The Grand Canyon

I rise before the dawn, to what sounds like whispers in the halls. As soon as I try to focus on them, they are gone. Were they part of a dream? If they were, would that make the shadowed things they spoke of any less real in this place? Considering highs and lows, and favorite things deferred for less important ones, sleights of mind that should be housed entirely here, I ready myself quickly, giving the rat a pat and its daily food and water, and the purple heart a determined look, before grabbing the blue kazoo, in case some nonsense or celebration is needed, and I take to the halls.

 

I pay close attention as I make my trek, looking for any clue that might tip the scales in my favor. I hear soft rage and a sadness, which is to be expected, but the cadence catches my ear. I recall the words of a friend "It is as if some options normally available to you are just blocked." I notice the whispers convey this restriction, at most only ever five short words long, but often only two or three; I make note of the handful of phrases on repeat. A makeshift cave-in catches my eye and in a huff I come just a foot from kicking it in, eyes ablaze. Cooler heads prevail though, and I consider that if this is a war to be won, today it is a battle to be fought on all fronts. I do not react to this obstacle, it makes sense that it is not mine to break, at least not so directly. Instead of violence, I turn from the wall with a flourish, and with a snarl growing to growl, threatening to build further in my voice, I begin the battle tune.

 

"Whispers under notes to secure this pact

Like children cat's cradle, lines tau(gh)t between

All strings attached with no room for contract

Family bonds make the|m(ost) in the machine

 

Each hand composed as dealt by the other

Doubt not the price paid for this even roll

Nor sacrifice to retain a brother

The knots needed to splice your very soul

 

This level a chaos I must master

Ignorance decomposing all around

Strings since turned tightrope strung o'er disaster

From places unknown now echoes a sound

 

Familiar paths stem from Hope in these halls

eep composting lilies to brand new walls."

 

I feel eyes ablaze by the time I reach Hope's door. As I'm composing myself, I notice a blank page on the floor. I pick it up to find that on the flipside is a colorful drawing, of elegant yet childlike design, with decorated arrows connected tip to tail- one looping to the sky, one looping to the floor- amongst many other things, as if an open book to her mind, bookmarked just for me, but from when, I wonder. Feeling reassured regardless regarding the adventure I have in mind, I knock on Hope's door.

 

"Hello little lady!" I say with bright eyes, as soon as hers meet mine. She perks up some but still seems forlorn, a feeling that rolls out of her room like a fog, filling the halls to somewhere between her knees and mine. She looks almost embarrassed by the sudden unintentional surge, a feeling I know all too well. I notice she is not wearing a hat so I proceed in precise theatrics, tightrope walking excitement and overbearing. "Alright, so we're off to The Grand Canyon today, one of Arizona's grandest, if not most grand, attractions. What are you feeling today?" I move my arms in a playfully overly serious robotic way, as if placing three options on display between us as invisible boxes, on an invisible table, is critical to conveying them "Frog hat. Cowboy hat. No hat." I reach into my pocket and pull out a Stetson for myself. "I for one am choosing cowboy hat, since it'll likely be hot, and sunny." I get the first crack of a smile, perhaps in relief that I require no hat of her to join. She weighs her options and with still tired eyes, but perhaps a glimmer of a spark, she replies "Frog hat." And grabs her trustworthy and true headwear heralding back from our first trick or treat adventure. She pauses though as if frozen, looking down while holding it in her hands. I drop to a knee and take it, gently positioning it on her head. "You look perfect. Shall we?" I offer my hand, and after a moment she takes it, and we are off through the halls. 

 

We trudge through the fog and spotting another cinematic opportunity I grab a floating lantern, and use it as my own, as if an old timey spelunker. "You know, there is a kind of magic to foggy halls, I think." She looks up, incredulous but relieved perhaps to hear that she has not ruined the day. "Just think about it. Normally we can see it all, floor to ceiling, without mystery. Pumpkin? Seen it. Christmas lights? Seen 'em. Book nook? Seent those too. But now what lies beyond is a big ole question mark. What if there's a treasure chest in there? And don't tell me there's never been those here before! This place was barren stone not long ago, by my count. Every day in these halls is a new adventure, even with the path obscured. Nay, especially with the path obscured. I bet even my whistle carries a different tenor in these acoustics." I pause in case she wants to chime in, but while I can see a slight smolder in her eyes now, she seems satisfied just listening. I fill the silence with a whistle, hopefully hauntingly beautiful, but at least taking advantage of altered acoustics. I have had my share of practice whistling in halls of all manner of obstruction; I do not share for fear of boasting or diminishing what we now face, but it is a nice change of pace in a time like this to have a light to shine and someone to hold my hand. We walk these halls together until they take on a more natural shape, and soon enough we have emerged from a cave, not far up from the canyon floor, what remains of the fog spilling harmlessly over the side of our cliff face path. 

