And you shall make the courtyard of the Mishkan on the southern side [there shall be] hangings for the courtyard of twisted fine linen, one hundred cubits long on one side.
The Ikea-like instructions to build the courtyard
of the Tabernacle have me glancing in my backyard
longing for direction.
We bring in contractors and talk about our dreams
and they respond with numbers that far exceed
our capacity to realize them.
I want their knowledge and skills so I know
how many holes to dig for posts. I want them
to spend hours telling me what a cubit is.
I’ll dig the holes. I’ve been longing to dig holes.
I just need to know how many. I’m not even sure
if I have a hundred cubits of space.
It’s not for anything so holy. Just a cemented pit
with water and a few seats. I’d like to sit in it
and contemplate my future while
jets of heated water make me aware
of their presence. It needs to be permanent.
I’m not planning on wandering around
the neighborhood for forty years until I
finally cross the Santa Clarita river
to my promised land on this mountain.
Sometimes, I see snow on a distant mountain.
In the other direction is Arizona where
so much of the copper comes from.
I’m good with a hammer. I know my way
around a shovel. I’m willing to set up snacks.
Please, God. Tell me what to do.