Admittedly, I was moved by the announcement of Maya Angelou’s homecoming this morning.
My eyes welled up with tears as I sat in stunned silence, temporarily dropping out of my corporate environment into a sullen, murky place.
My initial response of being forlorn at the realization that a voice had been silenced forever, gave way to the reality that her work was done.
That her voice could never be silenced.
She was a creator, teacher and foremost of all, she was a writer and the power that lies in that gift, is that of immortality.
The act of reading, those words that flowed freely from her heart, gives license to live for perpetuity within whomever is privileged enough to be inspired by her.
She and others of her ilk, influenced and moved me into their respective orbits before I lost my way.
Foolishly, I searched for a inferior replacement for that which was always a component of my being.
My fight… To write.
Doing it, not out of a selfish desire to procure the ambrosia of immortality, but as a means to live, completely.
It wasn’t until I discovered and refortified the passion that I had for words and their innate power that they afford that my world started to come into some semblance of balance.
The torch has been passed by Mother Maya.
Will we choose to honor or opt to extinguish?
I shouldn’t be scared to ask, but I am.