Imagine the self as a canyon in the making,
once solid, and then, ongoingly,
made more spacious, shaped by water,
by wind, by forces beyond its control.
Whatever is sacred, I feel it in canyons,
these earthen temples to surrender—
such holy architecture
with their deep and ancient silence,
with their steep and crumbling walls.
How sacred the angle of light
as it enters from the rim and slants
through the belly of air.
Sacred, too, the shadows,
like those most secret parts of ourselves
that never see light.
When I think of the self as a canyon,
it is easier to believe I, too,
can be made more spacious
through surrender, the shape of my life
an ever-changing record of where I resist
and where I release,
oh this practice I am still learning
to trust, this erosion of self
into reverence.