of fish—constantly exposed to the net—and draw a parallel to human life under divine judgment. With this metaphorical framework in place, the Rema gives the custom his approval, calling it “a proper practice.” From that point on, Tashlich becomes part of the reality of Ashkenazi Judaism, a strong custom even though it lacks the force of law.

Because of the lack of a legal text on which to build the ritual, the framework for the practice of Tashlich remains in flux. The Mishna Berurah prefers a body of water outside the city, evoking the Akeidah (583:2:8). Fish are ideal as they are not subject to ayin hara, evil eye, so we shouldn’t be as well. However, if necessary, a well suffices—even a dry one. The Chatam Sofer would stand at a distance and look toward the Danube. For him, then, water was meaningful, but it was not an absolute requirement. Water is there to carry the symbolism, not to define the ritual.

As the practice spread, it also has grown. In many communities, Tashlich’s liturgy expanded beyond a single verse into a fuller service—a recitation of God’s 13 attributes, the recitation of Tehillim, additional prayers. Like many minhagim, Tashlich accumulated weight over time, anchoring itself more firmly in tradition.

However, the evolution of Tashlich into a core part of the Rosh Hashana experience was not without controversy. Some authorities were uneasy. The Vilna Gaon did not practice Tashlich at all. Apparently, his opposition stemmed from both the lack of Talmud source for Tashlich and the resemblance of some Christian rituals of common folk. Others worried about issues of propriety, because of the narrow boundary between meaningful symbolism and empty gesture. The Aruch Hashulchan reflects this ambivalence, noting that there were places where people refrained from going altogether, and that it is not proper for women to go, and if they do go, then men should “refrain from it because of a reason known to them, and it is proper” (Orach Chayim 583:4). Several later poskim also get concerned about possible improprieties should men and women go together.

Part of the beauty of this ambivalence and fluidity is the flexibility it allows in creating an accessible and meaningful ritual. Even today, the practice adapts to circumstance. When one lives too far from a body of water to walk, such that there is no possibility to go on Yom Tov itself, Tashlich may be postponed for people to have a chance to drive to the nearest body of water all the way until the end of Sukkot. Where there is no natural body of water, people improvise by using small decorative pools in the front yards of houses, or even fountains which clearly lack any fish. In some communities, men and women go separately. There is no single, fixed form.

And maybe that is exactly the point.

Tashlich was never meant to be rigid. It is not one of the established laws; there is no mandate behind it. It lives in a different space—somewhere between halakha and mysticism, between text and experience. It allows for a kind of religious expression that is not fully prescribed, and therefore not fully limited.

There is something meaningful for everyone laying beneath Tashlich’s layers: a verse that speaks of divine mercy, a midrash that gives that mercy emotional depth, a medieval community that gives it form, and generations that continue to reshape it. And that is why it still resonates.

At its core, Tashlich gives expression to something we still feel. We arrive at Rosh Hashana carrying more than we know how to put down. We stand, like Avraham in the water, aware of how close everything is to slipping beyond our control. And we hope—quietly, stubbornly—that something can be lifted from us. Instead of waiting for God to do it for us, we show up to act as partners, ready to cast away our failings and try again. Standing by the water, we are not just reenacting a custom. We are placing ourselves inside a possibility: that what weighs us down does not have to define what comes next.

The verse from Micah promises that God casts away sins. Tashlich does not make that happen. But it allows us to stand there, at the edge, and believe that it might.

And so we return to it, year after year. Not because we have to—but because we need to.