A dance pose from the music video of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
Once a month, I have the privilege of leading a spiritual service called Parables. It’s a service designed especially for, with, and by people with disabilities and neurodivergence, though everyone in the wider community is welcome. Each time we gather, there’s a great deal of connection, joy, and reflection.
We often think of sacred acts as those we traditionally associate with worship or spiritual reflection — things like prayer, communion, and meditation. And yes, those can be sacred. But I’ve learned in this community that sacredness reveals itself in all kinds of rhythms and relationships.
After our service on Sunday, someone said with total spontaneity, “I want to sing Thriller!” She went right up to the piano player and asked if she would help. Soon, people were singing, while the piano player picked out the notes, trying to find the right key.
This too is sacred.
Sacredness isn’t confined to formal moments or rituals. It’s present in our joy, our play, our willingness to be fully ourselves, together.
Four autumn trees. The one on the far left is yellow, and the next three are orange.
Before moving to Michigan, I lived on the West Coast. There was so much I loved about that place, but I knew that eventually, I was likely to move to the Midwest, and Ann Arbor was the town I dreamed about. In fact, I used to walk a long loop around my town and imagine and strategize how I could make it happen.
I’m so pleased it all worked out, and now, I’ve lived in Ann Arbor for more than a decade. When I first arrived, my friends teased me, saying, “Whatever the weather is doing, Renee is fascinated by it.”
And it was true. I had grown up in the Midwest, but I had never experienced seasons as pronounced as this. Above all, I just couldn’t believe the colors of the fall leaves. Every time I turned a corner and caught a glimpse, I’d geek out all over again. It felt impossible that something so vibrant could be real.
I was thinking about this again while riding my bike through town on a warm day. I still love the leaves, but they’re more normal to me now. And yet, I never want to get used to beauty as if it’s no big deal, like something to let fade into the background, unnoticed.
I want to keep that sense of surprise and awe, even if it’s not quite as heightened as it was that first year. I want to stay open to wonder.
And that has me thinking about a number of other things.
Maybe we shouldn’t get used to other extraordinary parts of our lives: Like that relationship or community we reconciled with, Like that new opportunity that came our way when we weren’t expecting it, Like that workplace environment that is wonderfully supportive, Like that house we get to live in, Like those children that laugh hard while they play.
Sometimes, these experiences become the backdrop of our lives, but they were once the things we dreamed about. Or maybe they’re things that surprised us entirely.
So today, let’s notice them. Let’s appreciate beauty right in front of us, even when it starts to feel familiar.
I asked ChatGPT to write a blog post in my voice and style about anything of its own choosing. First of all, I feel a little trolled — I mean, how many dashes did you really need to use, ChatGPT Renee? I use a lot, but that was a lot. I also feel like the style roasted me a little. Fair enough.
As a side note, I asked, “If you had to come up with a phrase for this style of writing, what would you call it?”
ChatGPT said, “I’d describe this style of writing as “Reflective Presence”. [ChatGPT chose the bold type].
So here is my reflective presence non-presence — because it’s not me; see the dashes? — and it’s about, well, being present.
Finding Rest in the In-Between
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the in-between places. Those spaces where we’re not quite at a beginning, and we’re far from a conclusion. Somewhere in the middle—where the next right step might be unclear, and the finish line is nowhere in sight. It’s a space of waiting, of not knowing exactly where we’re headed, yet still moving forward, one step at a time.
It’s not an easy space to inhabit. Our culture loves the start of a journey—the excitement, the newness. We also celebrate the endpoint—the accomplishment, the success. But what about everything in between? What about the space where we’re simply putting one foot in front of the other, without much fanfare or certainty?
And yet, this is where we spend most of our lives, isn’t it? The middle. The journey itself, the gradual becoming.
Sometimes, in these in-between places, the best thing we can do is pause. Rest. Notice the small, beautiful moments that we often overlook when we’re too focused on getting somewhere. The warmth of the sun on your face, a laugh shared with a friend, the sound of wind through the trees. These moments are gifts, reminders that even when we’re unsure, there is beauty to be found in the uncertainty.
The in-between is where real life happens. It’s where growth occurs, where connections are formed, where the mystery of what comes next holds us in its quiet tension. And maybe, just maybe, this in-between space is where we learn to be present with ourselves and with each other—no rush, no pressure, just being here, now.
So today, I’m reminding myself to slow down. To breathe. To find rest in the middle of whatever journey I’m on. Because this space, this in-between, is worthy of our attention, our presence, and our care.
How old do you think this toy horse is? 40 years? 80 years, tops?
