Hi everyone! I see some new emails signing up, and I want to formally thank you for joining this space. Of wisdom and wander is an exploration of thought, life lessons, and quests for meaning as a Black woman navigating the world. Writing this newsletter brings a lot of joy into my life.
🎧 Another thing that brings me joy is podcasting, and I recently had a podcast episode about sustainable fashion with multidisciplinary artist and designer Jakia Fuller. We talked about conscious consumerism and how creatives can do what they love while caring for the environment. Please give us a listen on Apple Podcasts or Spotify. I’ve decided to take a break from podcasting for the summer, but I’ll include updates in my upcoming newsletters.
Welcome to the club; I’m glad to have you 🧡
Reflection One
This may seem strange, but I like watching movies that make me feel conflicted. There’s something about dissecting what I enjoyed and disliked that helps me understand what makes me tick. As an observer, I’m slow to determine whether something is good or bad. As my friend says, “It’s not about good or bad. It’s about being effective or ineffective, which is different for everyone.” My latest film conundrum is Endings, Beginnings, starring Shailene Woodley, Sebastian Stan, and Jamie Dornan.
This film is nothing and everything all at once, like getting on a fast rollercoaster to learn that there are no big drops or inversions, just a straight track. Endings, Beginnings follows Daphne, a girl with no job, drive, or direction who meets two guys at a New Year’s Eve party. There’s Frank, an unpredictable, mysterious man who commiserates with her life circumstances, and Jack, an intelligent professor who stimulates her mind with rousing conversation. Little does she know that these guys are friends. Daphne ends up having a relationship with both men after promising herself she’d swear off alcohol and guys (both lasted about a day).
I can’t say it’s a good film, which surprised me because of the names connected to the project (Bucky Barnes, anyone?). The script alone was mostly ad-libbed and left much to be desired, and I’m by no means a prude, but the sex scenes were relatively meaningless. Yet I found myself riveted, caught in the beauty of the soundtrack and identifying a little too closely with Daphne. Now, let’s be clear: I’m not sleeping with two best friends, thus wrecking their relationship with each other. But Daphne’s self-sabotage is a love letter to mine, our lives intersecting in ways I didn’t expect.
She’s constantly swept up in the waves of her life, never quite gaining control. Even when she thinks she’s weathered the most challenging terrain, a strong wind pulls her back to her starting point. I know this feeling all too well. If Daphne is captain of the ship, I am the first mate, hoisting the sails and praying for softer seas. She and I get caught up in coping mechanisms that drive us closer to capsizing, but neither of us believes in our ability to make things alright for ourselves. We keep stumbling, keep failing.
In the movie trailer, there’s a song that says, “All we want is to feel that feeling again.” What’s the feeling I’m chasing? Safety? Worthiness? Some glimpse of satisfaction that I’m not failing in my life? Daphne’s ending line is, “Everything is not okay, and that’s okay.” I think it's a terrible ending line, yet it’s precisely what I needed to hear.
I guess that’s a pretty effective film for me, but if you watch it and hate it, I assume no responsibility.
Reflection Two
I went to a graduation party for one of my cousins, whom I’ve barely spoken to in his 18 years of living. I’m pretty sure we hugged for the second time that day. My large family finds supporting each other essential, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have my usual cousins that I gravitate toward in my hour of need (or of want). There are many younger cousins that I have yet to journey with, to know their hopes and humor.
Sitting outside on the back porch, I saw a family member I hadn’t seen in years. When he moved to Atlanta, he was shorter than me. He towers over me, a balanced mix of his mother and father with locs falling down his back. I marvel, gawking at him and my 15-year-old nephew beside him, wearing an all-white ensemble with white shades he stole from his mother.
Watching someone grow up before your eyes presents an interesting set of thoughts and emotions. As an existentialist, I dwell on the meaning of the future. I think of my mother and her siblings, who continued the traditions of connection that my grandmother weaved together. I think of their ages and how we already lost the oldest sibling unexpectedly last year. I think of how much I fear the age of 62, the age that my mother turns this year, and the last age my father knew. I think of the cousin I’ve hugged twice and wonder whether he’ll show up to the family cookouts when his parents transition into their afterlife. What will life be like when the core members of our family can no longer bring us together? Will we still connect?
My cousin and I wanted to plan a girl cousins brunch this summer, finally bringing all of us together after new babies, marriages, and career pivots. I don’t know why I let the idea collect dust while the first month of summer rushed away like a thief in the night. We always assume there’s more time. But as I wrote in a poem once, “Will time be proud of how I spent it?”
I want to know that I did everything in my power to connect. Time would be proud of my conviction.
Reflection Three
I haven’t cared about Father’s Day since I was a child. The last day I cared, I went to church with my three cousins. Three sisters with an amazing dad that I wished was my own. In my adolescence, I thought he was a genius. We could ask him any question, and he’d have an answer, educated and thoughtful in his delivery. I wondered what it would be like to have my questions answered daily instead of waiting for a moment to dwell in his presence for a weekend.
