I once saw an interview with Maya Angelou. For some reason, the part that stuck with me the most was her telling a story about being in an Italian kitchen, working with chefs and scholars, and how they all took a smoke break outside. While there, during various conversations, she was addressed as “Dottore.” Doctor. I’m quite certain her words during that interview were of interest and – most likely – import. But the thing I carried away was the vision of her, standing in the half-dark, with a lit cigarette. In my mind I see light from the open kitchen door. I hear Italian voices. There are muted shadows of men, as they lean against walls and trees of the courtyard. Only her face, Dottore’s, is lit, as if from within.

 

Maya Angelou passed away yesterday. She was 86 and lived more life in those years than I could if given twice as long. Because I’ve read a few of her autobiographical books, I know the lady suffered great tragedies along her path. I also know that suffering in no way defined her or her outlook. She shared her struggles and her triumphs in multiple books and stories. Personally, reading I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings changed me. And to this day, I mentally refer to that book when I’m faced with situations that call on me to dig deep, to decide how to deal with brick walls, real or imagined. I also still refer to Hallelujah! The Welcome Table: A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes. That little book is dear and delicious.

 

We will always have Maya Angelou’s body of work. It will survive. But in her passing, a great light has been extinguished, friends. And that is why I cry as I write this. For we need all the light we can get.

 

And now I have a second vision of Maya Angelou: as a free, spirited soul – dancing and laughing. So much life. So much light. Thank you, Dottore. You will be missed.

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