Stephanie Rutt

This week the Supreme Court made an historic change to civil rights legislation causing much debate. It’s made me think of Mini and my heart wrote this in honor of her.

You could sit on my great-grandparent’s porch, deep in the southern woods, and count to at least 90 before the first faint sound of the next car to pass our way could be heard. The sound was something like the hum the wind makes as it is first gathering steam. As Don Williams once sung, I can still hear soft Southern winds in the live oak trees. This was where Joe grew up, the one to whom I dedicated my first book An Ordinary Life Transformed: Lessons for Everyone from the Bhagavad Gita. It’s also where Mini would come to cook and clean for us.

We were not the old money antebellum south. We were the other south, poor, yet fiercely proud. And, like such families, with many children to feed and crops to plow, extra hands were needed in the house and in the fields. And, those hands were black. Of course, by the time I was growing up and spending long, hot, pick-wild-flowers-in-the-field days there, an image of the those extra black hands in the fields could only be held alive in the vapors of memory. But, Mini, was no vapor. She was right there making the biscuits and, then, making my bed.

And so, she labored for our family for most of her long life. No doubt she would have said she loved us dearly, as we certainly felt so, and we always said we loved her like family. And, I believe, both were, unequivocally, true. Me, living in a different part of the country for the school year, did not have the long history with Mini. I was also part of a new generation enlivened by the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. So, though I was always happy to see her come through our back door (yes, only the back), mostly, I just tried to turn away and not think about it too much. But, sometimes I couldn’t and that sour feeling would come back again in my stomach, curdling.

I suppose I could have made it through without any unnecessary upheaval for those few short weeks each summer. After all, this was where my roots were, my home. This was my family, the only place I knew I belonged, and always a welcome respite from the difficult school year. My family was good, salt of the earth, and I loved them. And, of course, still do.

I could have had it not been for that outhouse at the outer edge of our back yard. Mini wasn’t allowed to use the indoor bathroom. The outhouse was for her. One day, as I watched her make her way out to that outhouse, I could feel that curdling again. But, this time the inevitable tide, like nausea, having festered for many summers, was not to be curtailed. I waited for her to return to the kitchen and, finding us alone, blurted out, Mini, why don’t you use the indoor bathroom?

And, exactly in that moment, would have given my life to take it all back. Her stunned, piercing glance felt volcanic, like hot embers, long dormant, suddenly now in real danger of erupting without regard to fallout. And I, in the wake, stopped breathing, paralyzed. Oh, but my young, naive, heart was screaming, But, Mini, it’s wrong! I’m so ashamed! I’m so sorry!

Gratefully, her lifetime of well adapted this is how you behave ‘round whites instinct kicked in and she quickly recovered but not before giving me a good tongue lashing. Youse knows better’in dat Miss Stetnee. Things is how they is. You best leave it ‘lone now! And, turning from me, she threw the dry cloth over her shoulder and flashed me one last clear look of warning, We be done w’ this Miss Stetnee. We be done w’ this. And, so we were.

Things is how they is. You best leave it ‘lone now! My family would have echoed the exact same sentiment. Still, since, I have winced every time I remember. Just what was she to do with that? In truth, none of us, least of all me, were equipped to do anything with, simply, yet regrettably, what was. It was more than what we did. It seemed to be who we were.

We never talked about it again. I returned to school and, in later summers, would come to see Mini less and less as age and health issues took hold. Still, over the years, I’ve often prayed that she knew what was in my heart that day in the kitchen. I have imagined being able to sit with her and to say please forgive me. I just couldn’t watch you walk out to that outhouse anymore. I just couldn’t. Still, I am sorry I was so unkind to you. I just so wanted you to know, dear Mini, that I ‘saw’ you…and so ‘felt’ for you. This was what was in my heart to say. I just didn’t know how.

Oh, dear Mini, thank you for your hands, sturdy and skilled, given in the long, faithful service to my family. Thank you for still making our biscuits and our beds, for loving us, even when we did not know how to best love you.

I am so grateful for all you were to us…even to have witnessed your long, heavy, walk across the yard to that outhouse…For, only in doing so, have I came to more fully appreciate the fullness of your gift to us…a gift born only of Grace.

I wonder what Mini would have to say about the Supreme Court ruling? I like to imagine that, with just her presence, she might remind us all of where we have been and where we would not want to return.

I can still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees. And, when I close my eyes, I can see in the vapors dear Mini standing there in the kitchen.

