Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now Read Free

“too much.” While it is admirable and desirable to be enough, only masochists want to be “too much.” Being, claiming, or accepting the status allows others to heap responsibilities upon the back of the “too much” woman, who naturally is also referred to as “super.” “Super Woman” and “Earth Mother.”
    The flatterer, for that is what the speaker means to be, exposes himself as a manipulator who expects to ingratiate himself into “Earth Mother’s” good graces, so that she will then take his burdens upon her and make his crooked ways straight.
    When the complimenter is confronted, he will quickly disavow any scurrilous intent and with hurt feelings willdeclare, “I meant ‘too much’ to be a sign of my appreciation. I don’t see how you could misread my meaning. You must be paranoid.”
    Well, yes. A certain amount of paranoia is essential in the oppressed or in any likely targets of oppressors. We must stay vigilant and be very careful of how we allow ourselves to be addressed.
    We can too easily become what we are called with all the unwelcome responsibilities the title makes us heir to.

What’s So Funny?

    Some entertainers have tried to make art of their coarseness, but in their public crudeness they have merely revealed their own vast senses of personal inferiority. When they heap mud upon themselves and allow their tongues to wag with vulgarity, they expose their belief that they are not worth loving and are in fact unlovable. When we as audience indulge them in that profanity, we are not unlike Romans at a colosseum battle between unarmed Christians and raging lions. We not only participate in the humiliation of the entertainers, but are brought low by sharing in the obscenity.
    We need to have the courage to say obesity is not funny, vulgarity is not amusing, insolent children and submissive parents are not the characters we want toadmire and emulate. Flippancy and sarcasm are not the only ways in which conversation can be conducted.
    If the emperor is standing in my living room stripped to the buff, nothing should prevent me from saying that since he has no clothes on, he is not ready for public congress.
    At any rate, not lounging on my sofa and munching on my trail mix.

Death and the Legacy

    When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors. I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else. I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return. Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.
    I answer the heroic question, “Death, where is thy sting?” with “It is here in my heart and mind and memories.”
    I am besieged with painful awe at the vacuum left by the dead. Where did she go? Where is she now? Are they, as the poet James Weldon Johnson said, “resting in the bosom of Jesus”? If so, what about my Jewish loves,my Japanese dears, and my Muslim darlings. Into whose bosom are they cuddled? There is always, lurking quietly, the question of what certainty is there that I, even I, will be gathered into the gentle arms of the Lord. I start to suspect that only with such blessed assurance will I be able to allow death its duties.
    I find surcease from the entanglement of questions only when I concede that I am not obliged to know everything. In a world where many desperately seek to know all the answers, it is not very popular to believe, and then state, I do not need to know all things. I remind myself that it is sufficient that I know what I know and know that without believing that I will always know what I know or that what I know will always be true.
    Also, when I sense myself filling with rage at the absence of a beloved, I try as soon as possible