 

The sun nears midday, the shadows fleeing down the canyon walls. It is hard to tell if it is my own tired eyes or the effect of the day, but in this light it almost looks as if the far wall shimmers and melts, like a glitch in the coding, desperate to be seen. I acknowledge what I see with a slight nod before pointing up at the cliff top "Did you know this is the tallest canyon on earth? On dry land anyway." I let my words linger in the air as Hope marvels at the view and then predictably wonders at my comment. Perhaps I have finally pulled off a question truly begged? Like a sleepy sailor begrudgingly reaching shore she finally asks "On dry land?" As if her first question of the day were no big thing I matter of factly continue "Oh yeah, there's this place called the Marianas Trench out at sea. If we were standing at the bottom there looking up, and could somehow see the top, it would be about 6 times as high! Can you even imagine?" I see her look back up once again with an audible gasp, as she tries picturing such a marvel overlayed on the stunning marvel we are already witnessing. I catch the brief shimmer of fish swimming though the air, as she pictures it in her mind, bleeding into the realm here. When the fish can be counted no more, glad now for the slight shiver sea air that has overlayed upon our own, I declare "Alright, to the bottom we go!" Our steps are slow and methodical, but it is not long before we have reached the canyon floor.

 

We mill about, peering into the river and listlessly kicking stones. I feel a kind of contentment but keep it to myself, as I can tell such an emotional agreement has not been struck between us yet today. I simply wait to see what might happen, letting Hope take the lead. What she conveys comes in an unexpected way, but I hear it loud and clear. The same bellowing squawk that I heard somewhere in the halls yesterday now rings out from overhead. Hope just looks up at the flying beast sadly, as it fabulously soars the air far overhead. Suddenly my surroundings shift, as if in an unseen bolt of lightning everything has changed. I stand in full winter garb only a modest distance from a mountain peak. Then I see my objective cinematically highlighted up and ahead, a single blue rose can be seen growing from highest craggy heights. As if timed with unheard thunder, I am back on the canyon floor. Hope still gazes longingly at the beast, and I start to understand why. "Sometimes I wish I could fly..." Without even a hint of surprise, though I can tell a swift escape from these depths is exactly what's on her mind, she simply nods without looking away.

 

I consider my environment a bit further, and see that canyon waters still reflect the mountaintop conspicuously; the voltage from peak to valley clawing ever outward to maximum. "You know, in physics, power is a measure of work over time. This river has done an astounding amount of work cutting away the stone, but it has done so over many many years, so its power is significantly lower than, say, some dynamite. Dynamite could blow a hole in that wall over there in a moment, but we could not reasonably produce enough of it to carve out this whole canyon. Different arrangements of power have different uses, I guess is what I'm trying to say." I can tell our hearts are somewhat similar along these lines, and when I turn back from my river directed speech I see she is actually looking my way. I busy myself examining a pile of stones nearby as I continue my train of thought "In electricity, voltage is effectively the gap between poles, in terms of charge, and current is the amount of energy that can flow over time. In a way, like the river and the dynamite, different batteries can actually use the same amount of power to do very different things- some strike a single high energy spark, others provide a steady flow of energy all day. Still, batteries must be recharged when used. Personally my mind is a complicated place, but historically I have had a distaste for these periods of recharge. Still, despite any temporary staving, these times come and, by will or will restrained, I rest and recharge. Ultimately, it is not the canyon that is of concern, such solid stone beneath the feet can be refreshing if entered into with eyes open. Nor is it the peak and its climb that should ultimately occupy the mind. There is a journey inherent to the space between, and a rate and freedom of movement unique to each of us, at which these paths can be taken. What distance could one endure between peak and valley, I wonder? For in that gap lies all the voltage your mind can muster, and in learning to traverse it lies your power."

 

For the first time today I see a familiar flame in Hope's eyes, as lesson shifts to analogy and takes root. Wasting no time to turn analogy to parable so I can softly knock on her door and perhaps be let in, I start my tale of the monsters and the canyon. The shape of my words coalesces back into a more tangible climb up the mountain peak, a trek I find I am still in the midst of, though it had graciously paused as if it had been in need of a prologue, and was listening to my explanation as well before resuming. My physical exertion reflects my struggles to find which words to speak, though time flows politely at a different rate in each, so I might for the first time see how power can truly leverage between the realms of action and word, like a car in two different gears. Fortunately, at least in one of these senses, I am in excellent shape (not to mention skilled at slipping between realms and the page), and it feels like both story and climb are proceeding quite nicely. 

