Stephanie Rutt

Did you know there are angels right here among us? At this time last year, angels appeared and I, Doug, my husband, and a very unsuspecting family were blessed. Now some of you reading this may remember that Doug had been diagnosed with bladder cancer last December but what you didn’t know was that there was a back story unfolding that couldn’t be told until the right time. So, before we all settle down for a long winter’s nap, enjoy this beautiful story of awe and wonder.

On November 19, 2022, I received an email from an angel in the Tree of Life community, someone I hadn’t seen or heard from in a while, simply saying, “I have something for you,” and asked for my address. “What a lovely thing,” I thought. The next day, Doug and I read on his My Chart, “Unidentified mass on bladder.” He’d had some symptoms and had gone for tests. It was our 40^th wedding anniversary.

In a few days, my gift arrived. It was a beautiful stone with an image of a sparrow and the saying, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” (Matthew 6:26) I knew now why this angel had been drawn to send it to me. She’d also known it was one of my favorite sayings. It’s so beautiful and sits on my alter to this day.

Not long after, Doug underwent a procedure, was told it was cancer, and surgery was scheduled for January 19^th. Though it wasn’t considered urgent, the doctor said she couldn’t know for sure what the full extent of the cancer was until surgery. For the next several weeks, I couldn’t stop crying. Every time Doug would look at me or say anything sweet, I’d cry. Such is the way of love.

Meanwhile, shortly before all this had happened, we’d decided to really splurge and buy tickets for the Nutcracker at the Boston Ballet. Our granddaughter had been taking ballet for a while and it felt like a good year to offer her and our grandson such a treat. So, we got tickets for our two grandkids, daughter and son-in-law, and Doug and me. This was really a big deal as the tickets were just over $500. But we were so excited about it! We just knew it was going to be a night to remember.   

Then, the doctor said she didn’t think it was a good idea for Doug to go, being in such close proximity to so many people. Not knowing the full extent of the cancer, she didn’t want him taking any chances. It was heartbreaking for all of us. But by that time, it was less than two weeks before the show. Now we had no idea what to do with our tickets.

Then, suddenly, we knew exactly what to do. We went down to talk to our resident manager and told her we had 6 tickets we’d like to gift to a family who’d most likely never get to go to the Nutcracker in Boston. Right away her face lit up. “I know just the family!” But then her expression dropped as she said, “But they’d never be able to afford the parking down there.” “We’ll throw in some cash for that!” And with that, it was done. And the best part, they wouldn’t know who’d gifted them and we’d not know who was gifted. I so love God!

Each day after, Doug and I would look at each other and smile. It was the absolute best gift ever for us! And for me, just the thought could instantly turn all my tears to joy.

But the angels weren’t done yet. At almost the exact same time, I got another note from an angel saying she was gifting us with $500 for Doug and me to use however we may choose, maybe take a few days away together. I remember feeling so stunned. I could hardly believe this was happening.

A couple of weeks after Christmas, our resident manager delivered a two-page handwritten letter from the family thanking us. The woman shared that she was a single mom and that times had been especially hard, and she’d been so happy to be able to take her eight-year-old daughter, niece, sister, mother and Godmother to see the Nutcracker. She went on and on about how much it had meant to all of them.

The angel who’d gifted the $500 had reminded us that all things do work for good to them who love God. (Romans 8:28) And throughout the whole season and journey with Doug, my other angel had made sure I’d feel watched over by my beautiful stone.   

I mean, really? Does it get any better? I don’t think so. 

Today, my Doug is well, due in large part to all of you angels who prayed for him. And at any time throughout the year if my soul starts to feel weary, all I need to do is gaze at my beautiful stone and close my eyes to picture an eight-year-old girl, her cousin and family getting all dressed up to go to the Nutcracker.

Ummmm . . . O Holy Night . . .

And Merry Christmas to All You Angels . . . and to All a Good Night!

