Recently, I had the most amazing and unexpected experience while visiting the south rim of the Grand Canyon. We had spent two days in the desert at 107 degrees and were quite relieved and very happy to take a cooler and greener drive through the most amazing pine forests and yellow fields to the south rim of the grand canyon. It was late morning when we arrive. We had received a brochure at the gate of the park which had given us some information explaining the geological reasoning behind the this astonishing slash into the surface of the earth, which we perused before we started the 2.5 mile walk along the rim of the canyon.
I noticed immediately that the park had built no barriers between the walkers and the mile and a half drop to the canyon floor. One could walk out on the most precarious looking outcroppings of rock. I found this trust in basic human survival very refreshing and found myself walking out over the canyon every chance I got. It was while standing on one of these outcroppings staring out into this world of time that I began to feel the most profound sadness. It was thick in my throat and my heart started to feel constricted. As the day at the canyon proceeded, this feeling stayed with me.
I needed to understand what this place was and why it was having this effect on me. Throughout the day, I read all the information cairns which explained why the canyon had occurred. I ran my hands over all the incredibly old rocks provided to touch. I spoke to people to get there impressions and asked questions of others. I was learning how the canyon.. , when the canyon ...,
why the canyon...., but the sadness persisted and nothing I was learning about the canyon seemed to relieve this very physical sensation that I was feeling. In the late afternoon, when we left the canyon to return to the hotel, I was still not resolved.
After a little supper and a short rest, I decided we needed to go back. I was not done with the canyon. I was feeling confused by the effect this place was having on me. We returned to the south rim to watch the sunset. It was the sunset that told me the story of the canyon. As soon as the sun began to descend, and the light values in the canyon shifted, the canyon became alive. It moved and morphed; it lit up and went dark; it's colours turned warm, it's colours turned cold.....red to purple....green and blue. My heart broke open with love for this very old woman. I did not want to move. I wanted to lay down and sleep in the arms of this canyon.
After the sun went down, all the people left. It became very, very dark. The only light was the specks of stars in the sky. It was like floating in the arms of the universe. When I could no longer see, the canyon came alive with sound....birds, animals and bugs... all singing into the darkness. It was in that moment that I remembered my teacher. I could hear him say, "what is this?" I had not yet asked the "what" question. I sat on one of the outcroppings of rock over the canyon, and meditated. I stayed with the "what is this?'..."what is this? This was my only thought and I was immediately filled with confidence that this was finally asking the right question. This would end my confusion. After a while of staying focused on this question, a small gentle voice began to fill my mind. "I am the canyon". "I am the canyon". "I am the canyon". Tears ran down my face. The sadness had erupted and evolved into an understanding about who I was. I was old. I was changing every moment, like the canyon at sunset. I was morphing; constantly morphing. The canyon was always changing and so was I. My sadness was the human sadness of loss, of change, of impermanence. The canyon had a lesson for me. I will be forever grateful for the canyon and the generous lessons of my teacher....thank you, Wayne
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