Smuggling Grace

Over the weekend, I wandered into a local art gallery and saw a gorgeous solo show by Matt Shlian. He’s known for creating intricate folds in paper, building elaborate forms and patterns out of the simplest materials. I loved his work.

I also loved a story that was told in a description of one of his pieces. Years before, Matt Shlian and his young child had cared for two chrysalises, each with a caterpillar inside. Together, they awaited two butterflies. But in the end, only one butterfly emerged.

Shlian was trying to consider his words carefully, so he could explain that one of the caterpillars had died. But before he could speak, his child said, “Dad, it’s OK — some caterpillars stay caterpillars.”

And that was the name of the piece: Some Caterpillars Stay Caterpillars.

The description sign added, “Though Matt built up the excitement for the transformation of caterpillar to butterfly, his child recognized it’s a miracle that we even have caterpillars. He loved this idea that it’s OK that some things transform and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes there is no magic or the magic is in the ordinary.”

If something has not transformed yet, or even
If it never will, or even
If it once existed, but then, it ended,

It still matters.

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer

Acorn weevils are cute.

Every body is a good body. 

Every body is a worthy-of-love body.

Every body is a worthy-of-care body.

Every body is a worthy-of-resources body.

Every body is a worthy-of-taking-up-space body.

Every body is a worthy-of-dignity body.

Every body is a worthy-of-connection body.

Every body is a worthy-of-self-expression body.

Every body is a worthy-of-advocacy body.

Every body is a worthy-of-self-determination body.

Every body is a worthy-of-having-needs body.

Every body is a worthy-of-tenderness body.

 Every body is a good body. 

–Renee Roederer

I recently bought a boombox — yes, an actual boombox that plays cassettes. I was floored that such a thing still exists on the shelves at Best Buy. I originally bought it so I could hear the voice of a loved one who has passed. I found some old cassette tapes and wanted to listen again. That experience has been deeply meaningful.

Then, a few days ago, I was searching for a particular CD in my house and stumbled upon a different one altogether: a live recording from the Marktoberdorf Chamber Choir Competition. My college choir, the University of Louisville Cardinal Singers, performed there in 2005. It was one of the most extraordinary musical experiences of my life — an honor, a joy, a stretch, a moment that formed us.

And I remembered… this new boombox plays CDs too!

So I put it in — and it still works. What amazed me was how instantly the music returned to my body. I hadn’t thought about these pieces in years. I couldn’t have sung any of them on command. But the moment the track started playing, I knew every entrance, every vowel, every breath.

Only one piece on the recording is in English. These texts and these musical notes were just lying there dormant in my body in German, Latin, Spanish, and Latvian. One track title didn’t immediately ring a bell, but the second it began, I found myself singing every word in quick Russian, perfectly in sync.

These things live in us.

The moments in our lives when collective effervescence strikes — when we belong to something larger than ourselves, and when meaning is shared rather than carried alone — they stay. They take root in the body. They shape memory from the inside out.

It has been nearly twenty years. And still, in a way that shocked me, I was able to access all of this again.

If these moments linger in us this deeply, maybe it’s worth seeking them — and making them — as often as we can.

— Renee Roederer

Once a year, I make sure to see Jacob Collier in concert. His performances move me deeply — not just for their creativity, but for the way he brings people together. This year, I got to see him right here in Ann Arbor, my own town.

I was thrilled when I bought tickets in Row D, assuming they were the fourth row. But when I arrived at Hill Auditorium, I learned that Row D is actually the third row (not sure why?). I was already excited about that, but then I realized the first two rows were left empty on purpose. That meant we had front-row views of the magic of Jacob Collier and Chris Thile — two wildly talented, creative, improvisational artists — performing alongside the Ann Arbor Symphony Orchestra.

Throughout the night, Chris Thile made frequent eye contact with us — playful, knowing, in the moment. Together, the two of them had extraordinary synergy, weaving piano and mandolin together in improvisations that defied logic and overflowed with joy.

The most incredible moment came when Jacob Collier created a completely spontaneous orchestral piece in real time. He stood on the podium and addressed the musicians section by section:

“How many of you are first violins? Great — could you please play a G? You three here, play a B. You all, a C-sharp.”

Bit by bit, he built an ethereal chord — violins bowing, harp and glockenspiel sparkling underneath. Then he turned to the cellos and basses, layering in rhythm. With the brass, he added rich, resonant harmonies. The woodwinds trilled softly, and suddenly, the entire orchestra was animated with sound.

Then Jacob said, “Now we’ll do it all together. I’ll conduct from the piano — I have a part too, but I haven’t told you what it is yet.”

He began to play, and to everyone’s surprise, he came in with, “Look at the stars…” — starting to sing Coldplay’s Yellow. The orchestra swelled around him, perfectly in sync. Then Chris Thile joined in, singing a completely different song — “Every breath you take…” by The Police. Then they sang both these songs simultaneously.

