her life was an American preacher. Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end. If the younger me still needs something to stand against, it should be that.
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It's also critical to this article to note that I was exceptionally headstrong in my sophomore year of high school, so much so that I fought against everything I heard just because I could. Thirteen years before Angelou composed her gift of a poem, Annie Dillard another writer of tremendous humanist insight at the intersection of the philosophical and the poetic addressed these questions in a beautiful short essay titled. The word nowhere is our cue: the consort of musicians strikes up, and we in the chorus stir and move and start twirling our hats. Echoing Denise Levertovs lament about our strange habitual resistance to acknowledging our belonging to the universe, Dillard adds: We dont know where we belong, but in times of sorrow it doesnt seem to be here, here with these silly pansies and witless mountains, here with. It is a course without direction; it is out. She marvels at the improbable existence of these arboreal wonders how hurricanes rip them from the shore and carry them into the ocean; how they defy the deadliness of salinity by exuding salt from their leaves, which even taste salty when licked; how they make. Just like a mangrove tree, I am adrift in the world. We, this people, on this small and drifting planet, Maya Angelou wrote in her cosmic clarion call to humanity, Whose hands can strike with such abandon / That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living / Yet those same hands can touch with. Everyone could be going absolutely anywhere in this universe as we move and grow and change, but at least we're going somewhere; at least we're not going alone).