I’ll never know her name. Yet, she’ll live in my heart until my last breath. It started with one of those warnings from a newscaster, “The images are disturbing.” Then, amid the overwhelming devastation, I saw a little girl, maybe three or four years old, lying on a makeshift stretcher. Over her small body her dress lay limp, covered with blood and filth spewed from the ravages of war. But it was the blindfold tied around her matted hair that I could imagine left her feeling the most scared: viciously trapped, panicking, frantically groping for any escape out of the dark, crying out, pleading, again and again, “Mama. Mama.”

It was an image from Gaza but to ask where, whom or even why, is to have already lost the moral compass. Perhaps better a question would be, “What if it were my child? My daughter. My son. And what if I remembered that, just a short time ago, she or he was roaming free from concern, likely being messy, clothes soiled from fun due to all kinds of imaginary shenanigans.  

Pause. Feel. What if it were my child?

I know many of us are grateful each night, regardless of our particular challenges and circumstances, that we, at least for now, live in a country that’s not being decimated by war. Most of us have a warm bed out of the cold. We’re spending an unprecedented amount for gifts this Christmas and will have to do some serious dieting come January due to our holiday feasting. We can’t even imagine losing water, food, sanitation, safety, with no back-on date posted on our smart phones. We can’t. Or maybe we can so we quickly offer our passing, “That’s so sad,” and escape into the holiday classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I’m no different most of the time.

Until, I heard, “Mama. Mama,” and something in me stirred, deep.

And as I’ve sat with it, it’s made me hold more closely the teachings of the one called Jesus, this Holy Week in particular, as we anticipate the celebration of his birth on Christmas Day. Yes, I’m an Interfaith minister but I also have a long, endearing, familial relationship with Christianity through a small country Methodist Church in the deep south. And I sense that, if Jesus were here, he’d be quite dismayed with how those who call themselves the faithful have come to practice his teachings.

It might serve us all well to remember that Jesus was not a Christian. He was a Jew. The religion of Christianity was founded generations after Jesus’ death by those who could still hear, across time, the ecstatic cry that just his simple presence could elicit. They did, however, manage to record many of his teachings which, by any standard looking at events today, should give us all pause.

For example, Jesus was one who preferred to live on the fringes of society and hang out with those people others would not. Judging from his words, I believe today he’d be at our boarders tearing down walls and welcoming all who yearned for safety and comfort. I can imagine he’d be washing their feet and making sure they were properly clothed and fed for, as we read in Matthew 25:40, “I tell you whenever you did these things [fed, clothed and invited in the stranger] for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did them for me.”

Similarly, I don’t believe in the middle east today he’d stop to see any distinction between Jews, Muslim, Arabs, Palestinians, before serving any and all who were in need. He’d certainly not be concerned with whether or not they’d found him or loved his Holy Father through the proper religion. Today, he’d most likely look with bewilderment at those who’ve claimed him as their own such as those Christians who say God revealed to them that they should care predominately for Israeli Jews. No such hierarchy of worthiness is revealed in Jesus’ teachings, in fact, quite the opposite. “Just as I have loved you, you must also love one another. (John 13:34)

Perhaps, as expressed in the beautiful hymn, “Oh Holy Night,” this Christmas we should all hope to experience the unconditional love Jesus taught, to better live as he did so we too could feel, “A thrill of hope,” as our, “weary world rejoices,” remembering, “He taught us to love one another,” and that, “His law is love and his gospel is peace.”

Most of all, I pray we all may have just a moment when we too find ourselves consumed by that ecstatic cry, so when we sing, “Fall on your knees, O hear the Angels voices,” we can do nothing else.  

Maybe then, we could hear, a world away, a small voice crying, “Mama. Mama,” and know the true meaning of Christmas.

With so much division, manipulation, finger-pointing, and downright ugliness masquerading as civil discourse these days, it’s easy to lose site of the good. And then something happens, quite unexpectedly, that brings a ray of hope to where there was such challenge and despair. It was a simple thing really. Usually is. I’m fortunate to live in a large mill building with people of many ethnicities and it’s not unusual to hear multiple languages in the hallways.