We decided to help with the children's church in a separate building from the sanctuary. They were coloring Father’s Day cards for the men they loved, and while my cousins joined the fun, I looked out the window, searching for an out. After that moment, I was determined not to care about this holiday, to pour every ounce of love I could muster for the woman who raised me on Mother’s Day.
Now, my father’s been gone four months, and after years of maintaining a stoic disposition about this manufactured holiday, I annoyingly care. I spent the day at my uncle’s house, watching him bond with his daughter and grandchildren. If you could search proud parent in the dictionary, you’d see his face with his name showcased in neon lights. It’s been years since his grandchildren had been in the same place, laughing in person and enjoying the pool on the deck that my uncle built. To document this momentous occasion, he grabbed his trusty iPad and snapped pictures of everyone. He blessed the food by asking the Lord to bless his family.
I’m not sure if motherhood is in my future. Truthfully, I never felt soft enough to be someone’s nurturer. Only a handful of people have been soft with me, and I’m afraid to repeat the mistakes that they made. I already need to apologize for my lack of softness toward my nephews in certain situations. It’s a skill I haven’t mastered, but I try to make up for every interaction I get wrong. Seeing my uncle admire his lineage makes me wonder what lineage I desire to leave behind. Could it be me, enduring the challenging moments of parenthood to soon relish in a house full of grateful grandchildren and some future iPad 70 capturing each moment? It’s a thought that terrifies me. I know perfection is an unattainable metric, but I still want to get close enough. However, parenthood is something one will never perfect. My child and I will constantly be growing together, new to the world we’re navigating.
At my age, my uncle had three children. At his age, maybe I will have three grandchildren splashing in the pool on the deck their grandfather built.
Reflection Four
It was a truth universally acknowledged in schools, summer camps, and unflattering photos that Laraya was an ugly duckling. Over the years, I’ve collected traumatic stories of failed courtships or being the friend who observed relationships yet never had any of her own. Today, I can attest that “truth” was merely an uneducated, misinformed opinion.
I love how I look, which is a new phenomenon in my life. This duckling has grown into a swan, basking in mirrors instead of hiding from them. I discovered quite a few things about my appearance in the past month. In my data analysis based on compliments collected at work, I’ve observed that my power colors are sage green and bright fuschia pink. As a natural Black woman, finding hair products that work in my hair has taken me five years. Let the record show that I’ve finally cracked the code to my curls, and I’ve even found a burgundy curl color that pops against my melanin.
The more I live, the more I discover what makes me beautiful, a process that becomes more nuanced in its definition. I realize the beauty in attributes we don’t usually consider, like my ability to create and my capacity to give. For instance, I love how I write. I revisited a novel I started drafting in December before grief snatched the desire to write. I read what I’ve written so far, amazed by the world within my imagination. I love how my characters develop, and I find myself rushing home after work to fully immerse myself in their stories.
Nobody else could dream of this book like I can. Nobody can perceive the world like I can. How beautifully I was crafted. If only everyone knew how beautifully they were crafted.
Reflection Five
When I think about turning 25, I think about the summer of 2018. I was newly 19 and embarking on my first trip without adult supervision. My closest friends and I stayed on the boardwalk in a beachfront Country Inn. Our trip consisted of Uber rides to the mall and late-night trips to Walgreens just for Flaming Hot Cheetos. This particular night, we walked on the boardwalk and stopped by a jazz ensemble. We stood there listening with other onlookers, enjoying the melodies bouncing between our ears.
A woman approached the band, smile wide, limbs moving to the rhythm of the music. Her moves started small but grew in stature until she became the main event. Of all the people standing there, she was the only one dancing. The boardwalk was her stage, and during her dance, she turned and looked at me. Without hesitation, she grabbed my hand and pulled me onto her stage, spinning me around like a dreidel.
We danced together to the music, twirling like we’d known each other for years while my friends recorded. It’s still a thrilling experience for me. To this day, I wonder why she chose me. Of all the strangers she could’ve chosen, her arms reached for me. Perhaps it was luck, but I do not believe in coincidences. There’s always something to process, some meaning to understand.
That day, the insecure girl within me was dominating every aspect of my life, and when she danced with me, that girl lost control. That day, I learned what freedom felt like. I would need that reminder now, as the woman struggling with taking up space, the 24-year-old grasping tightly to mistakes, the existentialist who can’t stop (over)thinking, and the woman who may be a mother someday.
I’m not entering this birthday with elaborate plans. I’m just grateful to move my limbs to the rhythm of the music. I want to spin and twirl and have such a great time that I’m no longer thinking. I want to dance.
Nobody puts Laraya in a corner.
What does Laraya like this week?
🎵 I discovered the band Jungle a couple of weeks ago, and MY GOD, I’m upset that nobody told me how amazing they are (I blame my lack of TikTok). This song already went viral last year due to the incredible choreography in the video of “Back on 74.” If I had rhythm, you couldn’t stop me from breaking out in this dance regularly. Not only is the choreography intriguing, but the song is also addictive.
Call this place my home; never gonna cry anymore.
Until next time,
Laraya 🧡