Smuggling Grace

Thich Nhat Hanh says,

“To be beautiful means to be yourself. You don’t need to be accepted by others. You need to accept yourself.”

If it rings true to any part of yourself, time to take that in.

If we think about any sphere of living, from the frequent, daily access and ease most of us have to warming up food in a microwave to the very specific areas of study, work, and care that make up our human lives, all things — all spheres of life — are impacted and disrupted right now in Gaza.

I work in epilepsy care, so I find myself wondering, how are people with epilepsy coping without medications? How is stress impacting their bodies? How is disrupted sleep causing seizures to be more frequent? Dr. Omar Danoun, a colleague and friend of mine, is originally from Palestine and is an epileptologist at Henry Ford Comprehensive Epilepsy Center in Detroit. He was recently featured on a podcast and addressed questions like these: Epilepsy Sparks Innovation: the Israel-Palestine Crisis.

And if we think of any sphere of life, from the most mundane to the most specific areas of study, work, and care we know… all are impacted.

How is this reality moving us to action, care, and advocacy? How might it?

—Renee Roederer

I thought I’d share a recommendation today. Hannah Gadsby is someone I greatly admire and is my favorite comedian. A couple years ago, I got to see them live in Chicago for Something Special, the comedy show that is now streaming on Netflix. It has already won some awards.

Something Special is Hannah Gadsby’s “feel good show.” “After Nanette, I feel I owe you one,” Gadsby says.

Nanette is a masterpiece that moved me so deeply, I watched it twice in the same day. It’s a show that begins with comedy but then turns to become powerful piece about trauma.

This “feel good show” is the story about their engagement and marriage to Jenno — Jenney Shamash. Like always, Hannah Gadsby is a master storyteller who can use a variety of twists and bends to circle back to previous material in unexpected ways. They do this here too; it ends with such a delightful surprise.

A language warning is warranted if curse words aren’t your cuppa (Hannah Gadsby is an Aussie). But I recommend this, especially if you, too, want to feel good:

Unless I am very intentional about it, I am highly prone to forgetting where I parked in a parking garage. This is worse than forgetting in a parking lot because at least in that instance, you can scan the whole of it visually all at once.

When I was in my 20s, a friend gave me her own trick, and it has steered me to sharp parking-lot-memory ever since. “Before you leave your car, you have to say the floor you’re on in the voice of the Sesame Street Count.”

“Two Blue! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

Works like a charm every time. I have done this for almost 20 years. My trick of the trade, if you will.

And for many years, I’ve enjoyed telling this parking garage hack to young adults, as if I am bequeathing wise knowledge that will enrich their lives for decades. Recently, however, I had two young adults in my car, and when I pulled into the parking garage, I said,

“Can I tell you a trick for remembering where you park in a parking garage? When I tell you, you’ll never forget it.”

Simultaneously, they said,

“Mark it on your phone?”

“Take a picture of it?”

And friends, in this moment, I knew I fit that article from a few years ago — that one that called people my age, “Geriatric Millennials.” My parking lot wizardry is discontinued. My ways are obsolete.

There are times, however, when we honor our commitments in this lifetime, and we faithfully pledge to be who we want to be in the world. So forever and always (unless I’m on a different floor all together):

“Three Orange! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

— Renee Roederer

When we do something we regret, or when we neglect to do something we wish we had done, we may feel guilt. Guilt can be constructive if it’s instructive — that is, if it teaches us who we want to be, and how we want to rectify a situation. But if it persists continually or morphs into shame, it’s a false story.

Guilt says, “I’ve done something wrong.”
Shame says, “There’s something wrong with me.”

And this shame storyline is always a false story.

Because here’s the paradoxical thing about shame —

As a feeling, it is real.
As a reality, it is untrue.

There has never been a life chapter, a day, or even a moment when we were not worth love and belonging.

Anything that says otherwise — a person, a family, a community, or an internal belief — is truly a false story.

– Renee Roederer

— Photos by Renee Roederer

Here’s a sweet throwback: If you were a child of the 80s, or you had children of your own during that time, you may remember this classic Sesame Street video about how crayons are made.

I’m Giving Up for Lent, Lyndsay Rush
What would it feel like to give up
self-improvement
for forty days?
Would the tightness in our chests
throat, shoulders, and hips
ease as we contentedly took the easy way out? 
Would capitalism crumble if we deleted our wish lists
and framed the before photo?
Sounds holy, if you ask me,
to be sold on life-as-is
to just exist
with only this, only us
only what these two arms can hold

–Lyndsay Rush

Do any particular words or phrases resonate with you?

Surround yourself with people who know you; value you; and want you to be you, contributing as you. Also, I recommend this documentary on Netflix:

If you’re a choral singer, or if you’ve heard someone talk about conflict, you may have encountered the corny phrase,

“There’s a reason we have two ears but only one mouth!”
(Har…)

Cheesy, indeed, but there are times when we are served well by listening more intentionally. When you’re singing in a choral setting, this is not only about how you sing, but about how you fit your singing into that of others. How do you blend? How do you practice dynamics? How do you keep the rhythms and cut offs precise and together? How do you make space for other vocal parts that should be primary in particular spots? This takes listening.

I’m just turning the corner on being sick for a week, but last night, I felt well enough to sit in the back of my choir rehearsal. I probably wasn’t contagious anymore, but just to be sure, I took some space, and instead of singing, I listened for the rehearsal.

And in listening intentionally, I perceived the music differently. I gained a larger view of the piece. I heard things that are working exceptionally well. I heard mistakes that needed more rehearsal.

This was a good exercise. And since I’ve already referenced an additional context for my corny, opening phrase, I do wonder where I need to listen more. If I listen intentionally, might I perceive conflicts differently? Might I hear needs more precisely? Might I consider community responses more frequently? Might I discern possibilities more readily?

This is a good invitation.

—Renee Roederer