A few days ago, I was walking up the ramp to our main entrance and passed a middle-aged woman and, what looked to be, her grandmother, both Muslim. The grandmother was walking behind slowly, hunched over, and seemed to have some visual impairment. I stopped at the door and held it open. When the grandmother got up to me, she paused, stared softly, and slowly bowed her head. I bowed back. Then, being shorter than me, she reached up and suddenly hugged me saying, “As-salamu alaykum,” a Muslim greeting that means, “Peace be upon you.” She held on for a few seconds as I was feeling oh-my-gosh, and then was finally able to whisper back, “And As-salamu alaykum to you.” Then, they went in and disappeared into our building. But as I write this, I know that somewhere in one of our 300+ apartments there’s a dear elderly Muslim woman who offered me peace that day, and for that I am surely blessed.

I know, like many, my heart breaks for the tragic war now consuming the Middle East. As I expressed in my 11/1/2023 article, “Middle East Peace,” I could respond in kind to the woman because I’ve spent time praying with both my Muslim and Jewish friends. I know that had the elderly woman I met at the door been Jewish, I’m sure she’d have blessed me with, “Shalom aleichem,” generally translated, “Peace unto you.” I could have responded in kind, “Aleichem shalom,” and there would have been no difference in the gift offered or received.

Funny how such a simple act of kindness can ripple and instantly soothe a heart overcome with turbulent fear for the future. We forget how powerful kindness is, too easily discounted, worthy perhaps only of a fleeting smile before getting back to more serious business. That is until an elderly Muslim woman spontaneously hugs you or you, again unexpectedly, have an opportunity to offer something in kind.

A number of years ago, at this time of year, I was standing in line at one of the quick checkout lanes in a grocery store in Milford. It was early evening, and the store was packed. The couple ahead of me had an infant who was becoming more and more fussy. Both parents looked completely frazzled and had that I-can’t-remember-the-last-time-I-slept look. As mom tried to calm the infant, dad was desperately counting out his last penny. He came up short and the cashier, regretfully, said he’d have to put something back.

Without thinking, I jumped in and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll cover the bill.” I’ll never forget the surprise, almost disbelief, mixed with deep gratitude, in their eyes as they left the store. But the good news is I’m absolutely certain that many of you reading this would have done the exact same thing.

But the story doesn’t end there. About a week later, I was in line again at the same store. This time, as I started to empty my cart, the woman in front of me said, “I’m paying for your groceries today. I was behind you last week and saw what you did for that couple with the baby. Now I’d like to do something for you.”

Who knows? Maybe this article will find her and she’ll remember that day and know that her kindness still makes me smile all these years later.   

Kindness doesn’t need to know what political party you belong to. It doesn’t care what religion you are or how much money you make. No application is required. We offer kindness because something bigger than us, in the moment, compels us. It sparks an ember, long smothered, awakening an innate sense of our shared humanity, and ignites the fire of neighborly love even before we know what’s happening.   

And it changes everyone and everything in its wake. Giver. Receiver. Witness. One and the same now. For the moment, it frees all from the shackles of drudgery, oppression and hatred to find hope and joy where no one would have thought to look. And even years later, just the memory can rekindle the ember again. Such is the power of kindness.

As-salamu alaykum . . .  

(This article ran in the NH Concord Monitor 11/30/2023. To read more published newsprint, please visit my website at https://www.stephanierutt.com/)

Someday, you’ll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. C. S. Lewis

Today, I’m invite you on a journey into the magical forest to receive a Thanksgiving blessing . . .

Chapter 1: The Shaman’s Dream

One day, deep in the magical forest, a holy woman, a Shaman, was sleeping and had a dream. Ahhh…but this was no ordinary dream. When she woke, she was very sad because she’d seen a vision of what was to come. Soon, the forest would lose its magic and become dark and desolate. All the birds would stop singing and all the wondrous forest sounds would become silent. And she was shown that this would happen because people who lived in the forest had lost sight of their own inherent magic.

But she was told there was hope because there was one animal in the forest that had just the right medicine to help people remember their inherent magic and so could return the magic to the forest – and that animal was Squirrel.

Thanksgiving was coming soon and just thinking of how Squirrel might be able to save the beautiful forest filled the Shaman with hope and gratitude. What more could she possibly wish for than for the beautiful forest to be saved from darkness?

