Mother Stella: Her Song of Love

By Ryan Baxter

Have you ever turned your face to heaven, as the questions in your heart arose to your lips: Why am I here, you ask? What is the purpose of my existence? Have you given up on an answer or feel there is no one left to respond?

Don’t lose heart. Don’t despair. You have not been forgotten, nor have you been forsaken. Life reaches out to you every moment, singing a song that only the heart can hear. Listen closely to Mother Stella’s song, a song that springs from the deepest love.

What unfolds next is the story of Mother Stella’s spiritual journey, this great soul who awoke to the truth about herself. But remember: Her journey is also your journey. Her story is also your story. Because if one soul can wake up, that possibility exists for each of us.

It is not an answer that you seek, but the experience of truth itself. Mother Stella wants you to be happy. She wants you to be free. She wants you to embrace the consciousness of a true human being.

Draw close to one who has found the Divine within. Look deep into her eyes and see the spark of the Divine, that same spark that animates you.

Mother Stella wants you to know the truth about your existence. It is through love, Universal Love, that your eyes will be opened to the reality of Life, to the reason why you are here. To experience this truth for yourself is beautiful beyond imagining. You don’t need to preach. You don’t have to proselytize. You need only awaken to this truth and everything will change around you. And inside you.

You will discover that Love is Infinite, that it can grow and grow until your love embraces every living soul. You will discover that you are vast beyond imagining. You may just be a seed now, but water that seed with love and you will grow into an enormous tree that touches heaven and earth simultaneously. You will grow into the Universal Being you were meant to be. That spark inside will ignite into a blazing fire, until you light up the world.

This is Mother Stella’s gift to you, Her Song of Love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Baxter
• Release date: Oct 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780991597482

Ryan Baxter

Ryan grew up in a time and a place which embraced blackberries, butterflies and bubbles. It was a world where Burma Shave signs entertained the family on road trips, where a haircut might be a close encounter with the sheep shears, where on summer evenings the grownups gossiped on the front porch while barefoot kids chased lightning bugs in the yard. A world where being human was a treasure enough.Only ... That world has almost disappeared to be replaced by another world, the world of Science that seeks to wrest the reins of human destiny into its own grasp, as it rushes boldly into the future. This new world is seductive, its surface sparkling with glitz and glitter, fueled by promises to elevate you to something superior, to be greater than human.Before you travel too far down that road, Ryan invites you take a journey with him. To rediscover the true beauty of being human. To a place called Terra ...

Book preview

Ready to Sing

It is hard to say goodbye to those we love regardless of the years we have shared together. On March 24, 2018, it was our turn to say goodbye to Mother Stella. And we learned firsthand just how difficult that can be. It was our great joy in life to know her, to draw close to her, to live in her buddhafield. She made our lives magic. She was magic. And now she had moved on.

Thank you, Mother Stella. For showering us with your love. For gracing us with your presence. For offering the reminder that Existence has surely not forgotten us when Life has blessed us with you. Let our love and gratitude waft into your garden to stir the rose petals and bring you joy.

In August 2017, Mother Stella told me that she would be the subject of my third book. I would share the story of her spiritual journey and her message with the world. We had planned to compile her biographical information that stretched back eighty-eight years when she first showed up in Reykjavík, Iceland, of all places. Although she had told me numerous anecdotes from her life, this time I would record the details and write down the names and places—especially the Icelandic ones—which were part of her past.

I bought a new, oversized notebook and was eager to begin. Only she kept delaying those sessions where I would gather these facts I needed to tell her story. And then came the morning of March 24th when she unexpectedly left, leaving us bereft.

Sitting here as I embark on this next adventure, to share Mother Stella’s story, part of me hesitates. How can I begin to capture even the tiniest fraction of her essence? How can I provide the smallest taste of her being? How can I explain this great soul who burned bright with the truth until she became a blazing star?

How can I go forward without notes, without an outline, with no clear idea of how to proceed—knowing this is not a standard biography, but the story of one soul’s spiritual journey? Part of me argues that it is not possible. Who will understand? Why even try…

Even as those objections surfaced, something inside me awakened to chase away the doubts. It was the echo of Mother Stella’s voice, offering her reminder: Just trust, it whispered. Trust that Life will compose the song. You only need give it voice. Allow this song to fill your heart until it overflows to take wing. Everything else will follow.

Mother Stella… Thank you. I shall be fearless. I shall trust Life. I shall trust you. I am ready to sing.

CHAPTER 1

A STAR IS BORN

Reykjavík, Ísland

Who is Mother Stella, you may ask yourself? Why should you be interested in her story? Why should you care about someone whose name has not been splashed repeatedly across the headlines in her lifetime, who has quietly avoided the glare of the spotlight? How can I respond knowing that it is impossible to explain the life of a great soul, when words are so inadequate to the task? So much of who they are is hidden from view.

