Noah’s Boat and the Pigeon of Peace

In the Jewish tradition in which I grew up, we have midrashim¹. A midrash is a parable or narrative interpretation or an interrogative dialogue with which one explores a sacred text, usually the stories to be found in the Torah - the Five Books of Moses - or the rest of the Old Testament.

A midrash, it should be understood, however, is not literary criticism. It is not an act of deconstruction, of rationally taking the words apart, or reducing it to some irreducible minimum. It is more an act of imagining oneself inside a sacred text, of imaginatively taking it into oneself even as one finds oneself enwrapped within it. Like a very noisy meditation, it is a way of encountering oneself in a new, previously unexplored context, while at the same time having the text take on the force of the present, even as it is rooted in the past. The text grows larger as a result, even as, if you've done it right, do you.

Sometimes I think that when I am contemplating my homeschooling adventures, I am writing midrashim. My children are the sacred texts, or at least the vessels for them. I encounter myself within them, even as I try to ensure their essence remains inviolate. Like most parents, I project my own hopes and dreams, successes and disappointments, expectations and excitement on to them. Sometimes I bring with me a healthy dose of perspective, and sometimes, well, I always urge parents to put some money into the therapy fund alongside the college one.

And then I remember that, as a living vessel of sacred texts as yet to be unfolded, each and every child is holy. Holy, not as something not to be touched, even if containing within them the spark of the transcendent, but as an ark, encompassing the wellsprings of future memories, those which will, someday, be inaccessible to me, but open to my grandchildren, or even those who come thereafter. Or perhaps, we are, together, a part of one unending scroll. As you can see, even in contemplating the art of midrash, I discover that I have written one.

And sometimes, more in keeping with the tradition, I find myself writing midrashim of the more traditional variety. Or, I am tempted to say, they write me. It is something I get to share with my children, who would be much less willing to put up with the more overtly philosophical ones. Maybe the literary equivalent of a hug. Here is my most recent, which poured out one Sunday, disrupting all the rest of my plans for the day, until it was sure I got it right.

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