Now you might wonder, “Why Squirrel?” It’s not usually exalted as say the eagle, bear, dove or lion. Well, Squirrel medicine teaches us some very important things. It teaches us the importance of gathering and storing energy, resources, we may need for a future time. It teaches us to be awake and prepared to face whatever may come.

But while squirrels are always prepared and resourceful, they’re also fun and curious. They love to play! So, Squirrel medicine teaches us most about balance – working hard yet having fun – preparing for the future but not losing site of the present moment. Squirrel medicine requires us to seek balance in our lives.  

The Shaman knew the forest was losing its magic because it was struggling to keep itself in balance with all the changes humans had brought. She knew that, somehow, if humans could remember their own inherent magic, they could find balance within themselves again, and then be able to keep the magic of the forest alive.  

So, beating her drum, she started singing a love song especially for Squirrel for the Shaman knew that it was love that attracted all things without fail.  

Chapter 2: A Call for Squirrel Medicine

Squirrel heard the call but was busy gathering acorns for the winter. It was already growing cold and he knew time was short. But the Shaman kept calling and, finally, he couldn’t resist and scampered over to the cottage.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I’m really busy.”

“I have an important assignment for you,” said the Shaman, “one that could save our entire forest from losing its magic and going dark.”

Suddenly, Squirrel paused and frowned, looking worried. “But what can I do?

“I need you to take a special message to the humans who live here. They are the only ones who can save our forest.”

“Why me? I’m just an ordinary squirrel – you know – not one of those special animals humans are always talking about.”

“Ahhhh, but you have, right now, just the right medicine the people need to remember their inherent magic, the only magic that can save our forest.”

“W-h-a-t?” said Squirrel, totally confused . . . but the Shaman just smiled patiently.

Chapter 3: The Gift of the Acorn

“So, what do I have that can help humans remember their inherent magic?”

“It’s right there in the Spirit of all those Acorns you’re collecting for winter.”

Squirrel continued to look confused.

“You know how acorns grow into oak trees?” asked the Shaman.

“Well, yea,” answered Squirrel thinking only when he didn’t eat them first.

“But every oak tree is different, right?” said the Shaman. “Yet, each is still an oak?”

“Well, yea . . . So?” Squirrel frowned even deeper.

“The first thing humans need to remember to help save our magical forest is that, just like each acorn already has inside itself what the grown oak tree will be, each human also carries within, right from the beginning, a special magic that is unique among humans – a magic only they can bring.”

“So . . . how will that help save the forest?” asked Squirrel growing even more confused.

“Well, you know how trees are connected, and even help each other through their roots?”

“Yea,” said Squirrel.

“Well, just like the oak trees are all connected through their roots, humans are all connected through their hearts. When humans bring forth their magic, their hearts lights up, and then all the hearts around them light up, and then even the trees light up and all the forest begins to shine just a little brighter.”

“And that’s how humans can help save the forest!” Squirrel suddenly exclaimed scampering back and forth . . . but then stopped and asked, “But what can I do?”

Chapter 4: Under Every Pillow

“Would you be willing to scurry quietly though the window of each cottage and leave an acorn under the pillow of each sleeping human? I’ll go into the dreamtime and have each of them dream of the acorn under their pillow and of the special message it brings. Would you be willing to do that?”

Squirrel was already counting in his head how many humans lived in the magical forest and thinking it wouldn’t be that many acorns to give up. Besides, if he could help save the forest, well, he just might become one of those special animals humans are always talking about.

“Yes!” said Squirrel scampering back and forth.

“There’s just one more thing,” said the Shaman.

“Oh boy,” thought Squirrel – not wanting his happy bubble to burst.

“You know how every Thanksgiving we have a special ceremony in the meadow and share our blessings?”

“Yea.”

“The night before, would you be willing to make a big heart on the ground made of acorns? And when we all gather together, I’ll let everyone know it was you who left the special acorns under their pillows and you who made the heart.”

For once, Squirrel was speechless. Just maybe he would become one of those animals humans were always talking about.

“Then, I’ll ask the humans to share the special magic the acorns brought, left under their pillows, and then ask them to put the acorns inside the big heart. This will help humans to remember that, while each has a unique special magic, we’re all a part of the one heart of the magical forest. This will help restore balance to what is important, to what it truly means to be happy and alive, which will light up the forest forever.”

