Author: gracesmuggler

Today, I’d like to share a piece from Ben Johnston-Krase. He reflects on the ways he’s lived well and grown in strength for nearly three years with a stage IV cancer diagnosis. Maybe we are also carrying something we never expected. Maybe in the midst of it all, our “mind-soul-spirit muscles are going to get jacked.” Love to Ben.

A year ago a woman I’d just met and I sipped lattes and chatted about the intimate horrors of stage IV cancer. In a more care-free, pre-cancerous life, things like death and dying, fear and enraged disbelief weren’t particularly appropriate introductory material in any conversation, but there we were in our most unlucky of kinships, diving in deep.

She was a two-week cancer survivor while I was two years in. Being with her reminded me of the stunning despair I felt in the days immediately after my diagnosis. At one point she asked, how do you manage living with this?

It’s a question I’d given considerable thought by then. How do I live now that I’m carrying this previously unimaginable burden? And not just how do I live, but how do I live well? Is that even possible anymore? How do I navigate the world when the horrific reality of cancer has stolen an outsized portion of my thought life?

The best analogy I’d come up with is one I shared with her that day, and I’ll elaborate here: You know how you go to the gym, and occasionally you see somebody there who’s just utterly ripped? He’s lifting weights or she’s doing squats, and you look over and think, ‘Good God, so that’s what muscle looks like!’ and then you begin to ponder the sheer magnificence of the human form and your mind wanders to contemplate the hundreds or thousands of trips to the gym you would need to make for your body to perform in such a way.

That, I said, is going to be you. Not right away, but it is coming. Being diagnosed with stage IV cancer is like being told to walk through your life carrying the heaviest weight you can possibly imagine. Always. Morning, noon, night, 2AM, when you feel strong, when you don’t, through parenting, carpools, sex, family vacations, scans, mindless TV, work… Through it all, you’re going to carry this ridiculously heavy thing called cancer.

And people are going to look at you and think, “How on earth?” because they won’t be able to imagine carrying what you’re carrying. You’ll be like that person at the gym, lifting shit they just can’t fathom lifting. And this will happen not because the burden gets any lighter but because you learn to carry it better. Your mind-soul-spirit muscles are going to get jacked and you will teach yourself a new definition of strength.

Christmas, your kids’ birthday parties, trips to the grocery store, waiting in line at the DMV, walking the dog – there’ll you’ll be looking to the untrained eye like an ordinary member of the human species. Little do they know you possess an unasked-for superpower, which is that you can stare death in the face and shop for breakfast cereal at the same time. You can mentally dance with the thought of not living to watch your children graduate high school while you try to figure out if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean, dirty, or some combination thereof.

I have this strength. So does my friend, and so do many others I have the privilege of knowing and loving. Many of them have cancer but many more carry a burden that’s differently shaped but no less heavy. And I believe that we super-strength humans have something to say to the world about COVID-19:

It’s shitty.
We understand.
You didn’t ask for this.
We know.
You’d like to live in a land of make-believe where there is no pandemic and you can have your old life back.
Bless your heart, we know.
You’re angry.
Mm-hmm.
And now you won’t wear a mask because it threatens your freedom.
God, how I wish my political convictions could create a world in which the realities of science were irrelevant. I’d join the Cancer-Free Party, an alliance of cancer patients who stop chemo treatments and refuse to get CT scans and brain MRI’s, as these things threaten the freedoms once enjoyed. (Much more, by the way, than your cloth facemask.)

We get it. The reality of COVID-19 is heavy and difficult to carry. It isn’t a burden you asked for and you would love, love, LOVE to put it down. Maybe that’s why you think and act like it’s not serious. But take it from the people around you who’ve already learned to carry unimaginable weight – ignoring the burden does not help you lift it and not lifting it will not make you strong.

Cancer and COVID-19 are just two proofs of life’s terrible fragility and unfairness. It takes so little strength to ignore or belittle these realities. But oh, when we dig deep – deeper, perhaps, than we ever have before – deep enough to find pools of power and resilience that we didn’t even know we had… When we dig deep and lift, we begin to train our minds and our spirits to bear the unbearable. We find new strength and then go on living, and living well.

–Ben Johnston-Krase

You can follow more of Ben’s writing at https://www.practiceresurrection.com/cancer.

Do you know what’s great? Handwritten letters.

I didn’t really know I was missing this. In fact, I viewed letter writing purely as a genre from the past. But during this pandemic, I’ve received a number of them, and they give me joy. One of my very best friends sends many people handwritten cards, and they are such a gift. She’s made this a personal practice. I love it.