Even as these objections surface, something inside me acknowledges that this is not a choice on my part. This is simply Life reaching out to you. Even a glimpse of a great soul can open your eyes and heart to a truth so profound that the experience will leave you forever changed.

While this is Mother Stella’s story, remember that this is your story, too; even if your story is a just potentiality at this point. Her spiritual journey is a reflection of your own journey. One day it will be your turn to step up, to awaken to the truth of your existence. One day it will be your turn to embrace every living soul as love overflows your heart. One day it will be your turn to merge into this mystery we call Life. And that day draws ever closer.

As we begin Mother Stella’s story, my wish is to give you a feel for her early life before she knowingly embarked on the spiritual path. We will take our time. We will stop to visit moments that shaped her past—people, places and events—lingering to let the experience soak in. Remember, every story must have a beginning just as it must have an end. Just as it is with your own story.

There will be those moments when you are tempted to skip ahead—to get to the good stuff. While I understand the temptation, I would ask you to resist it. I realize that you have come seeking answers, that you thirst for the truth. What you will come to appreciate is that every moment of your life contributes to your journey, that each of these moments brings some lesson or experience that you need.

Remember, the purpose of the journey is to prepare you for what is to come. If you race ahead before your eyes are open, you won’t be able to see all the beauty that awaits you. Take the time to absorb all that is offered as you move through each chapter. Trust Life and allow the story to unfold gracefully, in its own fashion.

But I will leave you with this reminder: If you too often feel that Life is a bleak affair, an endless disappointment which ultimately ends in death, get ready to be surprised. When we come to the end of Mother Stella’s story—Her Song of Love—my hope is that you will have reached a great understanding: to see how much Life loves you, to glimpse all the beauty that lives inside you, to celebrate the reason for your own existence, to embrace the Oneness of Life.

Mother Stella invites you to take this journey of discovery, to learn the truth about why you are here, to find your true self. Are you willing to take a chance? Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime? If so, take my hand as we travel the path together for this shining moment and raise our voices in song.

Why Iceland?

Who can say why Mother Stella chose to be born in Iceland, of all places, that island country situated just shy of the Arctic Circle in the North Atlantic. Although Iceland is approximately the same size as Virginia, there the similarities end. Most of the interior of Iceland is volcanic mountains and lava fields interlaced with glaciers that feed the rivers which tumble to the sea, often in a series of spectacular waterfalls.

While Virginia is old bones country; Iceland is geologically active with geysers, hot springs, earthquakes, and the occasional volcanic eruption which captures headlines. Reykjavík—the capital and principal city of Iceland—means smoky bay in Icelandic, a nod to the nearby hot springs.

This far north, the days stretch around the clock in high summer. By the first week of October, daylight has become a dwindling commodity where the sun rises just before eight while darkness swallows the light soon after six. In the windowless basement apartment where Mother Stella was born, no daylight reached the interior to bring some measure of warmth and comfort. It was not an auspicious beginning for baby Stella, the second child born to Valdimar Guðlaugsson and Birgitta Guðbrandsdóttir. Although Mother Stella carried a great destiny, it would not be obvious from her beginnings.

Unlike the Buddha, Mother Stella was not born into wealth and privilege. No legends surrounded her birth, no magi traveled to Iceland bearing gifts. Behold, a bright star was born, but the only ones to witness it were two of her father’s friends—a street photographer and a homeless soul—who assisted in her birth. But if there was a good reason in 1928 for a child to be born in Iceland, even in a cheerless basement apartment; it was because Iceland would provide a safe haven given the trials that lay ahead for the world.

When Stella was placed in her crib, her older sister, Þórða, leaned over and pointed at the baby. Stella, she said, a smile lighting her three-year-old innocence. And with that the new baby was called Stella even as Birgitta and Valdimar wrangled over what formal name to choose for her christening. That wrangling dragged on for five years since neither parent would compromise.

Prior to World War II, life was often a struggle for the average Icelander whose only employment options were the sea. Stella’s own father, Valdimar, served as a cabin boy on a fishing boat to help support his family after his father died. His mother was paid in fish which fed the family. The sea would be his vocation for the remainder of his life.

Her father eventually migrated to Reykjavík from the remote West Fjords seeking a better life in the capital. In 1928 Reykjavík was a much scaled down version of its present self with a population numbering less than 30,000. Today’s sprawling suburbs were farmland or open space at the time. Valdimar rose before four to open his stall at the harbor where he purchased fish from the catch brought in each morning and then resold to his customers. It was a hard life, made harder by a weakness for alcohol in his younger years. That weakness too often meant that most of the little he made was spent on drink.