As Squirrel scampered away, he knew this would be a Thanksgiving he’d never forget.

And suddenly he was so happy he forgot all about picking acorns and, instead, started playing with his friends. “There’ll still be time for work later,” he thought.  

And the magical forest lit up a little brighter.

Chapter 5: The Shinning Forest

Later, when Squirrel went back to finding acorns, he put the ones he’d hide under each pillow in a special place—careful to make sure he had one for each person in the forest. Then, he collected all the ones he wanted to use to make the heart for the special Thanksgiving ceremony in another place—all the while smiling thinking that, just maybe, now he’d become one of those special animals humans are always talking about—because the Shaman had called on him to help save the forest.

And Squirrel smiled.

The End

During these challenging times, seeing war raging in the Middle East, the terrorist attack of Hamas on innocent Israelis, and now the subsequent bombardment of the Gaza Strip, it’s easy to succumb to despair. I refuse. Even as I watched the shock and horror on the faces of those Israelis being suddenly snatched, taken prisoner in broad daylight, and now hear the cries of the innocent ones trapped in perpetual darkness in the Gaza Strip without the basic necessities for survival, I refuse. 

Hope is only lost when we decide we can do nothing or remain silent. Silence leaves a vacuum for hatred that only escalates as a result of fear – fear of alienation and annihilation. Hope gives rise to conscious action, possibility, as a result of love – love not based on personal emotion but rather on a sense of clarity, that what we do to the other, in the end, we do to ourselves.

Certainly, as we determined after 911, any act of terror must be met with the swift sword of justice. Simply, evil, in any manner, cannot be allowed to prevail. Still, I believe it’s the hope of many that we not simply re-act arbitrarily, but, rather, strive for that conscious action when balancing the scales of justice. It’s a fine, some might say lofty, point but I would argue a critical one influencing the decisions we make.

For example, this distinction has risen as many are contemplating the plight of civilians, particularly those trapped in the Gaza Strip. It might serve us well to ask what happens to our collective psyche when we decide some innocent lives are more worthy of our care than others. It becomes all too easy, framing the argument as perpetrators vs victims, to lose sight that today’s victims are tomorrow’s perpetrators and vise-versa. And so, the wheel of re-active retaliation spins without end while the innocent on both sides continue to suffer and grieve as they bury their children.

Elenor Roosevelt asked, “When will our consciences grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery rather than avenge it?” Herein lies an important key to stopping re-active retaliation. As I highlighted in my April 30, 2023 Opinion, Our Common Humanity, making opportunities to forge dialogue, expand understanding, and raise awareness is key to helping assumed enemies step off the perpetrator-victim wheel and, together, forge new pathways. Not easy. Messy and challenging for sure. But worth it? Ask the many helpless ones, this moment, watching their loved ones suffer and die and can do nothing about it.

Something happens when we move beyond the more superficial differences and see into our common humanity—that place where it no longer matters, we don’t notice, or forget to ask, what religion, ethnicity or nationality a person is—when we see someone in need. We respond because something bigger compels us. In that moment, if ever so briefly, we contact the common ground of our humanity. And it changes us.  

As an Interfaith minister, I have hope because I’ve personally experienced that common ground, one might call our Oneness from a religious perspective, with both my Jewish and Muslim friends.

My Jewish friends practice the great message from the Talmud: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to another. That is the whole law. The rest is commentary.” I’ve learned from them the mysteries of the Hebrew script and where, for example, the first letter is “Alef.” It’s silent signifying the One behind all creation. As Lawrence Kushner writes in “The Book of Letters,” “It [Alef] also begins the most important thing about Him: ECHAD. One. Know that God is One.”

And it didn’t matter that I was not a Jew.

My Muslim and Sufi friends hold fast to the enduring message from the Hadith: “None of you truly believes until you love for your brother what you love for yourself.” I’ve danced in circle form many times to the sacred phrase, “La Ilaha Illallah,” generally translated, “There is no deity but Allah,” and points to the Muslim concept of “Tawhid,” the Oneness of God. I learned the 99 beautiful names of Allah and discovered that the infamous phrase, hijacked by terrorists, “Allahu Akbar,” simply means, “God is Great.”