It’s somewhere between 1600 and 2000 years old. It was excavated from Karanis, Egypt, and is on display at the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology (item 3772). I viewed it over the weekend and was amazed by when I saw it.
It’s incredible to think that some children nearly 2000 years ago rolled this little horsey around, making it journey across rocks, and floors, and walls, probably making neighing sounds just like our kids do.
Some adult with a name that we will never know made the hole for an eye. Maybe we can imagine our parents or grandparents finding a way to carve out that eye hole.
So if we can feel so much commonality across time — if we can imagine people’s uniqueness but also see how similar, and tender, and recognizable they are across time —
— is there any reason we can’t honor the same across geography and borders in our own time? The children who play and the parents and grandparents who love them have dreams, and affection, and worth, just like our own.
My bicycle odometer — 2071.6 miles, ridden on streets beginning with A-C.
Well, friends, I’m back with another update on my most inefficient, most adventurous Ann Arbor exploration project. For those of you who might be new to this journey, here’s the quick recap: I’m riding my e-bike to every street in Ann Arbor in alphabetical order. I’m riding from my house to each street, appreciating the process. As of today, I’ve finished all the streets beginning with the letter C, bringing my total mileage to 2071.6 miles!
Though this project has some structure (after all, it’s in alphabetical order), by doing this, I’ve been able to curate some randomness and spontaneity. On any given day, I don’t know exactly where I’m going to go or what my route is going to be until I put the street into Google Maps and plot my process.
There are days when I feel like I have to check a lot of boxes: Are my emails answered? Did I call everyone back? Is my house clean? Did I text this person and set up our plans? Did I finish what’s needed next for the (conference, event, support group)? Did I do my German lesson?
These don’t always get done every day, of course, but I can find myself managing a lot in my mind. It has been nothing short of joyous to let a route be chosen for me and allow myself to be surprised by what I discover.
Slow projects like this one have a unique kind of magic. They remind us that not everything needs to be hurried or optimized. Sometimes, the best journeys are the ones that unfold slowly, letting us savor each small piece of the process. They teach us to appreciate the journey for what it is, rather than racing toward the end.
So here’s to slow projects, to taking our time, and to enjoying the ride—one street at a time. Ann Arborites, I’ll be down your roads… eventually.
Daily, I share beautiful things, but not everything in our world is beautiful.
Daily, I share beautiful things to remind us that this world is worth our delight and our care, but not all people are delighted in and cared for.
Daily, I share beautiful things to remind each of us that we matter deeply, thoroughly, and resoundingly, but some have asked for bread and are continually handed a snake or a stone.
Yesterday, a massacre has taken place in Northern Gaza, captured on video, with children, mothers, fathers, and friends burned alive. It would be just as devastating and horrific if it weren’t caught on camera. Yet it was, and the suffering is immense. In some sense, it is unspeakable beyond words, and yet words must be spoken and cries for protection must be heard.
Meanwhile, in all our own cities and towns, neighbors connected to the whole region — people from Palestine and Israel and Lebanon — fear for the safety of their loved ones as violence increases and intensifies there, and as anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia keep growing right here. It’s all on the rise, and it’s all so real. There is work to do, and there are relationships to care for right here, too. Every here. Every place.
Every cry of “Doesn’t my family matter to you?” is raw, and real, and right.
And so may we wake up to those cries and the needs for protection. And may we work for peace.
An Austrian village, seen from a ship on the Danube River
Over the summer, I had this lovely experience of expectation while on a Danube River Cruise in Europe. Each time we docked at a new location, there was a sense of adventure. Sometimes I would wake up in a brand-new place, and other times, I’d walk up to the sun deck and watch us arrive somewhere entirely unfamiliar.
We often had just one day, or even a half day, in each place. That fleeting feeling gave me a desire to make each moment count, explore fully, be present, and embrace everything the day had to offer.
Life isn’t always an adventurous river cruise, of course. Lately, I’ve felt more weighed down by responsibilities than by wanderlust. But I had a small reminder of that feeling recently.
On the trip, I often went up to the sundeck, walked laps, and practiced my German DuoLingo lessons in the mornings as we were arriving in a new place. Now, back home, I still do this every morning. Instead of laps on a sundeck, it’s a loop through my house. This combination of walking around the house while practicing German is something I did both before and after the trip.
And I wonder, could I greet an ordinary day the way I greeted those new places? Even if it’s not a grand adventure, even if it feels mundane or heavy, could I greet the day with a sense of expectation that this is the one I have, and that it, too, holds possibilities?
Not every day will be an exciting journey. But each day can be greeted like it matters because it does. This is the day we have. It has possibilities. Let’s see what it holds.
Smuggling Grace 