It was Stella’s mother, Birgitta Guðbrandsdóttir, who protected her children with the ferocity of a lioness, who did what was necessary to keep her children fed. The family relied on social welfare supplemented by Birgitta’s ability to do any kind of sewing, embroidery and needlework to help provide the necessities in those early years.

One of Mother Stella’s earliest memories occurred when she was three. She was taken hand-in-hand by a social worker to Reykjavík’s most upscale department store, the elegant Haraldarbúð on the city’s main street, Austurstræti. The social worker told her that she could have anything she wanted. Mother Stella remembered that she looked up, dazzled by the elaborate window displays, and pointed to a bright red sweater. She immediately knew what she wanted and was thrilled when the social worker smiled and bought the sweater in her size.

Growing up during the Depression years in Reykjavík had its share of challenges. The only heat in their apartment was provided by the coal stove in the kitchen which also served as the cooking surface. Electricity was reserved for the elite as was indoor plumbing. Chamber pots, wash tubs, and the outdoor privy were the norm for the average Icelander, even in the capital. There was not even an icebox, just a cold storage area for perishables. But the piped in water was among the purest and best-tasting of any water in the world.

Being poor proved to be a trial for Stella, and she begrudged the experience. Her mother had three boys after the loss of the couple’s third daughter which meant their small apartment was filled to the overflowing with boisterous boyishness. Young Stella often pretended to her classmates that she lived in a glass house with all the modern conveniences. But being poor sometimes involved the more subtle indignities.

Mother Stella well remembered the thrill of being invited to her cousin’s birthday party. Birgitta spent days sewing beautiful party dresses decorated with frills and lace for her two girls and additional hours curling their hair. Þórða sat demurely at the birthday party table and maintained an appropriate silence. Five-year-old Stella, however, was her usual exuberant self. Caught up in the excitement—and looking particularly fetching in her party dress and ringlets—she managed to outshine everyone at the table, including the birthday girl. That was the last birthday celebration they were invited to attend at their cousin’s home.

Poverty, coupled with a cool, damp climate, meant that tuberculosis was endemic in Iceland and infant mortality a harsh reality. Tuberculosis touched many families, sometimes the entire family. When Stella was old enough to have a paper route, she pedaled her borrowed bicycle as far as the National Sanatorium where those patients suffering from tuberculosis were housed. A particular friend of her family was sequestered there, and she often lingered outside the window to his dormitory. If he was strong enough, he would stand at the window and wave to her while he mustered a smile, a small reminder of a world that was lost to him. Even with the treatments available, tuberculosis often meant a lingering death. His own occurred while she was still young.

Fortunately for Icelanders, nationalized healthcare meant that medical care was freely available even though they might spend hours in the waiting room. Birgitta often sent a young Stella to the doctor’s office to retrieve some needed medication. Mother Stella remembered that the office was in a tall building, at least by Icelandic standards, and had a marvelous view of the harbor.

She walked up the flights of stairs to the office and happily waited in the reception room until the doctor could see her. He was the kind of doctor who knew all his patients by name and treated them with loving care. She had two serious incidents herself as a child: one bout with tonsillitis and an attack of appendicitis. It was her family doctor who removed both her tonsils and her appendix.

Even the most caring doctors could not prevent death, and it was the loss of her younger sister that brought home that reality to Mother Stella. This sister was a copy of her mother with her strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Sadly, she lived only three years. The grief that gripped Birgitta was raw. Mother Stella remembered that her mother maintained an overnight vigil for her daughter, her face a mask of pain.

The cool climate, coupled with the steady winds, meant that vegetation was limited and often stunted. The early Norse settlers had long since cut down the birch forests that once covered sections of coastal Iceland, and now few trees remained. The weather permitted the cultivation of root vegetables—potatoes, carrots, beets and turnips—but the more exotic items such as tomatoes and cucumbers could only be grown in hothouses so they were not commonly part of the diet. Fortunately, one staple grew in abundance ripening under the long days of summer: berries.

Berry picking took place in the late summer and early fall when the blueberries, crowberries and whortleberries ripened. It was a family affair as the children were loaded into a borrowed truck and taken on an adventure to the countryside. This was one of the few times Stella rode in a private vehicle, even if it was just a truck bed equipped with benches and driven along one of the dirt tracks that led out of Reykjavík. Perhaps more berries were eaten than picked by the younger children, but the berries were preserved for winter as jams.

Luckily for the family, Birgitta’s skills in the kitchen equaled her skills with a needle and thread even though all she had was a stove top for cooking. If there is one staple in the Icelandic diet, it is fish pulled from the deep, cold waters of the North Atlantic and the Greenland Sea. Some fish are familiar to those outside Iceland: cod, herring, haddock and the famous Icelandic salmon which spawn in the rushing streams that pour into the ocean. Her father had fresh fish delivered each morning to their home. Mother Stella’s job when she grew older was to clean the fish. Her mother typically pan-fried the fish or made fish balls. Stella’s favorite meal occurred during salmon season when her mother served salmon steaks with new potatoes swimming in butter.

