Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now Read Online Free Page B

with God, constitutes the majority?
    That knowledge humbles me, melts my bones, closes my ears, and makes my teeth rock loosely in their gums. And it also liberates me. I am a big bird winging over high mountains, down into serene valleys. I am ripples of waves on silver seas. I’m a spring leaf trembling in anticipation.

Further New Directions

    Some people who exist sparingly on the mean side of the hill are threatened by those who also live in the shadows but who celebrate the light.
    It seems easier to lie prone than to press against the law of gravity and raise the body onto its feet and persist in remaining vertical.
    There are many incidents which can eviscerate the stalwart and bring the mighty down. In order to survive, the ample soul needs refreshments and reminders daily of its right to be and to be wherever it finds itself.
    I was fired from a job when I was sixteen years old and was devastated. My entire personal worth was laid waste. My mother found me crying in my upstairs room. (I had left the door ajar, hoping for consolation.)
    She tapped at the door and stepped in. When she asked why I was crying, I told her what happened.
    Her face suddenly became radiant with indulgent smiles. She sat down on my bed and took me into her arms.
    â€œFired? Fired?” She laughed. “What the hell is that? Nothing. Tomorrow you’ll go looking for another job. That’s all.”
    She dabbed at my tears with her handkerchief. “So what? Remember, you were looking for a job when you found the one you just lost. So you’ll just be looking for a job one more time.”
    She laughed at her wisdom and my youthful consternation. “And think about it, if you ever get fired again, the boss won’t be getting a cherry. You’ve been through it once, and survived.”
    My mother, the late Vivian Baxter, retired from the merchant marine as a member of the Marine Cooks and Stewards Union. She practiced stepping off the expected road and cutting herself a brand-new path any time the desire arose. She inspired me to write the poem “Mrs. V. B.”
    Ships?
Sure I’ll sail them.
Show me the boat,
If it’ll float,
I’ll sail it.
    Men?
Yes I’ll love them.
If they’ve got style,
To make me smile,
I’ll love them.
    Life?
’Course I’ll live it.
Just enough breath,
Until my death,
And I’ll live it.
    Failure?
I’m not ashamed to tell it,
I never learned to spell it.
Not Failure.

Complaining

    When my grandmother was raising me in Stamps, Arkansas, she had a particular routine when people who were known to be whiners entered her store. Whenever she saw a known complainer coming, she would call me from whatever I was doing and say conspiratorially, “Sister, come inside. Come.” Of course I would obey.
    My grandmother would ask the customer, “How are you doing today, Brother Thomas?” And the person would reply, “Not so good.” There would be a distinct whine in the voice. “Not so good today, Sister Henderson. You see, it’s this summer. It’s this summer heat. I just hate it. Oh, I hate it so much. It just frazzles me up and frazzles me down. I just hate the heat. It’s almost killing me.” Then my grandmother would stand stoically, her arms folded, andmumble, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” And she would cut her eyes at me to make certain that I had heard the lamentation.
    At another time a whiner would mewl, “I hate plowing. That packed-down dirt ain’t got no reasoning, and mules ain’t got good sense.… Sure ain’t. It’s killing me. I can’t ever seem to get done. My feet and my hands stay sore, and I get dirt in my eyes and up my nose. I just can’t stand it.” And my grandmother, again stoically with her arms folded, would say, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” and then look at me and nod.
    As soon as the complainer was out of the store, my grandmother would call me to stand in