I was eleven. I remember because it was the summer my mom had her second hand surgery. Her eyes less watchful by day, distracted with her painful recovery. I had just gotten a new-to-me, ancient, hand me down, banana seat bicycle from my cousin Cathy. And had discovered the joy of sneaking off to a rural county library a good country mile away. School was out, and I was looking forward to a whole summer to explore imaginary worlds, page after delicious page.

On the ‘how’ of “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”, was available to me in my isolated little world…I can not even begin to know. Why it was near the young adult section, there on a thin, metal shelf, a new-to-me-book, beckoning my young mind to explore…well, I no longer need or want to question. What I do know is that I still hold immense gratitude for that southern librarian, in their placing of that book there on that artificially-cold, overly-dusty shelf, for my wee self to find.

A new world opened up to me that summer. Words danced alive on pages and tears flowed like never ending rivers. Me, a closeted young, white girl in a tiny southern town, getting drunk in the words of discovered power, words filled with torment and delight, love and hate. Her poetry soon followed, sending my young mind into a world I could never turn back from. Gone were the days of Shel Silverstein. Maya Angelou fueled my passion for reading and my conservative-raised brain grew bolder, wiser and hungrier that summer.

On the nights I didn’t dare sleep, I honed the skill of my secret reading by flashlight, buried deep under the covers of my bed, into the wee hours of the morn. The books I kept hidden in the forest, wrapped tenderly with tiny hands, the borrowed words safeguarded in thick plastic and tied tight with old bandanas, placed gently in an old cigar box under a giant outcropping of granite down by the creek. The long, scorching, North Carolina summer afternoons filled with chores, the words from the yesterday dancing in my mind like songs I couldn’t let go of, my impatient hands longing to be turning pages, working quickly the hoe, the axe, the shovel and the rake so I could return to the fall of words that were awakening my young heart and wrapping me with a knowing of no longer being…so alone.

We didn’t talk much about books back then, unless it was the prescribed readings in class. I hid my chosen reading from my classmates as carefully as I hid it from my stepfather. The long country mile of my secret bike ride to the library…the long, heavy, rolling-foothills-trek back home. The whispered ritualistic praying I wouldn’t be spotted by curious neighbors or family members…and stopped and questioned about what I was carrying in that old pink duffel bag slung tightly across my back.

There aren’t enough beautiful ways to begin to touch upon the feelings I had, as I lost myself in those words. Dr. Angelou was one of the Great Trees that saved me from rotting away in a tiny place of closed off ugly-beauty. She saved my mind from my fears of the dark and what almost always was to come, and she most likely saved me from growing up to be a proud heritage not hate southerner.

When she came to my coastal college that spring of my freshman year, I was beyond jubilant. Here, I could share freely my excitement with others, and let build the anticipation of sitting near HER and experiencing HER delicious presence.

On that stormy coastal night, Dr. Angelou’s voice filled the auditorium with magical, free-flowing inspiration, with what could only be described as captivating wonderment. Her words fell over us like rain sliding smooth over pebbles, seeping back up into the bottom of our beach sandaled feet, the words soaking into our beings, a divine inspiration to grow, give, love, share, and…live.

Later that evening, as I stood waiting in line for a brief moment of greeting, her eyes met mine. Brilliant, piercing eyes, that acknowledged me sternly, kindly, matter-of-factly, and most importantly, knowingly. My 19 year old self could not form words in that instance. And yet no words were needed. In that brief moment, a life memory was created. A connection exchanged. A thousand thank you’s — oh look — I see YOU!, in the briefest of collections of time sharing spaces.

Today, my tears are flowing down my cheeks not out of sadness for Dr. Angelou’s passing, but out of an immense feelings of gratitude, honor, respect, and deep love. Dr. Angelou gave me fresh eyes and broke open my heart when it was needed most. Today and tomorrow, as in all the years past, her words and memory will continue to offer guidance, fire, wisdom, and passionate love in my life journey.

Blessed are we that have experienced the phenomenal presence of one of the Great Trees, those possessed of such wisdom that they explode into us with a fiery swelling of the heart…

“And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.”

—Excerpt from “When Great Trees Fall” by Dr. Maya Angelou

My Love, My Heart, Always.