Although Birgitta cooked traditional Icelandic meals, including fish of all kinds, she oddly enough had a taste for the exotic. She used both curry and rice in her cooking, two items that rarely appeared on a dinner table in Iceland. She also made thin pancakes or crepes, which the children filled with skyr (similar to a thick yogurt) and jam. She was a wonderful, inventive cook, especially given the limitations of what she had to work with. But where the inspiration for using curry in her cooking originated was an unknown.

If their diet was somewhat limited in variety, it more than made up for it in quality. Since baking was impossible at home, baked goods were purchased in the local bakeries. Young Stella feasted on the rich, rye breads and pastries, particularly cream buns similar to cream puffs. People took great pride in whatever they produced, and the pastries of Iceland took their place with the best Europe had to offer.

Growing up in old bones country myself, I had never experienced an earthquake, much less a volcanic eruption. The closest I had ever come to a volcano was a visit to Mount St. Helens in Washington, years before its dramatic eruption. For Stella, growing up in Iceland meant that earthquakes were a common occurrence. Most were just shakers, but in a world that was built before earthquake standards, it could be an unnerving experience. Volcanic eruptions were common enough, and Iceland had suffered greatly in the past from some of those eruptions.

Still, the legacy of those past lava flows meant a magical world of caves and grottoes in many areas of Iceland. Children had to learn to be careful around lava formations which can be sharp and even dangerous. But over time, as nature and the elements softened and sculpted the caves, draping them with moss or lush ferns, the caves took on a fairyland atmosphere. It is no wonder that a belief in the huldufólk (the hidden people) is common among both young and old in Iceland. With a little imagination, the lava caves could become a perfectly enchanting home for the álfar, the elves and fairies who populate Iceland.

Rain is a constant presence in Iceland, and it has many faces. One face that Icelanders are more than familiar with is the blustery, gale-swept rain that blows in from all directions. Umbrellas are worse than useless, and Icelanders resign themselves to wearing rain gear to prevent getting soaked. But Mother Stella spoke of another rain, the gentlest of mists, that brushed your skin like the softest caress. She loved to walk when the rain took on that aspect.

Iceland is a land of opposites: fire and ice, perpetual summer followed by endless winter. By the summer solstice, it is light around the clock, but come winter, what daylight exists can last for as little as four hours—grudging daylight by eleven in the morning only to have that daylight swallowed by darkness around three in the afternoon. When this is all that you know as a child, this is the rhythm of life. Still, the impact of light and darkness on the very soul of Icelanders should not be underestimated.

While winter brought with it twenty hours of darkness, it made possible two favorite activities for children and grown-ups alike: sledding and ice skating. In Reykjavík, Tjörnin (perhaps more pond than lake) served as a prized spot where children gathered to fly around the pond on their ice skates with joyous abandon. One of Mother Stella’s most poignant moments took place here. Although she adored ice skating, she never had a proper pair of boot skates. Instead she had to make do with oversized rubber boots—worn with several pairs of heavy socks—while the often rusty skate blades themselves were tightened as much as possible around the rubber boots.

Even though the rubber boots offered little support for her young ankles, after a few minutes on the ice, the fun and excitement took over. She would join the other children in a game of crack the whip as they sped recklessly over the frozen pond. But Mother Stella remembered how much she envied one girl who spun effortlessly on the ice wearing real ice skates and an elegant ice skating outfit.

Icelanders treasure their holidays. There was no holiday that could match the excitement of the twelve days of Christmas. Even now, across the stretch of years, can you see the children—their eyes big as saucers, bright with anticipation—as the tree was brought into the apartment and decorated with strings of popcorn and berries along with heirloom ornaments. Before electricity arrived to their apartment, candles were attached to the branches and lit in the evening to brighten the tree.

Beautiful though a candlelit tree can be, it represented a very real fire hazard. Such fires at Christmas were not uncommon. Mother Stella remembered one Christmas when their tree caught fire and began to blaze. Fortunately, her father was home. He grabbed a blanket, rushed to the tree, and smothered the flames. He managed to drag the tree out of the apartment and prevent a tragedy with only minor burns to himself.

Oranges and apples were a treat reserved for Christmas time. Mother Stella spoke of the Christmases where her father brought home a crate of oranges and a crate of apples. Each child got one orange and one apple in his or her stocking. I can see Christmases from my own past where we shared this same tradition. Come Christmas morning, we would awaken to find an orange and apple in our stockings.

Stella treasured her one orange. Even after she had eaten the pulpy fruit, she preserved the rind in water and drank the water everyday from the glass. One of her favorite memories was a visit