Smiling at me. Unburdened and free.

It makes me smile to imagine what our postal delivery person must think. “What a strange mixture of folks live here. Stephanie Rutt and Doug Rutt. Stephanie Rutt is sometimes Reverend Stephanie Rutt. Then there is also someone called Sat Darshan Kaur and someone else called Saki.” How even further perplexed our dear mailperson might be realizing that all of the above, except Doug of course, are one in the same. At the risk of being perceived a spiritual name junky, I could imagine sitting on the grass having an earnest, heartfelt dialogue explaining how my years with each name has helped me to cultivate something unique – something that has helped me to become more me. But, then, all I can envision is an even greater look of polite, yet growing, perplexity on my mailperson’s face, just barely masking the desperate need to escape, “Hey lady, can I just go deliver the mail now?!”

Many faith traditions, of course, recommend taking on a new name as we journey along the spiritual path. In eastern traditions it is a well known practice. From my years with the Sikhs, I am lovingly called Sat Darshan and from my years with the Sufis, Saki. As an interfaith minister, I am called Reverend. Though less a Christian practice for lay people, in Hinds’ Feet on High Places, the beloved Christian allegory, Much Afraid is also given a new name as she moves onto the high places with the Good Shepherd.

I have a deep respect for the purpose of being given a new name. Such a name points us in the direction of being what we may become. But, today, I find myself looking back to where I first began. Sixty-three years ago, today actually, I was born a small, premature, child in Meridian, Mississippi and was given the name Stephanie. Like many of us with challenging childhoods, I spent most of my early years wishing I were someone else, or somewhere else, having a more normal, carefree life – someone who might even get to have some other new exotic name to match.

Today, I keep a childhood picture on my altar. There I am smiling back at me. What tender love and gratitude I have for her – this early image of me. It is because of her, I have truly been able to know I blossom not in spite of but because of. It is because of her, I can remember I am enough so I can be nothing. She is the one that teaches me, again and again, about ever deepening levels of forgiveness, healing and, especially, self-acceptance. And, she is the one, who has always known, right from the beginning, what I may be.

I still happily answer to my spiritual names and follow their impulse. But, today when I hear the Beloved’s call, I hear my name given all those years ago. And, I can imagine taking my little one by the hand as, together, we respond.

For it seems, only together, do we fully recognize to Whom we belong…

And, so it is together, we gladly answer…

To the only name that holds all we have been and will be.

This past weekend I was blessed to take my beloved Tree of Life Interfaith Seminary Class of 2013 on their final retreat before their ordination next Saturday. Every seminary class is, of course, uniquely special having its own energy, essence and presence. Witnessing this beloved Class of 2013, I have been most profoundly struck by their faith, individually and collectively. Along their two year journey, some have experienced life circumstances capable of derailing the most resolute in resolve. Yet, hand in hand, they have emerged full of Grace – strong, humble, and fully ready to say Yes! As I looked at each one, I felt such gratitude and blessing to be in their presence. Along with joyful hearts tuned in beauty’s way, they carry the gift of blossoming not in spite of…but because of into the world. They are my inspiration.

And, it’s an important reminder for all of us that, sometimes, seeking to live a more divinely inspired life, may not necessarily mean that life gets more joyous or even easier. Tests are an inherent part of the experience. But, I agree with Peace Pilgrim when she says that it is good to be tested as then we really get to find out just where we are.

But, here is the good news! As we are seeking to step into what’s next, it actually makes perfect sense that a kind of tune up would be in order. Why? New expressions of being require new expansions of awareness and energetic vibration. What we are cultivating next actually needs the essence and energy, held knotted in our fears, to blossom and thrive. This is why when we are allowing ourselves to be silently drawn toward what we truly love (Rumi sentiment), the fears often, suddenly, show up in tow: Can I really do this? Am I worthy? Will I be good enough? Saying Yes requires we love our self enough to untie the knots and get free from what binds us and this getting free is exactly what makes for good compost ready to nourish what is next. It’s a kind of transformation born of radical self-acceptance and it does, slowly yet surely, set us free.

So, while getting our spiritual engines cleaned and tuned may not be the fun part, we emerge better fit for the road and for what the journey may bring. We start to get that it’s not about perfection but authenticity. We start to know that we are not alone. We know now we are enough and we are nothing. And, most wondrous of all, Grace seems to have taken over our GPS! And, we gladly follow the Beloved’s directions. We know now that Love is the only destination there is.