This has helped me think about something within the letters too. It has me thinking about the beauty of slow connections. We need these.

When I say slow connections, I’m talking about more than the amount of time between sending and receiving mail, though that’s certainly a slow connection. (And getting slower all the time? Eeek?) I’m also talking about the types of life snapshots we might capture in handwritten letters – how letter writing depicts them in a slow and unique way, then uplifts their value as we share them with others.

As I mentioned, this person is one of my very closest friends. We talk over the phone about significant things that are happening in our lives. I send her photos and videos over texts. We connect about large things and immediate things. But when she writes me a handwritten card, I have the opportunity to learn what’s going on that particular day and that particular moment through written words.

For instance, the cats just jumped across the room in a funny way, though they were cuddly a few minutes before. The tea is really good this morning. Her husband just said a funny one-liner.

Slowness takes time to capture these, prioritizing the small things as meaningful. Slowness takes time to share these with a friend.

To enjoy them. To choose them. To write them down. To put them in the mail in the anticipation of a friend seeing them too.

We need slow connections.

– Renee Roederer

Do you know this word – Kakistocracy?

According to a quick Google search, it means a state or country run by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous citizens. It is a reality where the worst actors have a huge amount of power.

This week, I’ve been thinking about Kakistocracy – certainly in the government and news cycle, but also in my brain space. Over the last four years, there have been occasional hours and days at a time when it seems like my brain continually gravitates to thinking about this and only this. There are times when I’ve slept through the night, but meanwhile, my brain has been processing this and only this.

It’s not always like that, but that happens.

I know I am not alone in this experience. Given what’s happening, this is natural. And while it’s certainly challenging, I think we all should feel our way through what’s happening because that’s a crucial part of solidarity. Some of us have the privilege checking out while others have been feeling this way much longer. Some can’t afford to check out because it could be costly to let their guard down. We need to feel these moments  alongside others.

That needs to be said and upheld as a commitment. But I also know that thinking about this constantly can be harmful, not only because it is challenging and gives it greater ultimacy, but because it zaps our energy for acting.

It’s hard to resist Kakistocracy when Kakistocracy is internalized. It’s hard to continue pushing forward in our important, creative work when our thinking patterns additionally feel invaded and oppressed. It’s hard to include others in solidarity if we find ourselves feeling pain in solitude.

So if you’re feeling this way – grace, grace, grace. 

And if you’re trying to shift these thinking patterns – grace, grace, grace. 

It’s not easy, and don’t beat yourself up if it doesn’t shift quickly.

As I’ve heard from others, this is clear as well:

The actions and inactions of our government, along with the news cycle surrounding them, have also brought up resonances with some of the worst actors from other periods of our lives. Our ruminating thoughts might additionally be our bodies processing these other actors and chapters as well.

So grace, grace, grace.

What’s helpful for you?

Perhaps talk with a therapist or spiritual director. Make art. Take walks. Pray. Set good intentions. Keep connecting with loved ones. Sing joyfully in the shower. Love the work we are empowered to do. Continue to have dreams for our communities and for our own lives. Talk to a friend about the brain space. Know that you’re loved.

And practice mindfulness. When we get in these ruminating patterns, it can be helpful to say, “Okay, for x amount of time, I am only going to think about what is presently in front of me.” Then practice presence. And when we find ourselves moving away again, we just gently bring ourselves back.

again, again, again.

grace, grace, grace.

– Renee Roederer

— How does it feel to choose between health protections and completing a degree?

— What does it feel like to be in your early 20s, having a conversation with friends about whether you should write a will?

— Do you go the required, in-person class or risk the health of a medically vulnerable roommate?

— Do you take greater protections to guard your physical health, or do you let your guard down some to protect your mental health against isolation?

This story below speaks to these risks and considerations that students (and faculty and staff) are having to make as the University of Michigan administration has moved forward with a partially in-person semester — one that public health experts at the university sounded alarms about. This is why graduate students, residential staff, and dining staff are all on strike.

Michigan Daily: Medically vulnerable students voice concerns as classes resume this fall

Text Reads:

You are loved as you are.

You’re
worth it.
fabulous.

Not when you,
Not if you.

You, right now,
Loved presently,
Loved thoroughly,
Loved wholeheartedly.

Worth it.

Fabulous.

–Renee Roederer

Earlier this week, I was on a call when someone read aloud Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese. I thought I would share that here if you could use any part of this message today.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountain and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things. 

Today, I share a repost from April 2018 — you know, back in the days of yore when we used to be able to go to meetings. I was thinking about this moment earlier this week, and I thought it would be enjoyable for some reason to make fun of myself again.

