In class this week, one of my students presented a fable written by the late French-Canadian author, Léon-Pamphile Le May. The fable, entitled “Les deux ruisseaux et le rocher,” tells the story of two streams flowing from the same source who encounter a gigantic rock blocking their path. The rock warns them to turn away, and one of them listens, meandering this way and that until it ends up in a forgotten swamp. The other stream ignores the rock’s warning, choosing instead to flow right up against it. Little by little, its water begins to pool, eventually forming a beautiful lake that submerges the rock and serves as a rich new habitat, bringing shelter and life to those around it.
The moral of the story, according to Le May, is not a new one: one who overcomes a challenge becomes greater in the end than one who avoids it.
This Rosh Hashanah, we are stepping into a new year still steeped in many of the worries of the last year. In some ways, these worries have grown larger, appearing insurmountable, confusing, and even depressing. A new year invites us to turn the page, to start a new chapter, but is this option readily available to us right now? How can we wipe clean a slate that is full of ongoing heartbreak and fear for the future? Is it enough for us to click our heels, turn away from the headlines, and pray for a miracle?
The obstacles in our path are considerable. We are confronted with a rise in antisemitism, an explosive situation in the Middle East that affects many of us personally and/or emotionally, a presidential election that is once again calling the very concept of “facts” into question, and a climate crisis that is causing devastation and death around the world. I would love to say that, like in Le May’s fable, our challenges are not so much obstacles to avoid as opportunities to create something new. But the path before us is a murky one, and many aspects of it are out of our personal control… So where’s the hope in that? And what’s a person to do?
Every year, Rosh Hashanah reminds us of the importance of teshuvah (repentance), tefilah (prayer), and tzedakah (charity). These acts are not about retreating from the challenges we face but confronting them with purpose and resilience, trusting that our actions can change the course of our lives and the world around us. Perhaps, like the stream that became a great lake, we stand a better chance of persevering when we hold onto the hope that even the hardest obstacles can be reshaped by our steady efforts. Certainly, it is easier to create something beautiful when we are adding our efforts to those of others, all of us working together to help where we can.
At Rosh Hashanah, we look at the uncertainty of life and state our commitment to keep trying for a better world. Each “L’shana Tova!” is an expression of love and hope, a prayer of sorts that our actions and efforts can be transformative or, failing that, at least kind. This simple greeting contains multitudes… We are carrying on a tradition, telling the person near us that we see them, wish them well, and that they are not alone in facing the unknown challenges ahead. We are not isolated drops in a world of uncertainty, but part of a larger body of water that is ready to face challenges head-on, even when they scare us. This year, I pray that we, like the stream, can turn our struggles into something beautiful and life-sustaining. We are not alone, and we are nothing if not resilient.
L'shana Tova!
Rebecca Abbate