This is faith. This is freedom.

Congratulations Class of 2013!

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean to your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he shall direct your paths…Proverbs 3:5

Last week, I had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile. As we caught up, I shared my desire to finish up some writing projects and get my work out. One thing led to another and soon, quite casually, she mentioned an idea that I would never have thought of. And, soon that feeling was palpable. You may know the one. Synchronicity was at play and it felt as if the Beloved was afoot.  Even the message in my fortune cookie proclaimed, Your dearest wish will come true!

The next morning I went out onto my screen porch to do my practice and, suddenly, realized what I had not done. I had not come home from lunch the day before to immediately create a 40-day mantra practice to manifest this blessed new idea. No, instead, this morning, I found myself chanting parts of the beautiful hymn Lead Me Lord: Your plans for me are perfect. Lead me Lord, I will follow. Lead me Lord, I will go. You have called me. I will answer. Lead me Lord, I will go. And, my heart swelled wide.  That sweet kind of swelling that just happens when some place, deep, unexpectedly cracks open.

Now, just today, I thought about the monkey mind our Buddhist teacher talked of on Sunday and how very easy it is to attach to what we are wanting next. When our mind is in this state, we are not content to simply rest in the present moment as it is. Instead, we are off dreaming, chasing some imagined future. And, being asleep, sadly, we miss the true blessings right before us and within us – simple, yet eternal, as the rise and fall of our chest as we are breathed into life each moment.

Yet how tempting it is, with such excitement, to follow the monkey mind and lean on our own understanding. After all, it can feel so right! But, this morning, I remembered something beyond right or wrong. I remembered Grace…those moments that have found me, sometimes twirling me around in playful surprise, other times cradling me in my fear, but always emptying me, to satiate me, with that which passes all understanding. And how, in those moments, without effort, even my monkey mind rests.

Will I follow up on my dearest wish? You bet! Will I create a practice? Of course! It’s my job, after all, to follow the Love put in my heart. But, to where? Not my call. And, to what end? Don’t know. I just know my dear monkey mind can only imagine itself.

But, Grace does Know. So I put my trust there…

And, suddenly, I find myself on some field of wonder far beyond my dearest wish or imagination…afoot with my monkey mind…smiling.

It happened when I was shaping a ball of clay into a prayer bowl. Rev. Pamela Nowell, potter and artist extraordinaire, came to the seminary classes to teach us how to make these sacred bowls. And, we were blessed.

As I began to work with my ball of clay, I first noticed my mind wanting a full accounting of just how I was doing with this new experience. Thank you, mind, for sharing. Now, kindly go sit. A short time passed and then a subtle shift. I found myself, softly, watching the bowl take form, coming alive, in response to my probing fingers and turning palms. More time passed and, then, at some point, time, like me, stood still. I began to sense a kind of silent whispering as the bowl now seemed to be guiding me, letting me know with each stroke exactly what it needed to bring itself to life. No, more than that, to become the purest expression of what it already knew itself to be.

Soon, in a moment I couldn’t predict, the bowl was done. Complete. I tenderly placed it in the box along side the others. Standing back, I noticed it didn’t look particularly special in relation to the other bowls nor did it appear any more, or less, perfect. Instead, it felt to me, simply, supremely content…to just be.

And, my heart bowed.

Later I thought how each of us is like those bowls. If the bowls can know what they may be, why can’t we? After all, just like me with the ball of clay, we too have a Potter. And, perhaps, just perhaps, our Beloved Potter, who created us and planted within us the seed, that yearning impulse of what we may be, is holding us waiting patiently for us to move, ever so slightly toward that very impulse, to then respond, shaping us toward the full expression of our destiny, what we already know ourselves to be.

And, perhaps in those moments, all creation bows in joy.

Praying as One.

Yesterday my toes breathed. First time this year. Oh, but as if that weren’t quite enough for my giggling heart, they got to do so in those sandals. Yes, the very ones I had reluctantly tossed, finally, into the garbage the end of last summer after several years of rubber cushioned, bouncy, devoted service to my every step. So sad was I, I thought some sort of sacred ritual might be in order. Ahhh, but God is good! Last week, looking on the shelves in the same store where I had first discovered my coveted sandals, feeling a bit distraught as not imagining any new pair ever measuring up, there they were! Those sandals, new and perky and just sitting there like some in-plain-sight treasure waiting discovery. Do they have my size? Yes! And, off to the checkout I went, clutching my treasured find, just barely able to contain my oozing good fortune. Yes! I had discovered the most blessed of treasures hidden right there in plain sight – shoe department – third shelf up!

