Hospitality

I've been reading such moving posts on Facebook tonight, people reflecting on the spirit of Maya Angelou and writing about how her presence in the world changed or encouraged them.  One man posted an interview with Anderson Cooper in which she spoke about courage.  At the end, she took the time to thank Anderson Cooper for his "courage, his intellect, and his intelligence."

I've always admired this about Maya Angelou, the woman so many of us felt we knew from listening to her and reading her books: the way she seems so totally present in conversation and always gives a genuine word of affirmation or praise to the person with whom she's talking.

When I first heard Maya Angelou reciting "Phenomenal Woman," I was in search of strong women role models.  I was a young newly married woman in a new city, a college student, shy.  Maya Angelou talked about what had wounded her, ending with:  "And still, I fly." I absorbed her words, knowing that whatever hurtful things might happen in my own life, I would remember Maya Angelou and I'd be able to fly.

We don't forget women who tell the truth.  We don't forget how they make us feel, how they remind us to re-member ourselves, put ourselves back together and fly, break out of cages, and sing no matter what. Maybe because they know what it is to be silenced, even caged, they seem fearless, strsong voices for freedom.

Unlike so many flashier interviewees we see on late night TV, the Mayas of the world are not all-about-me women.  There's a kind of hospitality in the way they open up their houses and allow everyone to come in. What a gift: to be able to make a guest feel at home, not just one more straggler who happened to show up at the door.

Yesterday, my friend Cyndy brought me homemade chicken soup for lunch and stayed to visit.  "I'm not afraid of your germs," she said. So often my friend Jan, who lives next door to my great good fortune, delivers a plate of something delicious she's made for dinner, out of the blue.  I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've delivered food to anyone.  (I'm ashamed to admit it; I'm going to try to do better.)

I'm thinking of so many people who have the gift of hospitality in their own unique ways--and what a great gift that is in the world of busy busy.  It can happen on the phone, in a friend's kitchen, on a porch, on the page, even in the way someone takes the time to listen, return your phone call, or write a personal e-mail. Some people have a way of making a home-cooked dinner feel like a party (I'm thinking of Barbel and Joy) or making you feel like a long-awaited guest, not a bother (I'm thinning of Rone and Brad in California who not only invited me to spend "as much time as you like" but who gave me the names of friends further north: "Call them; they'd love to have you!")

Or Rone's friend "Dr. Linda"--who, when I made an appointment for her to work on my leg--seemed to have as long as I needed to talk, and who followed up with helpful advice all along the way.

"Traveling solo" is such a misnomer!  We always know which porches are open at all hours, who'll take us in, who'll text "Come over" and mean it, right now. We know where we can land.  I'm thinking of a friend who--just in the way she answers the phone--makes me feel that she's so glad I called.

In "The Death of the Hired Man," by Robert Frost, a couple talks about what to do when the hired man shows up at their house:

"Home is where--when you have to go there--they have to take you in," one says.

"I should have called it, something you somehow haven't to deserve," the other says.