And it didn’t matter that I was not a Muslim or Sufi.

It would not be possible for the Jews and Muslims I know to participate in any form of terror against others. Their religious practices bring them again and again to stand for hope, possibility and love.

Let’s not allow fear and hatred to dominate. Let’s strive for conscious action to balance the scales of justice. Let’s allow ourselves to imagine the possibility that we could stand together in search of freedom and prosperity for all.

And, above all, let’s choose hope that propels us to love.  

In the October 8^th 60 Minute story featuring Geoffrey Hinton, a British computer scientist now called the God Father of AI, artificial intelligence, Hinton reported believing AI could bring enormous benefit to humankind yet also warned the AI systems may be more intelligence than we know and could even take over. It led me to speculate on what, at least at this point, I’d imagine AI could NOT do.

I wonder, for example, if it could venture into the Forest of Arden with the banished duke, as in Shakespeare’s As You Like It, to find, “tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything?”

Would it ever desire to collect rocks as many children and adults do and, just maybe, wonder why? Indigenous folklore tells us stones are the home to the hidden folk, the mythological world of the fairies, gnomes, trolls and forest guardians. It’s why British sculpture Andy Goldsworthy says, “There is life in a stone. Any stone that sits in a field or lies on a beach takes on the memory of that place. You can feel that stones have witnessed many things.”

The fairies, in particular, have been behind the scenes weaving their magic across time. When the late renowned botanist Dr. George Washington Carver was asked how he could talk to the little flower, he answered, “Through it I talk to the Infinite. And what is the Infinite? It’s that still small voice that calls up the fairies.” And the Sami people of Northern Europe believe their joiking, a ritual practice of spontaneous singing engendering a spiritual connection with the whole of life, was a gift from the fairies and elves of the artic lands. 

Will AI be able to converse with the hidden folk or with the Infinite budding the flower? Will it be able to sing a love song to the tiny fledging pine, howling woodpecker or serenade the moon spilling starlight over silent fields of snow?

Will AI be able to hunt with the eagles as 13-year-old Aisholpan Nurgaiv does, a Kazakh girl from Mongolia, who trained to become the first female eagle hunter in twelve generations in her nomad family?

Will AI have the capacity for a love as wide as one like Simone Weil? A well-off secular French Jew, Weil was so affected by what was happening to other, less protected, people under the Third Reich in World War II, she’d decided to live as they lived and died of hunger.

For whom or for what would AI be willing to die?

And what of the mythical hero’s journey highlighted by the late Joseph Campbell? You know, the one we humans embark upon when we begin a relationship, start a business, create the next amazing thing, the journey that inevitably brings us to confront what stands in the way of our success, those inner demons and dragons, to, in the end, emerge victorious?

Will AI be able to recognize and slay its own digital dragons?

And though AI may be able to categorize and critically analyze all the great works of art that have ever existed, will it ever be able to stand in front of just one of them and be held breathless, barely able to whisper “ahhhhhh?”

Will AI ever be able to join with others to build a braided bridge? Communities on either side of a canyon in Peru do. Every year, the Q’eswachaka Bridge is rebuilt using traditional techniques since the time of the Incas. The communities gather to weave, tie and haul braided rope to build the bridge that will carry all of them across the canyon. And at the end of three days, there’s a grand celebration. 

Will AI ever know the feel of rope rubbing across many hot callused fingers?

If we’re curious enough to leave behind futuristic possibilities, just for a while, and venture into the Forest of Arden we just might find there what makes us fully human. We may remember that thanking the fish for its life is the greatest blessing, and turn at the apex of danger and beauty, life and death, with wide stretched arms. We just might start to notice the sacred in apples, on the face of the one bagging our groceries, and in the silent communion we feel with those who are suffering.

And before we know it, we just might find ourselves, like the Sami, bursting into song. For we know now we’re an integral part of the whole. We’re ready now to build a braided bridge and to invite those who live across the canyon, whoever they may be or however they may believe, to join us in building this bridge, one that secures safe passage to all when crossing a great chasm that divides us.

