Smuggling Grace

I do not have the words to adequately express the degree to which I completely and utterly love summer. For instance…

Last night, I hopped in my car at 10:15pm and drove down to the two-week-long summer festival in my town. It was the closing event of the final night. I knew I was going to arrive late for this last movie of the season. I also knew I was going to leave early. Just a half hour of enjoying this.

I really did. There I was with a snack of yogurt, seasonal strawberries and blueberries, and chocolate. I joined hundreds of people in my town, sitting outside to watch Wicked: Part 1. I couldn’t find any empty seats, so I just sat on the grass. This is not at all strange; others were doing the same. I took off my shoes, feeling the cool grass beneath my toes, and smiled when Elphaba finished singing “The Wizard and I,” and the crowd applauded. (Cynthia Erivo always deserves applause in my book.)

Then something delightful happened. I’m still giggling about it. I’m not sure if anyone else broke into song afterward, but during my particular 30 minute screening, it turned into a one-word singalong. And, if you’re not a TikTok user, please forgive me for this reference, but here’s the moment: During the song “Dancing Through Life,” Nessa sings, “We deserve each other… me and—” and lots of people chimed in with, “Boq.” Just that one word, sung with perfect timing and a perfect fifth down.

…“Boq.”

At that moment, a collective laugh erupted from the crowd.

TikTok references aside, I eventually decided to lie down in the grass and just look up. There, above me, was the Big Dipper, spilling whatever contents it’s carrying in our direction.

I love summer. It is my wake up call to be a person who savors.

There is so much on my mind and heart these days as I think about our collective experiences. I know that’s true for so many of you, as well. I think about people who don’t have the luxury to lie in the grass, feel safe with fellow townspeople, watch a musical, and view stars. I’m mindful of them, too.

When we find those moments of savoring, I hope we can take them in with deep gratitude. And then, I hope those moments can propel us toward working for a world where everyone has the opportunity to enjoy summers — on their own terms, with their own beautiful choices.

— Renee Roederer

Dear Friends,

As I reflect on this journey of writing and sharing with you, I’m filled with gratitude. Your support, whether through reading, commenting, or simply being a part of this community, means the world to me. The conversations we’ve had, both in public and private, continue to enrich me greatly. Thank you for being here.

Today, I want to share something a little different from my usual posts. I make a point to keep my writing accessible to everyone, offering it free of charge. I’ve chosen to remain outside of paid platforms like Substack so that these words can remain fully accessible. This is something I feel strongly about, and I plan to continue.

However, once a year, I open a small window for those who might like to offer support. If you’ve found something meaningful in what I share and feel moved to do so, I’d be deeply grateful for a small contribution through PayPal (link below). Your support helps cover the costs of maintaining this site and ensures that I can keep the content coming. Or, you can think of it as treating me to a coffee (or a few!)—a small gesture to show your appreciation, should you feel inclined. Please know that this is entirely optional, and there is no expectation. Your presence here is more than enough.

If you choose to contribute, you can do so here.

Again, thank you for being a part of this community. I’m so fortunate to share this space with all of you, and I look forward to continuing this journey together.

With appreciation,
Renee

— Photos by Renee Roederer

“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