Rest in Peace – Maya Angelou 1928 – 2014 – A truly ‘Phenomenal woman’

“Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

 

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

 

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

 

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

 

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.”
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On Storytelling

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It was like a mystical moment. A moment of high revelation and spiritual ecstasy; It was a scary conversation; one of my first ever on a philosophical level. 

It was a revelation of words. It was a revelation of true storytelling.

A conversion.

“Your life is a story.” I still hear the words SHE had said to me.

SHE was like Mother Nature calling out to me – whispering her secret, through the caress of the summer wind.

It’s funny though, because I cannot recall who this SHE was now. I know I loved her.

Memory fails me. I’m hardly what you would call old; just aged with the timeless quality of an antique timepiece. Hidden away in the shadows; an Old Soul. Unknown to the Earth; a fragmented Nomad.

Every little thing that happens to you, whether good or bad and everyone who enters your life – whether for a second, a minute, an hour, a day, month or a year – becomes a part of Your story.”

Her tone rose on the word “Your”.

“My Story,” I had repeated.

I marveled at the notion of life being a story and I thought back to the days, months and years on end, when i had tried so hard to make the odd, aching, disjointed puzzles of life fit together. Of course, they never did fit.

But her words, in that brief encounter had taught me that what i had been searching for since that first gush of fresh air had reached my dry throat.

I didn’t have control over the characters and incidents of this story. 

I was in awe at the simple logic of this.

For days on end I recall that aged, old anguish one has, at the lack of control one has over his life – all the while thinking he is in control.

I had sighed.

I rejoiced at the harsh memories in my Pandora’s Box and at the silent picture frames haunting the edges of my own untold Odyssey.

Embrace it, for only you can Tell Your Story.”

I always fancied myself in the World of Old.

The myth was out.

I had turned, trying to catch her. But it was too late she had glided past me, leaving a ghostly chill.

I heard her often. But I never felt her again.

But there are times, I can swear the oath that she is near. Close by. Waiting to remind me of my tale, still untold.

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