Who knows? Perhaps AI would map the same techniques used by the Inca, or not. No matter. In the Forest of Arden, the real gift would be to sit together and build the bridge, one braid, one tug, one haul, at a time.

Who’d of thought a doll could cause such a fuss. Barbie, the movie, reveals for some the true existential crisis in the feminine experience while, to others, shadows demonic messages capable of transmuting all Godliness into evil. One can only wonder how 11 ½ inch of hard vinyl can cause an entire universe to turn pink, with blushing delight or raging anger. 

This quintessential feminine beauty made her debut in 1959. White, blond, shaped to perfection in just the right places, flawless in every way so, of course, always smiling. After starting out as a teen fashion model, she went on to have a host of careers: astronaut, Air Force Pilot, Major League Baseball player, Presidential Candidate, even a rapper, among others. Yes, apparently this quintessential beauty was fully capable of being anything she wanted to be. Oh, and let’s not forget, she also had the quintessential boyfriend, Ken, who of course was handsome as ever and fully content to be her, yes, always smiling, sidekick.

And, so it was that in Barbie Land all the women were Barbies, beautiful, powerful and in charge of their destinies, and all the men were Kens, supportive, and constantly vying for attention. Perfect. Pink. Sweet as cotton candy.

I know a lot of people, particularly women, will recognize the ironic juxtaposition here.    

I did. For, in the movie, even as Barbie leaves Barbie Land for the real world to get help for her unbearable existential crisis, flat feet, Ah!, and then discovers Ken stowed in the backseat—well, I knew exactly where this was heading. And, in spite of reminding myself, “She’s only a doll!” it still made my insides churn, “I don’t want to see her loose power—even if she is pink!”  

But, true to expectation, in the real world, Barbie finds her herself out of place, her wily ways suddenly invisible, attracting stereotypical sexist reactions wherever she goes. Ken, of course, finds his mojo, complete with mob-towering shoulders, helped by a white furry coat, and a dismissive deal-with-you-later look. He’s in charge now.  

And just like that, I felt the flip sides of matriarchy—patriarchy, each the same coin. And, for me, one of the movie’s great take-aways: in gender hierarchies, one group is always losing.

This led me to another great take-away: the passing suggestion to introduce an Ordinary Barbie. This Ordinary Barbie would have more realistic qualities yet, presumably, still be able to pursue her dreams without the weight of pink perfection. This felt to me reachable, attainable, even possible for every little girl, or boy, for surely there’d also be an Ordinary Ken.

As a Boomer, I was a young girl when Barbie made her iconic entrance. I remember her smiling from inside the cellophane covered pink box. I was beyond doll-playing stage so never wanted a Barbie but, really, never would have. She just looked too different from me, perfect, like one of those in-crowd girls in school, and lived out fantasies I’d never imagined. I didn’t feel it’d be cool to be her or not be her. She just wasn’t anywhere in my world.

But an Ordinary Barbie? Now, that may have lit a spark. One that looked like most girls and gave off a vibe of regardless of what you look like, you too could find some kind of beauty and awesomeness—maybe just by being yourself? Ah?! Imagine that!

And perhaps such a doll could help unravel all those contradictory messages voiced by real world Gloria, part of the mother-daughter duo who returns to Barbie Land with Barbie. Arguably, the most potent scene in the movie, she exclaims, “It’s literally impossible to be a woman. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you!”

But, wait. It seems Barbie might just share the same sentiment. In the end, she leaves Barbie Land to go to the real world because she just doesn’t feel like Barbie anymore and wants to know about being real.

Can we dare to think iconic Barbie could actually become Ordinary Barbie? Could we imagine her feeling the full emotions and contradictions of being human: the messiness, inexplicable joy, raw rage? Better still, could we imagine each little girl discovering, through her Ordinary Barbie, that all such feelings come and go but she, long after her Ordinary Barbie is put away, remains her beautiful, awesome self?

It’s a thought. After all, in the movie, it was decided Ordinary Barbie could actually make money.

Ah, but just maybe she could make something much more important: dreams, real dreams, for real girls in the real world—all as they each munch on their own pink (of course) cotton candy.   

