If you’re reading this, look up.
I love nature. I love the ocean – I consider myself a displaced mermaid, actually – hiking, whitewater rafting, all of it.
Stepping on large rocks to cross a creek returns me to my seven-year-old self. Fishing with my dad, climbing trees with the neighborhood kids, my second-grade camping trip. I lived in Arizona at the time, so in the mornings, we hiked through the desert, discovering shed rattlesnake skins, and barely avoiding the jumping cacti. And of course, at nightfall, we sat around the campfire, singing songs and telling ghost stories. Besides pulling cactus thorns out of my pink Pro-Wings (a very popular sneaker for kids who got their shoes from Payless), what I remember most from that trip was laying on the blanketed ground next to my bestie Ramona, looking up at the stars. I felt so small, yet enormous at the same time, as big as the sky. It was a magical night. Second grade was a magical year.
I think about that year a lot. One of my most-cherished belongings is a scrapbook of collected class pictures from that year. Recently, I realized that second grade sticks out so strongly, not only because of how awesome it was – it was also the year before everything in my life changed. Before I learned what it was to be an 80s baby; to come of age during the Regan era, the War on Drugs, the AIDS epidemic. It was the year before life would begin to take me on a series of unfortunate events, twists and turns that would make a pit stop at my 19-year-old self: a single mother, diagnosed with depression, pushing through college, working multiple jobs and maintaining a household before my brain had even fully developed.
Certainly, I survived and began to thrive with the help of my community. Community I met at school, in church, at work, and my chosen family. Community who taught me how to be a mother, how to advocate for myself, and how to ask for help when I needed it. The latter was a heavy lift for a latchkey kid who became independent at 18 – even at 42, I still hesitate before unfastening my Strong Black Woman™ cape.
But now, just as then, when I am outdoors, life can be a storm, and I can still be fragile, delicate. Tuned into a precious deep breath when I take off my shoes and dig my toes into the grass. Keen awareness of my body in the dark, lest the slightest erratic movement disturb my telescope, set at the perfect angle to catch the sun-lit moon. My newest venture, sprung from pandemic work-from-home days, is spending time in my garden. One day, I just decided to get out there and pull the weeds, dig in the dirt, and scatter wildflower seeds, and now I can’t stay out of it. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but getting up close to the ladybugs, the bumblebees (save the bees!), and the tiny purple flowers makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland. And when I’m done, I feel all the emotional, spiritual gunk of living through 2020 and into 2021 cleared out from inside of me. It settles my spirit, allowing me to press toward another day. Just as I pull the ornamental grass – from the root, one at a time.
Despite the fact that the closest blue-water beach to my lovely garden is five hours away, all this time at home has made me more thankful for exactly where I live. My house sits on a hill in a neighborhood with a small community feel and perfect location outside of, but close enough to the city – no traffic, two miles from a MARTA station. From my roof, I have a breathtaking view of the pines, oaks, and wide open sky above us, and lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time just sitting on my roof and looking up. I look up and ask questions. I look up and rant. I look up and cry. I looked up the other night and saw the face of what I imagined was maybe my great x8 grandfather in the clouds. That second-grade feeling of a small-bigness returned. I know now that it’s the feeling of oneness. I think about all the experiences I, Shaunitra Wisdom, have had in my life, troubled moments – some that seemed to stretch for eternity – that are now behind me, but forever a part of me. Connected. I think of my strength, how much I’ve contributed to my own growth. Once conflict-avoidant, I can now take a breath before diving into an uncomfortable but necessary conversation. I’m no longer too self-conscious to ask what may be an obvious question, because I now understand how my clarity benefits my team and our work as a whole and is therefore a valuable contribution. Remembering the whole is remembering the bigger picture, and in that picture, I’m not alone. I remember how much love has been poured into me from people I’ve met along the way: my partner, my friends, my therapist, my daughters.
My community extends beyond even this physical earth. I am connected, even beyond the stars. And when I look up, in the midst of all the madness that surrounds us, in that moment I know that the earth and I are perfectly situated within our solar system – galaxy even – to thrive. I know that I am made of star stuff, and maybe one day – if humanity gets its act together – my great x8 granddaughter will look up into the same ancient sky, see my face, and find the strength, first to rest, then press on.
Look up.
Shaunitra W., Georgia Tech Architecture Advisor
