Midrash on the Road
Had I not fallen, I would not have risen.
Had I not been subject to darkness, I could not have seen the light.
~Midrash quotation
As I pedaled across Michigan, I heard birds chitter, watched fawn scamper, smelled wafts of sweet Honeysuckle and Lavender, sampled the sweet offerings of lemonade and homemade cookies at two children-run trailside hospitality stands, and felt cool, quenching breezes drift from the shores of Lake Michigan, the Kalamazoo River, and Lake Huron. In awe, I whispered with a smile, “I am a part of all of this.”
Mingling, sometimes maniacally, with the breathtaking beauty were signs in people’s yards that screamed hatred and shouted horror; flags hanging from vehicles that bullied and belittled; and, obscenities bellowed and brandished from car windows and sidewalk shufflers. With angst, I sighed in tears, “How the hell do I fit in here?” I am keenly aware that the world I inhabit and embody in this moment, is rife with contention and rippling with compassion. And, since returning home, I’ve wondered how I might elevate compassion over contention, and activate awe above angst.
Before setting off on this pedaling pilgrimage, I read and reveled in the first couple of chapters of Christine Valters Paintner’s book, The Soul of a Pilgrim. As many know, there is no sitting down and reading through one of Christine’s books, cover to cover, in haste. Her books, by her own admission, are meant to be chewed on, savored, read a little bit at a time. As readers, we are invited to read and receive a chapter, or perhaps just a segment of one, a morsal at a time; then bidden to be with what is revealed, pondering what resonated, then putting it down and waiting for the magic to do its wise, winsome work.
In the Introduction to her book, Christine writes (sort of),
Pilgrimage calls us to be attentive to the divine at work in our lives through deep listening, patience, opening ourselves to the gifts that arise in the midst of discomfort, and going out to our own inner wild edges to explore new frontiers…. This is a perilous journey because [we] encounter [our] own shadowy places. Their resistance draws strength out of the small and hurting pockets of [our] soul. The only way [we] can sustain this inner gaze is to kneel down at the altar and surrender to the arms of the Holy One.
On this pilgrimage I tried to surrender to the cell of my saddle, lean into the altar of my handlebar, and listen deeply to the gifts of my discomfort: sore muscles; the tender touches of sorrow, joy, confusion and curiosity; and, the moments of terror and tentative gratitude that kept me moving toward my own wild edges. As a result, I certainly came into close contact with some of my shadowy places, thoughts that tested and taunted my resilience and resolve.
Those yard signs, flags, and folks flipping me off, for example, tapped into something deep, penetrated that place in me that’s held and tried to heal the insensitive, isolating and insolent denunciations and diminishments that I have both witnessed and withstood in my life, then buried in order to serve and survive. This wasn’t surprising. Nor, was it new. It was familiar, and despairing. And, provided opportunities for me to further explore new frontiers beyond the bitterness.
As I pedaled like a pendulum, vacillating between amazement and aggravation, I recalled a spiritual practice from Christine’s book. In chapter one, she offers the practice of Midrash, an ancient Jewish practice of interpreting biblical texts, describing and discerning value and meaning in words and letters, “as potential revelatory spaces”, writes the Hebrew scholar Wilda Gafney. St. Ignatius, the Spanish Catholic priest, employed this practice in his “prayer of imagination,” inviting parishioners to venture between the lines of scripture to see what might be revealed beyond the story as it is laid out on the page. And, modern feminists like Maria Pilar Aquino, Luce Irigaray, and Miranda Shaw, have similarly sought to uncover and amplify the voices of women left out of religious historical stories and texts, like Sarah, Rebecca, Hagar and Leah, Gopa, Maya, Patachara and Chanda.
Midrash invites us all to read and receive a text; reconsider the characters present and participating in the story; reveal what may lay beneath the taken for granted telling; reimagine the narrative; and, revitalize our experience and embodiment of the story’s power and potential.
While pedaling across Michigan, experiencing birdsong, scampering creatures, the hospitality of young lemonade entrepreneurs, and the yard signs, flags, and folks flipping me off, it occurred to me that I might engage in a kind of Midrash practice to perhaps magnify my experience, or, at the very least, mitigate the effects of riding like an emotional bobble-head. Rather than reading scripture while pedaling in the cell of my saddle, however, I would read the landscape, question and consider how the different beings along my path–in cars, trees, fields, the sky, people’s yards, on sidewalks, and the horizon–were participating in and contributing to the bigger story unfolding ahead and alongside of me.
This practice led me to wonder more deeply about the conditions in which all of us live; what we believe and how we came to our beliefs; how anguish often undergirds anxiety and anger; what the shouts, sirens, and screeches might signify; and, how simply stunning and soothing the songs of Earth can sound when we stop to listen beyond the cacophony with the ears of our harmonizing hearts.
Engaging in this practice of Midrash on the road offered me opportunities to read between the contour lines, and bear witness to how all beings are interconnected. It invited me to reimagine how those who wheel, walk, or waddle, slither, soar or sting, launch, leaf, root or roll, swim, sway or sing are participating in, and contributing to the bigger story of us. And, it revitalized my deep belief in the goodness of all, in this moment, at this time.
We all experience and embody a conglomeration of compelling and complicated stories. We each experience anger and frustration, joy and enthusiasm. We need food, water, shelter and fresh air. Sometimes we feel righteous, other times we are humbled beyond belief. We live in and amongst great beauty in this world, and sometimes, stultifying sadness. We all want to protect the ones we love, want to belong, and believe deeply in something. We want to be heard, seen, and accepted. We may not all understand one another. And, we do need one another.
What stories are you reimagining and revitalizing? What do you assume or wonder about those who are different from you? What is nudging you toward your own inner wild edges? What new frontiers are you seeking to explore? And, how are you uplifting compassion in your life and community?
Thanks so much for reading, my friends. Pedal on!