Anyone can enjoy a good fairytale to escape the stresses of the day. The problem comes when the boundaries are blurred between fantasy and reality. Such is the case with Baker Mitchell, founder of the North Carolina public charter school, highlighted this week when the US Supreme Court declined to hear the school’s defense of its blocked requirement that girls wear skirts. In Reuters June 26^th article by Andrew Chung, Mitchell said the school offers a traditional-values-based education designed to preserve chivalry, with women “regarded as a fragile vessel that men are supposed to take care of and honor.”

Say . . . what? Fragile? Really? If it weren’t so systemically dangerous for girls and women, I’d actually feel a bit embarrassed for a public admission revealing such an unveiled ignorance of women, of the stark realities facing many daily, and of women’s ongoing quest for equality and autonomy—to be seen, heard, counted.   

Clearly, it’s Mitchell who’s in need of an education. While he might imagine his own vessel fired in some kiln full of visions of knighthood rescuing damsels in distress, many women, particularly those representing over half of our nation’s poor, have no such luxury to indulge in imaginary flights of fantasy. There’re too busy making lunches, dealing with irate bosses because the bus was late again, and hoping there’s one more box of mac and cheese for dinner.

While Mitchell touts, in Ben Finley’s June 28^th, Associated Press article, that his school reduces the gap for racial and income disparities in test scores, he appears to show little awareness or appreciation for the home environments and daily struggles that go on behind the scenes in the homes of those children, homes headed mostly by women.  

And, rest assured, these women are no damsels. They wake up every morning caged by unsurmountable circumstances yet push through another day, silently standing on the graves of their own forgotten dreams. As a minister, I’ve sat with these women and seen into their vessels, clearly weather-worn but remarkably sturdy.

It might do Mitchell well to come out of his fantasy, put down his golden sword, and sit awhile in the unending turmoil, oppressive stress, unrelenting challenges and emotional depravity these women endure daily. If so, he might just see right before him, not helpless, weakened, one-dimensional damsels waiting for the prince to arrive, but infinitely multidimensional women: gritty, messy, hard-core, achy, angry, no-shit-can’t-give-up women, who’ll do anything to make sure their kid gets a birthday present or has a gift under the Christmas tree. Women who often fight alone, every day, to be all things to their children, with little left for themselves, in a society where many just look away.    

If he dared to look, he might see Rachael who scours thrift stores, and garage sales in fancier neighborhoods, for first-day-of-school clothes for her children, and who cuts coupons from tossed paper inserts hoping there’ll be enough money for food. She no longer knows where her children’s father is, though her oldest son still asks at bedtime. He remembers a story they used to read and it’s still his favorite. “Read it again, mom,” he pleads, “just one more time.”

Or he might see Michelle and her daughter who has a chronic illness. Though Michelle works fulltime and her husband balances two, sometimes three, jobs, they can’t afford health insurance. After laying her daughter to sleep, she knows another restless night is coming. “Please don’t let me miss another day at work,” keeps her at the edge of an abyss where she knows there’s no safety net. Still, she gets up each morning, weary and worn, and does another day.   

And cutting across socio-economic divides, he might see women like Susan everywhere. Susan desperately wishes summer will pass so she can stop wearing long sleeves to cover up her bruises. Her pastor tells her the problem would right itself if she could just be a better wife. A pretty young woman, she frequently endures subtle inappropriate touches, and the probing eyes of strange men, much like coyotes anxious to feast on the lone fawn strayed from its mother.

I would say to Mitchell, and to men of similar ilk, you may want to cast we women as damsels, lift us up only to label us like paper dolls in some fairytale, but don’t ever presume us to be fragile! You’ve not earned the right—not even in your fantasy world—for every day we women rise up to fight, again and again, battles you’ve never known.  

Perhaps Mitchell thought that calling us such would leave us giggly, fanning our blush as damsels rightly should? Ah, but the reality is quite the opposite. So, on second hand, it might serve him well to stay guarded by his own flights of fantasy because, in the real world, he just might discover what he fears most . . . that we women are more resilient, more powerful, than he could ever imagine.