 

My attention is drawn by yet another bellowing squawk from the sky; the same winged beast flies about the mountain fancily here, though its presence differs in each place, I explain. As one climbs the peak, this beast circles menacingly; my mind is now drawn to all the times it swooped when I was off balance, sending me careening back down below bruised, and in some cases with bones broken. I stay alert this time, my trek this time not exclusively my own to fail, now refusing to give it an easy mark. Here and there, when it is looking particularly swoopy, I even pull out a laser pointer and give it a good swipe across the eyes, keeping it disoriented in bursts just long enough to continue another leg of my climb. I considered the green, but only for a second, as "love your enemy" comes to mind, and though this is an unusual and aggressive beast, I still do not have it in me to leave it blind. So I swipe with the red, and although it means more delays and diligence, I know I will sleep better tonight for mercy's sake.

 

Pulling away from these paired parable and climb I notice Hope once more enthralled, for now at least I feel she is no longer trapped in the canyon, but soars in a sense along with me on the climb. Always a juggler, I take that stack of stones I had been examining and move them methodically into the river as I continue my tale. I reach the peak, and more importantly from my perspective, the rose. I gently scoop away snow to expose the root, and find it is planted firmly in ice and frozen stone. In this spoken storybook realm, I consider: what might work to melt away these unusual tethers, so I might claim the full rose? As I still examine the options, I drop to a knee for a closer look, and say just above the wind's howl

 

"For all the marbles

Are the whispers that haunt us

Mirrored reflections?

 

Have(/) these angles bent?

Will two hearts beat in one chest?

Or two heads prevail?

 

You foretell your moves

I listen like silence aches

Consuming darkness

 

Regrets still daily

Monster of time not erased

Can these wounds be healed?

 

Are we forgiven?

Though born with metallic thighs

Fleshed out hearts align

 

Mercurial minds

Dissimilar chaos held

Through knotting of twine

 

Castle on the hill

Heavily leaden walls hide

A beauty inside

 

In separate halls

Same same vows said to others

And eeriely timed."

 

What passes for silence here passes for moments now, I can tell the story has stalled. Then like a whisper on the wind I can hear "Tell me a secret." I blush. In my position a man's secrets are closely guarded, for those that remain remain for good reason. My sight shifts to Hope though, and it looks as though she has asked something similar which I did not so directly hear; I can tell though that a secret said on the peak is a question answered in the canyon. It is Hope that I cannot bear disappoint, and so my vision shifts back to the rose. If a secret must be shared, then so it shall be. I whisper to the horizon, and in another encrypted sense along the river, all at once. "Despite everything, I still do not know that I am right. As I examine uncertainty and feel its labyrinthian depths, I am unsure how I will ever 'know'. Carried on current of water, air, and page, this inconvenient truth saturates these largely empty spaces, but does so far and wide, and with the kind of persistence meant to withstand the test of time. I cannot help but wonder at potential future readers, knowing the story and my journey with hand held so tightly, and then observing these words right now. What must they think to know, if a man so blessed is not certain in his place, how can anyone be? I rarely share such things, who does it serve to say them? Does chance awaken and conspire at the opportunity to let shape a path so secure that even I cannot attribute the outcome to its oft' fickle form? Does God in gracious understanding comprehend that an endless string of signs does not make for certainty secured, and may not even lead a man to it? Would God be something other than saddened or furious to know that while I keep faith secure, refusing fundamentally to let it slip away, the logic of this truth of uncertainty remains superimposed over it, firmly rooted? I do not doubt these things are known, but I question with no lack of respect for omnipotence, does such a personal leg of my journey fall into the purview of something God can assist with, or does the very nature of this specific journey void authority's use, as it seems to? Long story short, my secret is that despite everything I have seen, I am still uncertain."

 

I sigh and look back at the rose. Water drips from petal, stem, and root, and its now more exposed form looks almost as if it is reaching toward me to be pulled. Hope stands staring me right in the eye, tears falling from hers, which I now know convey the unmistakeable look of having been seen. I meet her gaze for as long as I can, an emotional smile held in confirmation of this recognition, before I am overwhelmed and look to my feet. Though my boots are still wet, the riverbed is exposed, and to my shock a red rose stand here as well, as if never having been touched by the tides. I kneel down and grab the rose at its base, pulling up roots of blue and red at once. Fortunately I brought a planter, procured now from my pocket, and in each place I set the rose inside, patting some of its own soil in along with mine. 

