“What should I watch?” I wondered, scrolling through Netflix.
I saw that the show “Manifest” was trending as number one on Netflix, and I was grateful for the reminder to try it out. I had recently seen a commercial for the finale, and I wanted to see Josh Dallas’ “new” show. He plays one of the main characters.
The premise of the show is that people board a plane from Jamaica to New York City, and when they arrive, five years have mysteriously passed. Their loved ones all thought they had died, but now they have a second chance. I thought the show was new because it was trending so high on Netflix, but it has actually been on for three seasons, and it was recently canceled. I had a laugh at that, realizing that so much time had passed, just like the plot. Meta.
It’s an intriguing drama, and though I am obviously behind on knowing about this show, I am very proud of Josh Dallas. That’s ultimately what this post is about.
Actor Josh Dallas is from my hometown, and I did high school theatre with him when he was a super cool senior, and I was just a mere freshman. We also had the same voice teacher, and since she loved to brag on her students lovingly, we probably heard about each other from time to time. Well, I know I heard about him; I wouldn’t expect him to remember me since was younger. But all of this is to say, I happen to know he’s a nice guy in addition to being really talented.
It’s really lovely to watch people thrive. We all knew he was going to make it in acting, and he really did. It’s lovely to see it.
Image Description: Hands holding communion bread and a light-colored chalice of wine. Public domain image.
After more than a year and a half, I stood at a table in the physical presence of church community, and I broke bread, poured a cup of wine, and prayed beautiful words about love. We then shared this bread and this cup together in the presence of one another.
I was so grateful for this experience yesterday. It was, no doubt, long awaited. I was also reminded that we’ve been connected throughout this entire pandemic. That felt true, and not merely an analogy of some kind. In fact, I met every single member of this church community over Zoom. I’ve been leading worship with them since October, but yesterday was the first time I’d met any of them in person. Yet when they arrived, I greeted them by name as people I’ve come to know.
This is all true, yet it was so special to say, “This bread is the Body of Christ, given for you,” and “This is the cup of salvation for you,” knowing that most of them were right there in front of me.
And others were still connected on Zoom. We plan to keep this form of connection going too.
This bread is for you. This cup is for you.
That’s been true the whole time, and it felt very special yesterday.
Image: The book, “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma” by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D.
I am currently reading Bessel Van Der Kolk’s pivotal work, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Truly, I’d place it in the top five books I’ve ever read.
This book is remarkably insightful and impactful in addressing how traumatic experiences are carried in the body. In addition to explaining the physiology of post-traumatic symptoms in detail, he uplifts a number of somatic approaches to healing trauma and the ways it’s impacting our physiology and relationships.
After experiencing the collective trauma of this pandemic, I am recommending this book to everyone I know.
Have you read it? What do you think?
Also, what what are you reading lately? What would you recommend?
In fact, if you’re into the Enneagram, my specific type — 2w3 — is called, “the host.” I’m all about the hosting.
Close to a year and a half after the pandemic began, I am hosting my first potluck this morning. I’m glad this opportunity is back, and I never want to take it for granted.
Good morning from the sun and moon. Have a great day.
A photo of the sun from West Park in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Photo, Renee Roederer. Image Description: The sun is shining and is surrounded by clouds in a blue sky. There’s a park bench in the foreground with drops of water on it, and it’s near grass, wild plants, and trees.
A photo of the moon from Wellington Park in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Photo, Renee Roederer. Image description: The moon is emerging from clouds in a blue sky. The image is also framed by leaves and branches from trees.
Image description: A paper calendar with July as the heading for the month. Public domain image.
Time has been strange, shifty, and surreal during this pandemic. Recent events can feel like they happened much longer ago, and long-ago memories can feel closer than they might otherwise. Likewise, time can feel as though it’s moving slowly, rapidly, or as though we’re cycling between both of these.
All of that brings me to this shocker: Today, we begin the second half of 2021.
In some ways, it’s hard for me to believe we’re already at the midpoint, and yet, when I think of our lives in say, January, that feels more than a year ago, as opposed to a mere six months ago.
All of this has me wondering what I’d like to experience in the second half of the year. Life is definitely quite different than it was in January.
Image Description: Two coffees with foam shaped like hearts. Public domain image.
At the end of the month, I always like to say thank you for following here at Smuggling Grace. At this time, for those who are interested, I also extend an invitation to support this blog on Patreon. Or if you’d like, you can alsotip me with a coffee. This allows me to take out community members and provide support and listening space, so the gift extends forward in this way.
Both of these are always great gifts, but are never expected. I appreciate you being here and taking the time to connect here. And as always, thanks for engaging too. I enjoy reading and hearing your comments virtually on the platform, in emails, or during real time conversation. Thank you!
