Time is starting to mean less and less to us these days.  We both work schedules that change from day to day, so we're not falling into any routines on any given day.  One Saturday I may start work at one, and then the next week I'll start at seven.  It doesn't matter at all what time I start, as long as I know that morning when I need to be at work.  Terry's schedule is very similar, and we're both enjoying the dynamic qualities that such a schedule injects into our lives.  We're both getting Monday and Tuesday off each week, too, so the "standard" week doesn't mean much to us at all.  We don't plan our lives around weekends or TV shows or entertainment--we just take each day as it comes, for what it's worth.

Time means nothing at all when you make yourself one with the Canyon, either.  And if you hike down into it and keep your mind and heart and eyes and ears open, it's almost impossible for the Canyon not to make itself a part of you.  The Canyon is very young in geological terms, but the Canyon also is timeless.  It's an enigma, and it's a miracle.  There is no time when you sit at the edge of Plateau Point--after a six-mile hike down--and listen to the raven's flapping wings above you and the steady roar of the rapids below you.  When you're surrounded by the majesty of the Canyon walls that were created by simple erosion--erosion!--the rest of the world and its norms and attitudes seem very, very far away, a dim memory that seems very unimportant in the bigger picture of life.

We focus on time only when we think of avoiding crowds.  We don't want to reach the park entrance when there will be long lines.  We don't want to get a late start hiking because of the large numbers of people who will be on the trail after a certain hour.  We don't want to go eat at certain times because we'll face large crowds of tourists if we do so.  In the summer, we'll be very aware of time because we'll want to avoid the intense heat that builds in the Canyon each day, but for now the temperatures are quite comfortable.

I don't think either of us expected to see such a huge change in the way we see and respond to time, especially so soon.  We had a lot of ideas about things that would change and the ways in which they would change, but this is a very positive, very unique change for us.  Our relationships with the clock is now much different than it was just a couple of months ago, and I think it's for the better.  It certainly is helping us to stay present in the now, to stay focused on getting as much out of each moment as we can, for we're now in a situation in which we truly take each day as it comes, and we don't think at all in terms of weeks or months.

As an aside, what do you think the number one injury at the Canyon is?  It has nothing to do with hiking or camping or falling off the edge--it's the squirrel bite.  People think they're so cute that they just have to feed them and even try to pet them, and guess what?  Squirrels like to be fed, and they'll get really close to get food, but just try to touch them and they can put a pretty nasty cut in your finger.  Hmm. . . . I've know some people who were kind of like that.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day, my favorite holiday of the year.  I'll be working all afternoon, so we won't be able to have any sort of traditional meal or celebration, but that's okay.  In fact, I wrote a short essay about that for this week's e-zine; I think it says what I want to say in this journal entry, so I'll just reprint it here:

A Different Type of Thanksgiving

My wife and I are going to have a different kind of Thanksgiving this year--a very different kind.  Since we've been married, we've always been able to be together on the holiday, since both of us have had the day off.  We've been in the house we used to live in, so we were able to invite people over and make a very nice day of it, with all the food and trimmings that are traditional for the day.

This year, I'll be working on Thanksgiving Day, from noon to 8:30.  We still don't know if my wife will be working, or what hours she'll have.  This means that no matter what our situation, we won't be able to eat our Thanksgiving meal together.  This year, we live in a motor home, with one small bedroom and one small room that functions as our living room, kitchen, dining room, and study.  We also live hundreds of miles away from our nearest relatives, and thousands of miles away from Terry's family.  We obviously aren't in any position to be inviting people over.

Both of us agree, first of all, that every day is--or should be--Thanksgiving Day.  The assignment of an arbitrary day and date for the holiday is important, but we know that if our situation doesn't allow us to "celebrate" the day with others, we can have our own celebration on a different day when we can spend time together.  Thanksgiving, after all, is a state of mind, and it's up to us to make the most of our circumstances, not to look at the limitations in front of us.

We both love turkey and dressing and yams and pumpkin pie, but if we don't have those things this Thanksgiving, that will be fine.  The food doesn't make the holiday--it merely provides a setting that reminds us of much of what we have to be grateful for.  If Thanksgiving truly is in our hearts, then we can have cheeseburgers and fries and still have a beautiful holiday.  Even if we had cheeseburgers, we'd still have more to eat than millions of people in the world on that day, and that's certainly something to be thankful for, isn't it?

Besides, what's going to stop us from having a more traditional Thanksgiving on Friday or Saturday, when we'll have time together to do so?  Missing the meal on Thursday isn't going to ruin the holiday for us.  In fact, many people celebrate the holiday by volunteering at homeless shelters and soup kitchens, foregoing their own celebrations in order to help to provide a special meal for others who aren't as fortunate as they are.  Are their lives poorer or richer for not having their own private special celebration?

After all, gratitude is in our hearts.  No matter what our outer circumstances, if we face life with a thankful attitude we face life on our own terms, and we don't allow our life situations to bring us up or take us down.  A grateful approach to life gives us a healthy perspective that allows us to see what happens to us as important lessons rather than as trials and tribulations.

We both believe that by "missing" the traditional Thanksgiving celebration, we're going to deepen our gratitude and our understanding of what the day truly means.  By being forced to break with tradition, we're going to test our ability to assign our own meaning to each day in our lives, especially when we celebrate Thanksgiving on a different day than everyone else.  And by working on Thursday, I can provide someone else with a day off, when they can spend the holiday with their loved ones.

All in all, we're both looking forward to the lessons that we'll be learning on Thanksgiving this year, and to the new experiences of a new type of holiday for us.  And we both send you all our best wishes for one of your happiest Thanksgivings ever!

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When I'm in the Canyon, I feel the age of the planet, the vastness of history, the reality of forever.  My mind rebels at the incomprehensible nature of limitlessness within the limits of space and time.

Geologists name and classify and define.  I appreciate that, for it allows my brain to get a bit of a grasp on just what it is that surrounds me in stoic silence.  But I cannot name it myself, as I don't want to know any names.  I want to feel the Canyon.  I want it to reach out and take me, to make me--to allow me--to be a part of it myself.

The Canyon invites, but it does so on its own terms.  For the unwilling or the unprepared, it may be an invitation to death.  Those who aren't careful easily can die.  A fall from the heights, dehydration, heat stroke, a spill into the river. . . .

I've hiked alone on the edges of precipices that would show no mercy for the slightest misstep.  I've felt the wind push me not-so-gently towards the edges of oblivion, and I've had to smile at my smallness.  I've felt exhaustion in legs that no longer wanted to go up; legs that knew that the only thing I could do was to continue to climb.

The Canyon is a friend to me.  It instills within my spirit a peace I've never before known in any other situation.  It gives me knowledge of eternity, and it allows me to be a part of it.  "Allows"?  No, demands.

I would want nothing more than to be a true part of this miracle, and whether I'm walking on the rim or exploring its depths, I AM a part of it.  I exist with the Canyon in space and in the moment.  Is not that all that matters?

I want to feel the Canyon as a child feels mother.  I want to feel it as an artist feels inspiration, as a person wronged feels justice.  I want to feel it as one feels joy, in every atom of my body, in every aspect of my self.

To feel, of course, I must open.  I must open my heart and mind and allow it to overwhelm me in its own way, not on my limited terms.  All I must do is open my self to possibility, to eternity, to majesty and awesome spirit.

I must open my heart.  No one can open it for me.  I can't wait for my heart to open itself, for it never shall.

The Canyon is not a place.  The Canyon IS.

I am not a person.  I AM.

Together, we ARE.