Sometimes, when we live in a place for a long time, we forget to enjoy the local landmarks and opportunities for fun that are right around us. We think, “But I can do that anytime.” Yet somehow, that time doesn’t always arrive or get prioritized.
Is there somewhere in your local area that you’ve never visited? Or perhaps it’s been a very long time?
Could this summer be an invitation to return?
Here are a few photos from one of my local landmarks. I live near the largest peony garden in the world.
A view from a bicycle riding along a tree-lined path beside a river on a sunny day. The bike’s handlebars are visible in the foreground.
As a cyclist, I love those moments when I’ve built up enough speed — or a hill is building it for me — that I can simply coast.
I still have to pay attention, especially to where I’m going. But I notice that I pay attention differently. Whatever else I was thinking about tends to fall away, and I find myself simply enjoying my surroundings. I take them in more deeply.
In addition to the mechanics of it — no longer pedaling, only steering — it feels like a break that exists purely for enjoyment. It’s a chance to recenter myself on the recognition that I am riding my bike with nature in view. And I don’t need to do anything but this right now.
That’s a good personal lesson, too.
We can let easy things be easy. We can also create moments like these on purpose.
We were not made to be cogs in a machine. We are not more valuable because we are productive. We are not more worthy because we are efficient. (Many of us have internalized the opposite message — myself included.)
I recently encountered this quote from Pope Leo XIV’s encyclical Magnifica Humanitas:
“Among these ideologies, I consider particularly insidious the one that suggests that every person must earn or justify his or her own worth, to the point of attributing greater value to those who are more efficient and effective. From this perspective, persons end up being reduced to a means of achieving results, a resource to be used or exploited, and are no longer recognized as a proper end in themselves who should never be instrumentalized. The value of persons, however, does not depend on what they achieve or produce. There are rights that apply to everyone simply by virtue of being human, and no human power can legitimately deny or arbitrarily limit them.”
Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can do is remember that our worth is not dependant on any kind of output. That worth is intrinsic, whole, complete, and unchanging. We do not have to earn what is already ours.
Over the weekend, I had the privilege of hearing from a leader who has helped create a circle of care and advocacy for immigrants within a Catholic congregation.
She shared that they frequently pray this prayer together. It’s a reverse prayer of St. Francis.
Lord, make me a channel of disturbance.
Where there is apathy, let me provoke;
Where there is compliance, let me bring questioning;
Where there is silence, may I be a voice.
Where there is too much comfort and too little action, grant disruption;
Where there are doors closed and hearts locked,
Grant the willingness to listen.
When laws dictate and pain is overlooked…
When tradition speaks louder than need…
Grant that I may seek rather to do justice than to talk about it;
I am looking at the camera and smiling, wearing a blue and white bike helmet and a red t-shirt.
3,684.6 Miles Total
I bought an e-bike in September 2023. Her name is Zelda Zoomie.
Since then, I’ve been embarking upon this outrageous personal project where I’ve been biking to and through every Ann Arbor street in the least efficient way possible — in alphabetical order. I average only 2.5 letters per year! I’m glad to tell you that I finished the F streets today, and as a bonus, Strava also informed me that it was my 600th ride.
Every time I finish a letter, I like to write a reflection on what it means to be connected to a sense of place. And this era of riding has been especially meaningful and reflective for me.
When you’re exploring an area that’s important to you, you’re definitely discovering a sense of place. There are a myriad of details to notice: flowers, birdsong, greenery, the bumps of certain roads, the occasional scurrying of animals across your path, the names of restaurants, and the nooks and crannies along the river. You begin to notice which roads lead to other roads and which neighborhoods are connected to others. There are oodles of details connected to place.
But when you’ve lived in an area for a long time — for me, nearly 13 years — you do more than discover place. You discover time.
I’ve been reflecting on this quite a bit lately. It’s not only noticing that the crabapple trees on Platt Road turn pink in the spring or that the locust trees on Stadium Boulevard turn yellow in the fall. It’s discovering the time for them. Anticipating them, even. I can encounter them and say, “Ah, yes, it’s time for that bush over there to grow lilacs with the most glorious scent imaginable.” Or, “There it is! I heard it. The red-winged blackbirds are back.”
And once I’ve started linking the discovery of place to the discovery of time, it’s not difficult for the unfolding details of place to reveal the contours of my own sense of time.
Thirteen years have led to relationships. And growth. And questions. And shared work. And community. And purpose.