So, you can imagine, it was almost more than I could bear to, then, have my toes breathe, first time, in those sandals. A celebration was in order! So, with my daughter and grandson in tow, we headed for the back roads, rolled down the windows, turned up the music and, of course, gleefully clutched our first yummy ice cream cone, melting and dripping in sticky delight.

Mr. Einstein you were absolutely right when you said there are only two ways to live our lives – one as if nothing were a miracle and the other as if everything is a miracle. And, yes, it’s certainly true that I have been humbled by miracles beyond my understanding. But, yesterday, I discovered, again, all the miracle I needed to know.

Toes breathe.

And hidden treasures abound – shoe department, third shelf up.

One this sun drenched, light filled, boldly blossoming day, my heart is silently budding in gratitude…for something beautiful is praying us. In 2010, I first heard the whisper of this prayer and was blessed to transcribe. From the Beloved to you. May it bless your day!

Something Beautiful

I Said to God, “I want to do something beautiful for You.” And God Answered…

Just do your part.

Be a seed planter. Do not fool yourself in thinking you create the tree. God alone creates the tree. And remember, it may not even come to full fruition in your lifetime.

Be clear of your intention.

Put out a clear signal. It is only then that it may be used to serve the greatest good.

Seek to live with equanimity and balance.

It is only in such moments when you are truly your Self that I may shine through.

In moments of despair, try to keep an inner smile.

Sit humbly at the feet of your life and be taught. Become the alchemist and blossom because of – not in spite of.

Discern My illusion.

Complete love sees not just My beauty but also discerns the illusion of My absence in ignorance, hatred and evil. Transform illusion within yourself and you can transform it without.

Make Me visible in the world.

You have been given a body-mind through which to make Me visible in the world. Care for the body and harness the mind and you’ll dance in the joy of My spirit.

Live in the mystery.

Remember you only have the vantage point and wisdom of this lifetime. Don’t waste time trying to figure out the big picture or the ‘why’ of things.

Instead, just respond by doing something beautiful for Me.

Is the Beloved whispering something beautiful to you today?

… to Boston and to all who are suffering, with Love.

From my last post, you know how I love those dancing mountains. But, even more wondrous is this – they love me. Us. All of us. For when our exuberant dance of unbridled pleasure is abruptly stopped by an act of hatred, terror and fear, the mountain’s dance responds…slowing…cradling, rocking, cleansing and healing us in cool waters carved deep in ageless, moss-lined, crevices. And, suddenly, it’s the Mother’s heartbeat that echoes through the caverns, without and within, and we rest deeply in the place where our ecstatic joy and unbearable sorrow dance together, and we are filled with a peace beyond either or both.

From the Mountains…and ee cummings’ poem…with Love…

When faces of terror are hurled to the ground
And nothing we knew in our world can be found
I look to the mountains and answer their call:
“Come rest in my waters. Grow rooted and tall.”
The mountains are calling, are calling

When you, my brothers and sisters, are harmed
My heart becomes tender, alert and alarmed
I look to the mountains and there do I hear
Love’s true ageless whisper, “Don’t cater to fear.”
The mountains are whispering, are whispering

When all life contracts with confusion and pain
I rise like the oak to sing Love’s refrain!
I look to the mountains; for you and for me
And dance for our healing expansive and free
Yes, the mountains are (still) dancing, are dancing

In Dancing Peace,
Stephanie

it’s april (yes, april; my darling) it’s spring!

yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly

yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be

(yes the mountains are dancing together)

e.e. cummings

I was about twenty the first time I read e.e. cummings’ poem when faces called flowers float out of the ground (first line). I just knew one day I’d get to go to New Hampshire and visit Joy Farm, e.e. cummings’s summer home, because I just knew it was there he found those mountains dancing. And, sure enough, in the mid 1980s, fate brought Doug and me to New Hampshire and soon after, in April (of course), we made our way up to Madison in search of Joy Farm and those dancing mountains.

