They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit. Jeremiah 17:8 (NIV)
Spring term of freshman year was the turning point of my academic career. The first two quarters prior to that term did not offer much promise for stellar performance. I knew I wanted to major in History and though I loved my school and the friends I made, some of whom proved to last a lifetime, first, I had to get through the general education requirements. Wading through science, math and foreign language, the girl who never studied in high school found herself making Bs and Cs along with the occasional F. Finally, in the spring term, I was allowed to take something that I liked English Composition. That class was like salve to my wounded pride. I soared in English composition. Walking into that class each day was a thrill. I still remember the final research paper I wrote on a poem, Ode to the West Wind, by Percy Shelley. I picked the longest of the poems among our choices which proved to be a wise decision. While my classmates struggled to find information on their three lined poems, volumes had been written about mine. I maxed out the number of pages we were allowed to submit while others lost points from too little pages. While I lost points for inappropriate comma usage (still a problem for me), I received an A. My confidence returned and my academic career improved. I don’t remember anything by Maya Angelou on that list. In fact, I don’t remember ever studying about her at all. Not that it is a surprise having gone to middle and high school in Florida that has never been known for its academic progressiveness. My college was a small Southern Baptist School in the Deep South in the late 1970s. Not really suited for the stories of discrimination, rape and abuse that Maya Angelou endured. Nor do I remember studying about her in graduate school even though many of my classes were taught by liberal historians, including a class on the 1960s. I am sure they study her work now, but sadly, I missed it. After graduate school came marriage and motherhood and the only reading I did was escapism through the novels of Danielle Steele and Nora Roberts. I guess that is why the first real study I have done of Maya Angelou began this week as word of her death filled the news and seeped into Facebook. I was reading some of her poetry this morning and came across On the Pulse of Morning. It seemed like it was speaking right to me with its references to history and hope, planting and soaring. Just goes to show we are never too old to learn or to set aside long hidden biases. Maya Angelou and I might have lived different eras and classes, but in the end, we speak the same language and are compelled to express in words the longing of our hearts. I’ll be back for more of hers. She has much to teach me.
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers–desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers–desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot …
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours–your Passages have been paid.
I am yours–your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
My husband gave me "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" for my birthday many years ago and that was my introduction to Maya Angelou. It was like a window opening. I've since read many of her books. What a truly unique soul she has!