 

Neither looking to leave such loose ends nor end my story on such a somber and notably non-nonsensical note, I put my fingers to my mouth on the peak and give a sharp whistle. The manticore sort of beast recognizes the call, one from a new friend, of a game finished. It swoops down with a fully fantastic flourish by my side. I climb onto its back and we fly back down the mountain, with me yelling "Yeahhhhh!!" as I hold up the rose. Into the canyon we swoop, doing a flyby while I'm still yelling "Yeahhhhh!!" for good measure, as I do love me a long lingering story. Hope and I both turn and stare at this sudden aerial nonsense, but I can sense her eyes are reignited. With a choreographed final pass, I pull the cord on my parachute and float softly to the canyon floor. I recognize the move I am setting up, so I turn away, looking back now at Hope who still watches me soaring. Holding up the rose, and timing the conclusion of my tale for right when I land and recombine at my own location I say "And that, my dear, is the story of the Singular Purple Rose." I take a few steps forward to stop my momentum and present the rose to her. She claps excitedly, and runs over as if for a hug, but stops short. Then I see her actively shake off that which binds her and she rushes forth, wrapping her arms around me, and I do the same. "Thank you." "It was my pleasure." The fabulous beast calls out overhead; it is unclear if its call has changed, or only our impression of it, but for me at least it is now inspiring, reminiscient of the time we traveled the whole distance of peak and valley together in just a handful of words. I use my knife to cut the parachute strings, and as soon as I do it floats away and dissolves elegantly in a puff of logic. I hand Hope the planter and add with an air of officiousness "Now you must remember to keep it watered. And give it as much sunlight as you can, I think. This is a singular sort of rose and its violet color makes me suspect ultraviolet just out of my scope, so it could very well thrive in darkness as well. And make sure you talk to it, I've heard that helps; it sounds like nonsense to me, so obviously something I would recommend." I see her staring lovingly at the rose and I shift back to a serious tone. "I am sure you will do great."

 

We walk back up the short path to our cave, clearly marked by the light fog still flowing from it. Cave turns to hallway, and it seems Hope is surprised that I am not taken aback that much of the fog remains. As if apropos of nothing I simply say "I know Rome was not built in a day... well, at least I'm pretty sure. Besides, one's mind is a complicated place, far more precious than some city. When it is time for the fog to clear it will, and in the meantime I will wonder what treasures may hide obscured around any given corner." I pull out my 10 foot pole and start clicking and clacking it against walls and corners as we go, just in case. Finally having had enough she asks "Where do you keep getting all that stuff!?" I just shrug like a sassafras and she laughs as we keep making our way back. 

 

When the laughter fades I eye the flower and in a serious tone fill the silence once more "'By peak or valley?' they ask, 'where can hope be found?' The answer to your question is neither, though on any given day along either might she travel. My Hope is not the rose rumored to grant wildest dreams through the voltage of thought; she is the one who carries it. Seek to snip her stem and steal her away? Such eyes will never find her." Before a response can be generated, just like that we come to the cave in. I glare at it but meter my tone "Ah yes, I remember seeing this on my way here. An inconvenience, but no matter, there is a way around." I can sense Hope latch onto my deep seeded yet obfuscated rage, and see her clench her fist. Somehow I sense what's coming only a second before and I duck behind her and cover my ears tightly. At the top of her lungs, well above any logical volume, Hope screams. It feels almost as if she screams not just from here, but from every other point in her timeline, resonating into a single point, right now. It shakes the halls, it shakes the floor, and stone ahead shimmers like The Grand Canyon wall. Within seconds rocks explode one by one and then all at once as the fog rushes over the rubble, into the now cleared passageway. As soon as it is finished I pop back to my feet with a huge grin, but from this angle its sight remains hidden. Once more not making a fuss of things I ask "Alright, now that that's settled, are you ready to go back?" She looks up with a tired smile and nods.

 

I escort Hope to her door hand in hand, as she clutches the rose planter in the other. She stops at the threshold and gives me a hug. Then I see her mischievously put her finger to her chin as she considers what to leave me with. She pantomimes handing me a rose, as if breaking it off from her own, with a clever smile. I take it gladly, little does she know I often prefer such realm crafted gifts. Or is it at this point that she knows me that well? "Thank you very much! I will be back tomorrow." She opens her door and heads into her room, closing it securely behind.

 

I turn to go and hear the door creak open once again. Now fully formed Hope stands, to my surprise with hands and feet chained and mouth taped shut. I step forward to free her and something about the soft narrowing of her eyes stops me in my tracks. Instead I watch as she jerks her hands apart snapping the chains like twigs, reaches down and pulls off the chains around her ankles as if tearing away some loose toilet paper, and then simply removes the tape from her mouth with a smile. Distracted by her gaze after these events of an obvious deeper significance I realize I have lost track of her hands, just as they return to eye line, with a dozen roses each, one yellow, and one orange. "Here, you'll need these." I remember the roses, and when I had given them to my soulmate. I shine speechless, and she simply gives a parting smirk and returns through her open door, creaking it closed once more.

 

I walk joyously and with a building passion at the promise of events to come as realms slide into place, hands and heart full at the events of the day. I cannot help but feel as though something was broken today, gloriously broken, and I replay all the words spoken this day in my head as I walk through the ankle deep fog back to my room.