Soon, Jacob had the entire audience singing along, too — “Look at the stars…” — while others layered “Every step you take…” in harmony. Voices rose from the floor, mezzanine, and balcony. Thousands of people sang together, in layers.

This is collective effervescence.

This is what happens when music becomes something larger than performance — when sound turns into connection, when art becomes shared experience.

And sitting there in the first row, singing with everyone else, I marveled that we’re capable of moments like this.

—Renee Roederer

My past posts about Jacob Collier performances:

The Community is the End
Mastery and Play
Jacob Collier Concert (Part 2)

Collective Effervescence. Though this term was coined by sociologist Émile Durkheim more than 100 years ago, I just learned about it this year. I was introduced to these words on Instagram and TikTok. I didn’t know the terminology, but I definitely know the experience:

Collective effervescence is an experience of joy, unity, belonging, or synergy of emotion when people are gathered together in a shared context for a common purpose.

As Durkheim shared, “‘The very fact of congregating is an exceptionally powerful stimulant. Once the individuals are gathered together, a sort of electricity is generated from their closeness and that quickly launches them to an extraordinary height of exaltation.” [1]

I bet you know this experience, too:

A concert. A religious or spiritual ceremony. A sporting match. A protest. A community event.

Collective singing. Collaboration. Teamwork. Mutual support. A recognition of shared kinship.

These experiences can be planned or spontaneous. They can be moving and powerful, even transformative — inwardly and collectively. Of course, the same collective energy can be shaped toward harm as well, which is a sobering reminder of how powerful this force can be. But today, I’m thinking about the moments when that shared spark leads us toward connection, creativity, and care.

These moments can take place in person, but I’ve also discovered that they can happen over distance, even through Zoom or over the phone. There are many possibilities.

If collective effervescence can emerge simply by gathering… what might be possible if we try to shape these moments deliberately? I don’t think they can be forced, and they’re certainly not formulaic, but if we can create the kind of spaces where people feel seen, safe, and open to joy, maybe we can help these moments find us more often.

I want to be a student of these kinds of experiences — and together with others (that’s the point, after all), keep curating space for them to emerge.

— Renee Roederer 

[1] Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Karen E. Fields (New York: Free Press, 1995).

This morning, I’d like to share this reflection from the daily emails of Richard Rohr and the Center for Action and Contemplation:

“Psychotherapist Resmaa Menakem connects our individual healing from trauma with our communal healing from racism and other social ills. He describes ‘clean pain’ as that which is faced and transformed instead of denied:  

“Healing trauma involves recognizing, accepting, and moving through pain—clean pain. It often means facing what you don’t want to face—what you have been reflexively avoiding or fleeing. By walking into that pain, experiencing it fully, and moving through it, you metabolize it and put an end to it. In the process, you also grow, create more room in your nervous system for flow and coherence, and build your capacity for further growth.  

“Clean pain is about choosing integrity over fear. It is about letting go of what is familiar but harmful, finding the best parts of yourself, and making a leap—with no guarantee of safety or praise. This healing does not happen in your head. It happens in your body. And it is more likely to happen in a body that can stay settled in the midst of conflict and uncertainty.  

“When you come out the other side of this process, you will experience more than just relief. Your body will feel more settled and present. There will be a little more freedom in it and more room to move. You will experience a sense of flow. You will also have grown up a notch. What will your situation look like when you come out the other side? You don’t know. You can’t know. That’s how the process works. You have to stand in your integrity, accept the discomfort, and move forward into the unknown.” [1]  

Richard Rohr considers the effects of trauma in individuals and social systems:  

“When people at work, in our families, in politics, or in the church seem to be completely irrational, counterproductive, paranoid, or vengeful, there’s a good chance they’re acting out of some form of the survival mode, which can be triggered in many ways. Persons with trauma deserve deep understanding (which is hard to come by), sympathy (which is difficult if we have never been there ourselves), patience (because it’s not rationally controllable), healing (not judgment), and, frankly, years of love from at least one person or animal over time. 

“Could this be what mythology means by the ‘sacred wound’ and the church meant by ‘original sin’—not something we did, but the effects of something done to us? I believe it is. It’s no wonder Jesus teaches so much about forgiveness, and practices so much healing touch and talk.” [2] 

Menakem emphasizes the possibilities for liberation created by the settling of our bodies:  

“We need to join in that collective action with settled bodies—and with psyches that are willing to metabolize clean pain. I can’t stress this enough. Bringing a settled body to any situation encourages the bodies around you to settle as well. Bringing an unsettled body to that same situation encourages other bodies to become anxious, nervous, or angry. “[3] 

[1] Resmaa Menakem, My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies (Las Vegas, NV: Central Recovery Press, 2017), 165–166.  

[2] Adapted from Richard Rohr, introduction to Oneing 9, no. 1, Trauma (Spring 2021):  18. Available in print and PDF download.  

[3] Menakem, My Grandmother’s Hands, 238. 

–Photos by Renee Roederer

They’re so cute.