Smuggling Grace

“I don’t know if this is that big of a deal, but it’s fun.”

This is a migrant poem
a farmworking poem, a poem that covers itself
in long sleeves to avoid the burning sun.

That drinks enough water to avoid
dehydration but not enough to get water sickness.

This poem carries a machete, a hoe, a spade,
a knife, shears, and a file for filo.

This poem walks irrigated rows collecting mud
on its boots that add five pounds to each foot.

This poem guards the cornfield where his sister,
his mother, and his cousins, squat to pee.

This poem ducks down hitting the dirt to avoid the
echoing crop duster spraying anti-poem toxins that
burn our eyes and throats.

This poem is egg and chorizo burritos in aluminum foil,
steamed shut by the heat waiting for you at lunch
in a foam cooler in the trunk at the end of rows of soybean. This poem.
This poem smells of blood—and meat.

This poem flows from carcasses into open drains
of slaughter houses, on kill floors, in chilled freezers
with knives cutting, cutting, cutting, cutting—always cutting.

They duct tape knives into this poem’s hands
to cut even when its cut hands can cut no longer.

This poem is a gift of a strong back, of sturdy legs,
of silence, of patience.

And a never-ending work ethic
          a never ending work ethic
                      a never ending work of ethics.

This poem shows you the bigger picture.
This poem is pragmatic, strategic, and erratic.

This poem reaches as it climbs ladders, as it stoops over,
as it pulls from branches, vines, as it unearths other poems
and tosses them into buckets and sacks slung across its stanzas.

This poem is paid by the word, by the piece,
by the hour, by the day, by the acre.

This poem has no benefits, no days off,
no health insurance, no childcare.

This poem is child labor. This poem is sexual assault.
This poem is deportation. This poem is missing wages,
broken vehicles, sunstroke.

This poem avoids irrigation ditches where
La Llorona hopes to drown it.

This poem knows she commands water and sends waves
of humidity and tempting mirages of cool rippling lakes.

This poem wears a rosary and a scapular and prays to St. Francis of Assisi
to protect them from snakes and rats that live in the fields
and to St. Michael the archangel to protect them from the farmer’s son

who watches his sisters
          who follows his sisters  
                     who pulls at his sisters.

This poem wakes up early, works all damn day, sweats all damn day.
This poem always needs a shower to wash off the dirt, to wash out the dirt,
to wash away the dirt.

This poem goes to bed early to do it all again
                                                                        tomorrow.

This Poem is a Migrant Poem.
A. Farm. Working. Poem. ~ Miguel M. Morales, This Is a Migrant Poem

A long time ago, back in high school, I came up with something that was definitely on the cheesy side, but it meant a lot at the time. I was in a leadership position in our A Capella Choir, and I introduced what we called “Warm Fuzzy Friday.” I can’t help but laugh a little now, but honestly, it was fun, and it brought meaning to our group.

The idea was simple: Every Friday, anyone who wanted to participate could leave notes of appreciation for others in their choir folder slots. A little shout-out for someone who had made their week better.

Fast forward multiple decades later, and I want to bring that back, but with no singing involved. Instead, I’m inviting you to send a quick message today — a text, a social media DM, or an email — and let someone know what you’ve appreciated about them this week. What did you notice in them? What’s something they’ve done that you value? What are you thankful for in your connection with them?

Give it a try. Notice how it feels, not just to have those thoughts about someone, but to actually share them. Let’s make this our own version of a “Warm Fuzzy Friday” (or whatever we want to call it on this Thursday) and spread some gratitude today.

— Renee Roederer

During most of this season, my commute has been difficult. Even when there’s no construction, it typically takes around 40 minutes. But now, with a whole section of the interstate under construction, it takes over an hour, and that’s with slow-moving traffic.

I haven’t loved this commute… until recently. I realized that if I’m going to spend an hour or more driving, I might as well take the back roads. And right now, those roads are overflowing with green — trees, grasses, and sprawling fields in every direction. There are times when we become used to it, but it’s pretty remarkable how much grows so quickly, and so abundantly. Growth everywhere.

And in lifting this up, I’m not attempting to make some grand, sanguine, pristine little point in a world where people are bombing, starving, separating, deporting, and torturing one another.

I’m just saying that there might still be life yet. And pockets of life might surprise us.

— Renee Roederer

When I’m feeling a need to relieve stress or reconnect with the present moment, I often turn to a simple, grounding practice: I listen for the birds.

Whether I’m on a bike ride or taking a walk, if I invite myself to tune in, I’m always surprised by how much listening to birds can shift my energy. It helps my body feel grounded. The sounds of birds chirping have a way of bringing me back into the moment.

Birdsong isn’t just a beautiful sound or a pleasant reminder of spring. There’s something deeply calming about it on a biological level. Our ancestors learned to associate bird songs with safety; when birds were singing, it usually meant no predators were nearby. Their songs signaled that it was safe to relax.

This instinct is still with us. When we listen to birdsong, especially in the midst of a stressful day, we activate our parasympathetic nervous system. This is the part of our nervous system that helps us calm down, counteracting the “fight or flight” responses that the sympathetic nervous system triggers when we’re under stress.

In a world that often feels chaotic, taking a moment to listen to the sounds around us can serve as a powerful, centering too. It’s a biological reminder that we don’t always have to be on high alert. Sometimes, the best stress relief is as simple as paying attention to what’s around us.

— Renee Roederer

Children in Gaza are actively starving.

Children in Israel are actively hiding from of rocket fire.

Children in Iran are fleeing Tehran where bombs are raining down.

Children in the United States are going to bed worried about their parents stationed overseas.

Each example, different and positioned particularly, but each life, mattering. Violence wreaks havoc, tearing what could be — and who we could be — apart.

— Photos by Renee Roederer

Tiny Horses. Enjoy.

During the final weeks of April, I always make a point to bike to a house not far from mine. “This is the daffodiliest house,” I often say. It’s true. During this time of year, every part of the yard is filled with daffodils. It’s beautiful.

My daily bike rides frequently take me past this house. The yard is still filled with plants and flowers, but now, in June, they are a different variety. It’s not as though the homeowner uprooted the old plants to make room for new ones. Everything in this yard is perennial. There isn’t room for all of them to bloom at once, but bit by bit, they all get their time. And each will also return.

Our communities are like that, too. We can share leadership, take turns, celebrate each other, and make room for everyone to grow.

— Renee Roederer

I am afraid of a harmless thing.
It looks like it could creep,
or bounce,
or pounce,
or charge awkwardly with its considerable appendages.

But it does none of these.
It stays in place all day long,
content to rest in a single crevice,
or reside in clumps of countless others.

It wishes me no harm;
likewise, I wish it no hurt.
Unlike curious schoolchildren at recess,
I will not examine it,
or smash it,
or dash it,
or remove any of its legs.

But –
I will stand irrationally in fear.
I will freeze in the presence of a childhood phobia.
No matter the logic:
“It can’t bite you,”
“It can’t poison you,”
“It can’t jump on you,”
I will cringe with revulsion and anxiety.
I am afraid of a harmless thing.

It makes me wonder. . .

When
the word can’t enters our thinking, or
the word won’t enters our hoping, or
the word don’t enters our dreaming,
perhaps we fear something harmless too?

–Renee Roederer