My friend Elizabeth Bost turned me on to the following poem when another great soul died. I thought of it when I learned of the death today of my good friend and wonderful colleague, Wanda Warner, following a two year battle with pancreatic cancer. Like everything else she did, she fought cancer with a positive attitude, great courage, and grace. Wanda was a rare breed, possessing rare intellect, rare compassion, rare leadership skill, and rare fortitude. Having known her for ten years now, I can tell you that she was exceptional human being. We grieve because our families have become good friends. We hurt for her husband Dick and son Andrew, and we hurt for ourselves. I am glad that she suffers no longer and is in the arms of her Saviour. I miss her already and will for some time to come, but I am grateful to have worked with her, known her, and been her friend. So I share this wonderful poem but they exceptional Maya Angelou.
When Great Souls Die
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests
small things recoil into silence
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe briefly,
see with a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls
dependent on their
nurture
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed and informed by their
radiance
fall away. We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable
ignorance of cold dark caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
--Maya Angelou
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