"Here," she said, "I want to show you something."
She took my hand and parted the sky and there was the Grand Canyon.
From where I stood, it pulsed pink in the twilight.
I felt shy and shocked. I was looking at what I wanted most and yet I felt like turning away.
Her gaze held me and I dropped to my knees in worship.
A river ran through it.
I traced the flow to its source.
Dropping my head over the ledge, I breathed in deep.
It had no odor.
I extended my tongue and licked the wall.
Then I lowered myself into the canyon and began exploring. I moved gingerly. I was invading a national park, one of the seven wonders of the world.
My senses are dulled, not enhanced, by my awe. I’m in a great land and I don’t want to screw things up. I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted. I want to live here. I want to love here. I want to stake my claim here. I want to own this real estate and build a big tall fence around it to keep out intruders.
After an hour of tentative probing, I open my pill box and bite off half of a brown one. I drink two glasses of water to ward off headaches and wait 30 minutes for the strength to kick in.
Then I become Ranger Rick, leaping over hill and dale. I have no fear. I’m big and tall and strong. I will conquer all before me.
