in honor of maya angelou.

my heart is heavy today.  i know ms. maya lived a long, long, love-filled life, but just knowing she has moved on has made me very sad.

how can i explain what she meant to me?

 i know that thousands of people have spoke of her today, have offered words to honor her, to thank her.  i know that my words cannot do much but simply join in the chorus.  so forgive me if my addition is hackneyed or repetitive; just know that i must speak about her tonight.

i found maya angelou when i was a teenager, when i was enthralled by black women writers in general, but there was something so tangible to me about her work.  i felt immediately connected to her, even though, in truth, we had little in common.  at that time, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the only things that linked us were our femaleness and our love of reading.  but i entered maya's story, the story of her life, and i've been filled with gratitude since.

how could she be so open and lyrical and honest and true?  how could she reveal so much about the humanness of us all, while remaining steadfast to her own tale?  how could she offer me validation through her writing?

she told me how to love myself.  she was my model, my guide.  her words comforted me and took me home many times.  

i looked at my bookshelf tonight, saw her section of dog-eared paperbacks, thumbed through them and found passages i remembered, other parts of her story that i had forgotten.  her life, her life!  it is all there, isn't it--the boldness of it--the brazen attention to self-preservation and forgiveness--the ability to persevere--to find joy--to be "singin' and swingin' and gettin' merry like christmas"--to dance despite everything--to live in happiness and wisdom--her words, her life.

given to all of us like the most exquisite gift imaginable.  all of us finding ourselves within her somehow, and all of us eternally bonded by how she helped us become more true to who we are.

she is one of the reasons i call myself a writer.

so tonight, i call upon my sisters like me: those of us who were graced with the good fortune to read maya's words, and to take them forever into our hearts and souls.  i am with you all tonight.

thank you, auntie maya.  thank you for your journey and your light.  thank you for your steadfastness and reckless devotion to bringing forward your truth.  we are so blessed to have been here for your time on this earth.

large type.

here was my view, hiking with my beloved dogs this afternoon.

how strange, i thought, that just having clouds in the sky makes me giddy.  makes me say hello to all of the people hiking around me, whether they look like they want me to or not.  makes me smile wryly at the filming of an interview with some unknown celebrity in the middle of my hike, as opposed to throwing venomous looks towards the filmmakers for messing with my peaceful mojo and reminding me that i live in a very, very, very strange place.

no, i tell you, people, the clouds in the sky just made me happy.  what a gift it is to realize exactly how it feels to be filled to the brim with something that can only be called happiness.  

this day is turning into something fucking brilliant.

compounded by the fact that i get to start reading "The Interestings" tonight, and that the book i borrowed from the library is the LARGE TYPE edition.  do you know about LARGE TYPE?  you, like me, probably think about it as a thing for old people, but friends, let me tell you, LARGE TYPE is the bomb.  why would anyone want to read regular old 12pt. helvetica type when you could set your weary on LARGE TYPE and read with ease and relaxation?

i tell you, my world looks different tonight.  it looks different and clearly it is bold and beautiful and i am in love with it.  

my eyes have seen the glory.

the last time.

the last time i wrote i was so full of self-hatred, i thought i'd set my skin on fire.

it has been awhile, my friends.  as sam would say, "a lotta water under the bridge."

except that the water is the same creek that i have been wading in forever.  my feet instinctively know the feel of the rocks and mud, which should keep me safe from falling but instincts sometimes lose themselves in the mire and then there is nothing there but crashing, splashing, spluttering; and a makeshift bandage placed over the booboo.

once i've dried off.

i'm curious as to why i haven't felt like writing much lately.  it could be that my brain is hotwired with action all day long, and my synapses simply need to shut down at a certain point in the night.  still, i can't help but have the simmering feeling inside of me that i have something to say again.  i think it is the fear of repeating myself or indulging myself or insinuating myself into the realm of blogging again that keeps me at bay.

until tonight, i guess.

lately, i've been alternately amazed and repulsed by the world.  it is my challenge not to sink too deep into despair at the state of things.  i jumped off facebook again, my love/hate relationship, feeling that my own need for attention had overtaken me once more.  i needed the silence.  so i spent the few weeks off thinking of all of the people i love and admire who have refused to ride the facebook pony and seem perfectly fine for it.  and then i thought of all of the people whom i love and admire who were on facebook, and who i was missing terribly.  because, people, the fact is, this is how we communicate now, isn't it?  this is one part of it, anyway.

i keep thinking that i'll drag grammie's old typewriter out of the garage and start writing letters again. but what is the good in nostalgia?  nostalgia has kicked my ass once or twice before, and it hasn't been pretty.  why can't i just give over, without the judgment or condemnation of myself?

why indeed.

anyway, here i am again.  i decided to try this again, just because i am in dire need of some kind of self-expression.  the kindergarteners are just not doing it for me these days.  hell, they don't even listen to me at all anymore.  so i jump back on blogger, thinking that someone else will listen, somehow.  maybe that person is just myself.  i don't know.

i've decided to try to give up my anti-depressants.  my doctor has assured me that i can be on them forever--why would i want to get off of them?-- but i find myself having the same thoughts i had when i was wanting to go off the pill.  what is my own mechanism like?  its been a few years in this medicated state, and i know that i needed them back then, but what about now?  i want to be the purer version of me.  wiped clean, no filters, in the clear light of day.

unless it turns out that i can't be pure without disaster striking my brain.  then, of course, i'll embrace zoloft like the good consumer that i am.

for now, i'm just taking it slowly, weaning myself bit by bit.  i've given myself at least three months to do this, because i'm in no hurry.  i'm damned curious, is all.  

back in the saddle again.