Have you ever left a City Council meeting, walked toward an elevator, read a sign that said “Staff Only,” pushed the button anyway, walked inside, watched the doors close, traveled down, then realized you’re completely stuck, then Tweeted your way out of it?

I have.

Move over, POTUS. I too can use Twitter for purposes for which it was never designed.

Yes, this really happened to me! Yes, it was embarrassing. And it has turned into a good story. (If you know me, surprise. I like that part).

Last month in Ann Arbor, I attended a very important City Council meeting. Despite some frustrating moments and comments, overall, the meeting moved in the direction we desired. This was certainly good news.

When that portion was over, I decided to leave. The meeting was still in session, and the City Council members had moved onto other business. So I decided to take the elevator down and walk back to my car. Now. . . which way did I come into the chambers. . .?

Here is a unique factoid about me: It’s mostly endearing, but on rare occasions, it can get in my way. That is, if I have things on my mind — especially if I’m anxious, but also, simply, if I’m pondering possibilities, as I was when I entered this City Council meeting — I don’t adequately pay attention to my surroundings.

In other words, when it was time to leave, I didn’t remember how I had come into the chambers. But never fear, here is an elevator! I remember coming up on an elevator!

It says, “Staff Only Elevator.”

“Surely, that means only during work hours,” I fatefully assume. “I mean, I came up on an elevator.”

I push the button, step inside, and choose the first floor.

I go down, and the doors swing open just as they should, and I step out. But. . . I immediately recognize this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. Hmm. . . I suppose this was the wrong elevator after all. . . So I push the button, requesting that the doors open so I can head back upstairs and try a different way.

The doors indeed open.

I step inside.

The doors close.

And NOTHING.

That is, NOTHING HAPPENS. Because the doors are now irrevocably shut on the first floor, and no buttons are working. “Oh my goodness,” I realize, “This requires a badge.”

This just in: I have no badge.

I am the fool who stepped into a “Staff Only Elevator.”

I keep trying to push floor buttons to no avail. I see the red, EMERGENCY ONLY button, and with utter embarrassment, I begin to ponder what will happen if I push that. Will there be an alarm? Will I disrupt the City Council meeting that is still underway? Will emergency vehicles come? Will tomorrow’s MLive article talk about this very important vote, then mention that the rest of the business was cut short when a firetruck arrived to save a person who took the wrong elevator?

I imagine people saying to me compassionately, “Oh, you must not have seen the sign that said ‘Staff only.’” And I ponder the truth, wondering if I would ever dare to say it aloud:

“Well, actually, I did see it, but due to my very poor spacial reasoning skills, I didn’t adequately remember the direction from which I entered the chamber. I only remembered coming up on an elevator, and here was an elevator, so. . .”

All of this felt mortifying to me.

But!

That’s when I remembered Twitter.

You see, friends, this very foolish error aside, I have a strong skill. I am an outside-the-box thinker! I remember, there is an entire community of people that uses a Twitter hashtag to hash out City Council meetings. #A2CityCouncil will be my saving day!

So I dare to craft an embarrassing, necessary tweet. I say,

“Okay, so this is hella embarrassing because I took an elevator that was for employees only, and now I’m on the first floor with an elevator door that won’t open. Can someone go push the elevator button on floor two so it sends me back up? #A2council”

And yes, to my further embarrassment, but even more to the necessity, people start retweeting this foolishness. And it works. The community makes a plan to collectively save me from my error (and just a little less dramatically than an emergency button) . In fact, a particular human was chosen by the community-at-large to push that button and send me back to the land of the living.

He was on his way when. . . oh, my goodness, I hear someone! An employee (you know, actual staff) was cleaning and talking on her phone. I started pounding on the elevator doors in an attempt to be just loud enough without scaring her. And that worked too.

She pushes the button to open the door, and as soon as I tell her what happened, she laughs and laughs.

I tweet again that I am free.

I walk out of that place, quite aware that I will never take a “Staff Only Elevator” again. And I tell you this tale, so that you will never follow in my not-able-to-go-anywhere footsteps.

We have a City Council meeting tonight. And God bless it it all, I’m  going to pay attention to my entry point.

–Renee Roederer

Please enjoy this extremely delightful video from Rabbi Josh Whinston and Temple Beth Emeth in Ann Arbor. It’s almost time to say…

Shana Tova!
May this year be sweeter than the last!

If you are from the Ann Arbor area, you’ll especially enjoy seeing the local haunts.

Cool shofar.

–Renee Roederer

Listen up, precious people. You are wondrous. You are marvelous. You are forever fabulous.

May you always feel as confident as this little donkey.

–Renee Roederer