Midrash is the act of re-writing a religious/mythological story so that it either applies to contemporary times or reveals a secret that was not told in the original version. A Jewish tradition, midrash can be done by telling the story from a new perspective, disclosing events that were “left out” of the original telling, or by using contemporary characters/ setting to retell the story. Unfortunately, midrash isn’t very widely known outside of the Jewish culture, but it is a fantastic writing exercise and a great way to experiment with characters and story. It’s also a good (and fun!) way to study the act of story-telling and discovery – by re-telling a story in different terms (be it the timeline or what have you), the writer has the ability to model after the original telling using their own characters or take familiar characters and events in radical new directions. Not only that, it’s an awesome genre to use in the exploration of meaning and belief (both the suspension of and the holding onto) – what does it mean, after all, when someone changes the basic threads of our most sacred beliefs?
Below is a piece of midrash I wrote earlier this year. This type of narration isn’t the only way to do it, though. Midrash is – in my opinion – the most fun genre to play in because there are no boundaries on what you can do. Experiment, have fun, re-work your most (or least!) favorite religious story and see where it leads you. Not only might you learn something about your writing, you may just learn something about what you believe (and/or, depending on whom you show, the beliefs of those around you – which is often far more interesting). If you do write some midrash and want a place to post it, either use or create your own blog and let me know (wordpress is free and I’ll want to see!) – I’m always looking for people to discuss the implications of midrash.
Midrash ( March, 2008 )
“Smell of Rain”
Noah crouches at the water’s edge – in the lush little place sculpted by the river’s steady hands – filling the last gritty ceramic jar to follow his laden sons home. A woman he does not know approaches and kneels in the grass beside him, her jar – glazed intricately in purple, even lines spelling the laws of God – catching the wild rush of water.
Noah hefts, stands – thick hemp cuts into his shoulder, the jar swings and thumps against his rib – and she turns to him, her knees bent against the soil as she speaks, “Noah.” Pausing, he focuses on her voice, watching the river’s thin waves as he listens, “You are needed.” The jar under Noah’s arm shifts – he grips the dusty clay as he begins walking toward the path, veins running like wide scars across his hands.
The woman’s dark features grow soft in silver light – the expansive, blinding light of stars – and she moans in a thousand tiny voices – “Cain.” He feels something like ice spread just under his skin, and the muscles of his feet and legs become infantile – unsure of footing, balance. Noah drops his jar to the ground – rupturing the brittle sides – as he turns back to her, and his vision centers on the vessel held out on her fingertips, the script now aflame.
The angel’s voice again fills the green, shadowed space – “You may wander till the End, but you will not find Death until your debt is repaid.” He steadies his legs by flexing each muscle in turn and spits on the dirt ground. She again sighs like splintering glass – “Your task is at hand,” and it echoes, flooding the trees and pushing the leaves into waves. Noah slowly nods, turning back to the broken walls of clay and rivulets of water slowly muddying a path toward the source.