As I remember, it was a weekend and, of course, being April, lots of snow still on the ground. We managed to find the entrance to the long driveway leading up to Joy Farm, but it was fenced off and clearly not passable by car. Undaunted, me, already in full swing with those dancin’ mountains, was not so easily dissuaded! So, we made our way back to town to search for someone who might be able to give us some kind of permission or okay to venture up to the Farm by foot. Doug, with feet a little closer to the ground, well actually on the ground, kept reminding me that those mountains would not be dancin’, so unabashedly, with me in jail! Luckily, we were able to locate a man with some authority, in one of the local establishments, who gave us the okay. I remember he looked quite puzzled when I, especially, could not be convinced to return in a couple of months when the road to the Farm would be passable. Didn’t he know those mountains were dancing now?!

So, at last, up the long driveway we went! The house had been vacant awhile yet still felt to be alive, standing, waiting patiently for the return of bare feet, frivolous chatter, the smell of barbecue and night stargazing off the porch. The grounds were open and rambling and a small gazebo-like room, in the middle of the back field, seemed timeless.

But, without a doubt, it was those dancin’ mountains, cradling, remembering, holding us, that kept me frolicking round and round as if I could somehow fly right into the center of their waking, unguarded alive; we’re alive, dear: it’s (kiss me now) spring! pulse.

Away with respectable composure! Down with petty self-consciousness! Let’s dive as the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky and climb as the little fish climb through the mind of the sea!

It’s April! We’re sun-drenched alive! Our faces like flowers float out of the ground! We’re opening as every leaf opens without any sound! We’re quivering, waking, pulsing as the little fish quiver…so you and so I…

Yes, like us, the mountains are dancing together.

Happy Spring!

Stephanie

Yours is a face of quiet tenderness.  Your ways follow in the footsteps of the fisherman.  Your heart beats with Saint Francis.  So, it is with a full and hope filled heart, I offer you the poem of Saint Francis as a gift, with a message from the hope that is, as yet, still silent within the suffering ones, the poor of spirit, among us today – the helpless, innocent children who wake every morning remembering, the priests who would run but cannot escape the hell burning within, and the Cardinals who knew but turned away.  You, kind soul, have been given the fortuitous opportunity to truly become an instrument of peace, to follow in the footsteps of Jesus, to do what Jesus would have done, today.  I pray you will.

My gift to you…

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;

Give me the courage to do what the law of Your Heart does compel;

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Help me to lay open the silent pulse of despair so Your Love may soothe the raw burn of our common wound; 

where there is injury, pardon;

For only then… May Your tender Mercy save us from the prison of our inaction;  

where there is doubt, faith;

For only then… May Your Presence act to restore the sacred bonds of trust now broken; 

where there is despair, hope;

For only then… May Your Compassion crack a window in the locked chamber of our neglect to welcome the first rays of healing and forgiveness;

where there is darkness, light;

Help me to bring You, Dear Jesus, the Light of the world, into our darkness so we, the blind, may once again truly see You among us…

and where there is sadness, joy.

And, finally, come to know the true meaning of being born again, to walk hand in hand, saint and sinner together, in the healing balm of Your Grace, and come to love one another as You have loved us.

O Divine Master, grant…

that I may not so much seek…
consolation as to console those laid bare on my doorstep…
that I may not so much seek…
understanding as to understand the true depth of despair of those bound fast to me…

O Divine Master, grant that I may lead Your church to love as only You would have us to love and be loved in return…

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen

In June of 2012, I wrote a letter to your predecessor Pope Benedict XVI.  Having no way to know if he read the letter, I will include my charge to him here for you…

If just one child has been hurt by our lack of awareness, over-site or mismanagement; If just one child has been hurt while serving in our trusted care, indeed, it is one too many. So, unified, we rise up as the living body of Christ, ready to respond as we know our Lord Jesus Christ would have us respond. 

Starting immediately, all the major parishes of our Catholic Church, worldwide, will join with their local mental health professionals to create and sustain, free to the public, centers of healing for all those children and adult children who have been victims of sexual abuse by priests and others. Furthermore, these healing centers will also offer programs to provide care for the perpetrators of abuse, priests and others, for our Lord has said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” We will welcome all, victims and perpetrators, into the heart of our Lord through our open doors and we will soothe the wounds of the suffering with the living balm of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Kind Sir, walk in the footsteps of the fisherman.  Pulse a beacon of light to the lost.  Throw out a wide net to rescue those sinking in a bottomless sea of darkness.  I pray you be besieged by love everlasting to rise up and live out your destiny, to become the instrument of peace, Saint Francis for our times.  I believe Jesus would expect no less.

As Mother Teresa once said, “I believe Jesus is asking this of me and I never say ‘no’ to Jesus.” As a result, her healing ministry touched the world. Will you do the same?