And I’m always happy to expand the audience as well. Do you know anyone who might enjoy connecting with this blog? If so, feel free to pass it along. The more the merrier!
Image Description: A tree within a forrest with visible roots. Public domain image.
Each of us is unique and particular, distinct and differentiated, yes (and these are great gifts)
But in every moment, each person is a We.
Every single one of us is a Collective — we are Plural not only in a myriad of thoughts, feelings, memories, and impulses, each as plentiful and contradictory as the next —
but also
We represent internalized others. We are a nexus of relationships, embodied.
Who is always rooted in Whose.
Whose — not possession or ownership. not fate or determinism.
There was a moment over the weekend, when I thought, “I’m feeling depleted.”
I’m not sure what brought this on specifically, except I suspect it’s a convergence of a number of aspects. Work has been full lately, though very rewarding. Beyond this, I know we’re all still emerging from a remarkably difficult year and trying to return to some sense of normalcy. We’re feeling that stress. And even good developments take energy.
It definitely makes sense to hit a wall from time to time with the thought, “I’m feeling depleted.”
One of the things that replenishes me most is stepping outside into nature. I feel differently almost immediately. I need to slow down, explore, and notice my surroundings. I love to discover beautiful details. I’m elated when I find pathways I didn’t know about previously. I love to cover new ground and see what I can find.
I need a sense of discovery.
I am an extrovert to my core, but while I’m trying to rebuild an in-person sense of a social life, I’m realizing that it takes energy to plan this and make it happen. We’re not in practice of having a collective economy of invitations flowing back and forth. This takes energy to re-organize.
During the pandemic, I flexed my introversion muscle too, and that grew in meaningful ways. Among other things, I discovered that I feel that internal sense of connection and kinship simply by being outside. I enjoy time to myself as I discover details, and extroverted as I am (I can’t put that away entirely) I take photos and occasionally send them to loved ones.
I need a sense of discovery. It does my depletion of energy a world of good.
Image Description: A black and white photo of Bob Youngblood, my AP English teacher from my senior year of high school. He’s looking to the left and smiling.
During my very last week of high school, every morning began with a creative conspiracy. It was implemented by giggling, teenage masterminds. Collectively, we struggled to stifle our laugher as we waited for our teacher to enter the room. Each stunt stranger than the last, we pranked Mr. Youngblood five days in a row. Our very last days of public education were filled with practical jokes.
And what sort of pranks do teenage masterminds create? Fire alarms, smoke bombs, or egg smeared chalkboards? Not these teenagers. We were way too nerdy for that.
Mr. Youngblood entered the room to find us all wearing. . . Ayn Rand masks.
Ayn Rand masks! A classmate had actually taken the time to find an Ayn Rand image, blow it up, print twenty-five some odd copies, and glue them to sticks so we could hold them to our faces and greet Mr. Youngblood as he walked through the door. Once he did, there we were, dressed to the nines in our Objectivism best. He loved it.
I could say that Mr. Youngblood introduced us to Ayn Rand, but it was, in fact, the other way around. Before we ever met him in the classroom, he assigned The Fountainhead as summer reading. We entered our senior year ready to discuss that large work, and we were introduced to one of our best teachers.
In his English class, we learned how to analyze classic works of literature. We learned how to hone our unique voices as we wrote with greater nuance. We had spirited discussions, and we challenged each other. And we laughed. Every day, we laughed.
This last aspect of our experience has been on my mind lately. Within it, I recognize that a larger lesson was present all along. It was never sketched out as a lesson plan, but Mr. Youngblood embodied it in the classroom. It was both simple and profound: He delighted in us as students. He thoroughly enjoyed us as people.
Sure, we occasionally annoyed him. But most often, he greeted us with a dry wit we also enjoyed. That wit accompanied our intentional learning and created spontaneous moments of playfulness. He believed in our voices. He delighted in us, and we knew it.
Bob Youngblood died almost five years ago. I have been reflecting on this kind of legacy, and pondering the gift of our educators who are certainly stressed during this odd pandemic era we’re living. Teachers impart great knowledge, but they are also in a position to teach a larger lesson of delight. When teachers delight in their students, their students come to know their own worth. From that awareness, they go on to learn in self-directed ways.
Since our Ayn Rand mask wearing days, my classmates and I have more than doubled in age. This astonishes me. Even more, I am amazed to consider who we have become. We have charted career pathways, formed families, and created meaning. Bob Youngblood would delight in all of this too, I am sure.
Robert Frost once wrote that poetry “begins with delight and ends in wisdom.” [1]
Good teachers spark delight and illumine human worth. From these gifts, a lifetime of learning continues.
Smuggling Grace 