I often drive a well-known canyon road.
It takes me from life’s some-times frantic pace
to hiking trails or secret fishing holes,
to solitude and beauty that replace
the cares that fret, the fears that press my mind.
My canyon helps me leave them all behind.

A steady climb of thirty winding miles
beneath majestic cliffs and towering peaks
takes me atop a summit that commands
a vista that is wondrous and unique:
a deep-blue lake where people go to play.
Some stay for months, some weeks, some just one day.

But all return, descending down the road.
The exodus at times takes place in mass.
All fall in line and form a tight procession
of vehicles of every kind and class:
some with camping trailers, boats, or ATVs in tow.
Some go fast and some go really slow.

The slowest of them all are usually those
who pull behind them far too great a load:
big boats or monstrous trailers never meant
for use on such a winding narrow road.
But sometimes, every now and then, it’s been
some in-no-hurry senior citizen.

When caught within this queue, I play a game.
I call it, “See if you can from the top
descend the thirty miles and never touch
your brakes.” Then, I pretend I cannot stop:
my brakes have failed, and life and limb depend
on whether I can make it to the end.

Success in this my game demands I keep
no less than seven car-lengths in between
my vehicle and those in front of me.
And as I course the road along the stream,
the brake lights up ahead allow me time
to slow my pace while never using mine.

And right behind the gap and me, the queue
continues, and the drivers in my wake
crowd tightly—just as closely as they can—
all eager for the chance to pass and take
possession of the void I’ve left unfilled.
It doesn’t stop my game; I’m quick to yield.

And though my game requires that I keep
a watchful eye ahead for when brake lights
go on, the distance gives me ample time
to ponder all my canyon’s wondrous sights:
the river, cliffs and peaks, all kinds of trees,
I relish and enjoy, thanks to my ease.

This, while my fellow travelers stay intent
on making sure they do not fall behind
or by some error of judgment lose their chance
to move one place ahead along the line.
I wonder if to them the reason’s clear
for why they need a brake job every year.

And often those behind me shake their head.
Some even sound their horn in their disgust
or signal me to go a little faster.
The space ahead of me tells them I must
be the cause, the source of their frustration:
a trying and annoying aggravation.

I guess they think me strange, a little weird.
Why am I not—like they are—in a rush
to leave my canyon world three minutes sooner?
Yes, I’m the cause they criticize and cuss,
begrudging me their time they think I waste
because I do no share their sense of haste.

They do not realize my steady pace
takes no more time than all their brake and go.
Despite their bursts of brief acceleration,
their average rate of speed is just as slow.
So, while their lights go on and off then on again, I smile.
It’s nice to be outside the rank and file.

But, lest you think that I’m the only one
who takes his time descending leisurely,
once in a while I’ll spot some kindred soul
ahead, someone whose lights I seldom see.
I like to think it’s someone I’ve once known
who’s pleased—as I am—that he’s not alone.

Could it be he also plays my game?
Or is there more than meets my casual eye?
Is this a man who holds back from the crowd
for reasons that exalt and magnify
his soul? Perhaps he has a broader view
that helps him stay content while in the queue.

There’s much that I can learn from such a man,
by how he travels down my canyon road,
about his heart and where his treasures lie,
a patient man who humbly shares the load
of those who must for safety slow his pace,
It doesn't take the smile off his face.

He doesn’t worry someone else might pass.
He doesn’t care how others might perceive
his hanging back. His actions are inspired
by tolerance and care. He must believe
that hurrying the pace is not the goal
but rather the arrival safe and whole.

He must have learned somewhere along the way
that happiness and worth do not depend
on always being first. Life’s not a race.
The journey is as vital as its end,
especially when we learn to vanquish selfishness and strife
while traveling down the canyon road of life.

In one of his epistles, Paul exhorted the Philippians saints to “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than themselves. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.” Forbearance, patience, brotherly kindness, and charity are among the positive traits I’ve aspired to for a long time. And although I like to think I’ve made good progress over the years, I’m far from where I’d like to be. I keep forgetting that I’m not the center of the universe. I need to reflect more often on one of my favorite quotations from my favorite poet, Antonio Machado—and I’m sure I’ve used it before in these comments about my own poetry. He said—and this is a pretty good translation from the original Spanish even though it’s much better untranslated—“The eye you see is an eye not because you see it (my italics); it is an eye because it (my italics again) sees you.” Perhaps one of the most pivotal lessons each of us has to learn on our way to perfection is that none of us is the center of the universe. God loves me neither more nor better than any other of His children. He is concerned as much about them as he is about me; so, if I want to be like Him I ought to be seeing them as He sees them. I think traveling down the canyon works well as a metaphor to help communicate that lesson, and reciting it from time to time helps me remember it and maintain the “lowliness of mind” Paul spoke of. It wasn’t an easy poem to write, but it’s become one of my very favorites.