Recently, I was moving through town, not on my bike but in my car, when one of the movements from Duruflé’s Requiem came on. You don’t need to know the piece personally to understand that certain music can immediately bring back powerful memories.
I have a vivid memory of listening to this piece on repeat in another city, walking around and dreaming about the possibility of moving to Ann Arbor. I had a deep intuition that the move would eventually happen, and I kept thinking, “There are people there for me to meet.”
Have you ever had the sudden awareness that you haven’t yet met everyone you will someday love? But you know you will? That’s how I felt in 2012, walking around, listening to Duruflé’s Requiem, and dreaming of moving here.
When I was in my car, listening to this piece, I was overcome with gratitude that I was listening inside this town. Now many of those people have names. Each with memories and love attached.
So the discovery of place and the discovery of time are linked. Eventually, all the particular places hold memories, seasons carry familiar terrain, and geography becomes relational, too. #ReneeBikesAnnArbor
I’m smiling and pointing toward an Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan banner.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve had several occasions to talk about the enormous impact my workplace has had on me, particularly the community connected to it. A few times now, I’ve found myself saying this out loud:
“There’s no me without the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. What I mean is, I would not be the version of myself that I am today without their impact.”
I wonder if you feel this way about pivotal people and communities.
Of course, there is a core part of us that would exist across many contexts. We have personalities and ways of moving through the world that feel distinctly our own. But there are also particular people and communities that shape us into the specific versions of ourselves. Without them, we would not become quite the same people.
They influence how we see the world. They create landscapes of affection, care, memory, humor, and grief within us. They shape what moves us, what makes us laugh, what we notice, and what we long to discover. If we pay attention while we are dreaming, celebrating, processing difficulty, or making decisions, we can trace the presence of transformational people and communities. They shape our stories. They create spaces where we grow skills, capacities, and ways of thinking that we likely did not have before.
For me, the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan is one of those pivotal communities. I would not be the version of myself that I currently am without the people who have formed me here. And I suspect many of us have communities and people like this.
So now I’m wondering:
Who is in your life without whom you would not be the version of yourself that you currently are?
Not long ago, I wrote about the red and bronze colors that appear in some trees and plants during the spring. I had learned that certain leaves emerge this way because pigments called anthocyanins help protect their tender early growth from strong sunlight and fluctuating temperatures. I shared that maybe there are seasons in life where gentleness and protection are a part of healthy growth.
This week, I’ve noticed something else happening. Some of those same leaves are now beginning to turn green as chlorophyll becomes more dominant and photosynthesis strengthens. The plants are changing again. The protective reds and bronzes are giving way to fuller growth and deeper energy production.
And honestly, I think this stage is interesting, too.
So if we want to make a metaphor out of it, perhaps this is also a good reminder that there are also seasons for launching forward. If you’ve been quietly preparing or gathering energy, maybe this is your sign that it’s okay to begin moving into what comes next.
I subscribe to the weekly newsletter from brothers John and Hank Green. They take turns writing the introduction, and last week, John was at the helm. He lives in Indianapolis, and he was describing how much he loves the Indy 500, including all of its rhythms and rituals. As spring begins to emerge, he finds himself anticipating all of it, and he shared that the anticipation itself is part of the joy.
After describing this, he wrote two very relatable sentences:
“In general, looking forward with excitement and anticipation is much harder for me than looking forward with dread and fear. But the future is too multitudinous, and too unsettled, to be merely terrifying or dreadful.”
I absolutely love that language — “the future is too multitudinous.”
And I think that’s right. There is plenty to fear or dread in our world and in our own lives. But there are also multitudinous ways that goodness shows up. We just have to remember to look for it. And we can practice anticipating it.
My beautiful, blue ebike. Her name is Zelda Zoomie.
Astronomical summer is June 21–September 20.
But… culturally, unofficial summer runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Well guess what? This year, Memorial Day was at the earliest placement it can be on the calendar, and Labor Day is at the latest point it can fall on the calendar. This means we have the longest stretch of unofficial summer we can possibly have.
And if we want to privilege all the summer activities and ways of thinking, we can start with yesterday and go all the way through September 20.
Now that I got a tune-up on my e-bike last week — including new brake pads — and now that it’s unofficial summer, it’s like a switch flipped. All I want to do is cycle around town. I biked for 2 hours and 40 minutes yesterday, split across two rides. And if I didn’t have somewhere (also fun) to be in the evening, I would have biked even more.
’Tis the season.
Whatever you like to do during this stretch of time, make it count!
Smuggling Grace 