Tent of Meeting

Within my tent, the thin nylon walls undulate, billowing with the gentle early morning breeze that is still wrapped in darkness. Just enough chill seeps through the fabric to challenge my camp heater, which stirs the drafts with warmth. Inside, I sit in the center of a hexagon of yellow, two magnetized lights pulling the nylon taut with their weight on either side of me. On my laps is a book of words, a feeble Torah, a scroll with only a faint flavor of honey. At my side is a cup of coffee, a drink offering poured into a clay vessel as these words, another offering, are poured upon the page—sometimes a trickle, sometimes a flood.
Here inside the tent, the walls appear opaque; I cannot see beyond myself. Even the sky remains dark at this early hour. When I step outside, however, my vision shifts. Now my tent is a glowing sphere, lit from within, a hot air balloon hovering above the ground. It pulls against the tent pegs as it fills with spirit breath. My words float from the page and swirl in the canopy, adding just enough lift to pull its tethers from hard packed ground. I stand stunned and grateful, watching it rise.

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