Smuggling Grace

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

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer

I’m so grateful that I once got to see this process live.

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?

—Renee Roederer

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.

The greening has begun.

—Renee Roederer

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.

—Renee Roederer

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!

—Renee Roederer

Today is Memorial Day. Earlier this week, I read a May 23rd post by historian Heather Cox Richardson about the origins of Arlington National Cemetery, and I have been reflecting on it since.

During the Civil War, the United States government transformed the former plantation of Confederate General Robert E. Lee into a burial ground for Union soldiers. Over time, thousands of people who died defending the country were buried there. One detail from that post has especially stayed with me — the proposed triumphal arch in the nation’s capital will visually frame Lee’s mansion rather than the graves of the soldiers themselves. That image strikes me deeply, and it raises questions of what we center, what we honor, and what stories we choose to frame.

Memorial Day is complicated for many people. I don’t want to glorify war, nationalism, or violence. I also think it matters to remember that there are people who have given their lives resisting slavery, fascism, and other forms of oppression. Human beings have made tremendous sacrifices in the hope that other people might live with greater freedom and dignity.

And I think remembrance can also make us more attentive to the present.

This week in my own community, a Black, Queer, houseless woman experienced horrific police brutality, was dragged across the ground by officers, and at least initially, was denied medical care. There is video of it. And as people debated, defended, argued, and explained how this happened, I found myself thinking again about what we choose to see clearly, what we normalize, and whose dignity we protect.

There are needs for justice wherever we live. Not only in history books, battlefields, memorials, or national cemeteries, but in our own towns, streets, systems, and relationships.

Maybe one way we honor the dead is by remaining awake to the living. We can refuse indifference. We can also ask ourselves what kind of world we are helping to build now, and whose humanity we are willing to defend when it becomes inconvenient, controversial, or costly.

I think remembrance is meant to do more than make us look backward. I think it can sharpen our moral vision in the present.

—Renee Roederer

1. This week, I was deeply moved by a poem written by Yodit Mesfin Johnson, which speaks to this incident of police brutality and the myriad of ways that people are disbelieved. It’s called “What God is This”.

2. Heather Cox Richardson writes,

“May 23, 2026 (Saturday)

President Donald J. Trump’s proposed triumphal arch would sit at a rotary on the Virginia side of the Arlington Memorial Bridge between Arlington National Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

The proposed arch obscures the Lincoln Memorial, built to honor the president who steered the country safely through the Civil War, but perfectly frames Arlington House, the mansion built by enslaved Americans and once owned by Confederate General Robert E. Lee. The arch does not frame the nation’s honored dead, but frames instead the home of the man who led the armies of the Confederacy that killed them.”

—Renee Roederer

Probably some new things to learn!