I am lying in bed in the not-quite-dark, listening to the voices. It is in that shadow space between night and daybreak – that fog-wrapped existence bridging sleep and wakefulness. The voices creep into my consciousness, and I lie very still, listening to their whispers. But no matter how hard I try, I can never quite understand the words; I simply hear the voices. more “The Mystic of the Human Imagination.”
The man was handsome. Rather shy. Slow smile. Strong arms. Skin that was tanned naturally from the sun and wind. That kind of handsome. But what I found most attractive and frankly captivating about him was that he was wearing an apron. more “Apron men and women wearing Wellies.”
I once had a friend who was Lakota. We used to talk often about many important things, like respect for the earth and its gifts to us and the connectedness we humans share with it. I remember in particular him telling me that Native American moccasins were soft-skinned and lightweight to protect the earth mother from harsh footfalls, and that they were thin to create the least amount of separation between the earth and the foot itself. He talked of how most Natives – Lakota in particular – always walked and sat and laid directly on the ground to be able to receive the nurturing of the earth back into themselves. It was an old practice, he said. A timeless generational wisdom. more “The benefits of dancing with bare feet.”
“Seek out the child that needs you. Take his hand, give him comfort, make him safe. Do not turn away. He is the past where you, too, were vulnerable. He is the future where you cannot go.”
I spent the day at Thornwell recently. I’ve been trying to find the words – to know how to write about it – ever since.
Thornwell is located in Clinton, South Carolina, and was established as an orphanage shortly after the resolution of the Civil War – in the shadows of the war’s devastation of families and communities and society especially in the South. more “Thornwell and the child.”
All living things have auras, it seems. And not long ago, I had my aura read. more “Quincy and the aura reading.”
When I was very, very young, my mother made Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls for my sister and me. Raggedy Ann was my sister’s; Raggedy Andy became my special friend. He always sat on my bed and slept at my side and heard my prayers and kept my secrets. He comforted me when I was afraid, attended countless tea parties, listened to me learn to read, and dutifully soaked up many tears in his soft cloth body. Faded and musty and worn bare with love and childhood, Raggedy Andy is now gently wrapped in tissue paper and rests in an old family trunk.
When my mother made these dolls for us, she carefully sewed a small candy heart inside each one of them. And, somehow, I believe that made all the difference. They were never mere stuffed creations to us; they were transformed with those hearts into genuine “spirit dolls.”
Of course, I never knew to apply that name to them back then. But recently, a great friend of mine brought me a Native American spirit doll from her travels out west, and the similarity and recall suddenly came rushing back.
According to tradition, spirit dolls are ancient talismans against all negativity and evil. They embody spirits that have gone before – representing their strength and energy and beauty.
The particular spirit doll given to me by my friend is rich with character and personal story. She is not old. Nor is she particularly skillfully made. She lists slightly to one side and one of her earrings is missing entirely. And there begins her charm.
She wears puffy blue shoes with bells fastened around her ankles by strips of leather. Her hair is long and braided down each side of her head – the braids branch out in a rather unique, unruly fashion. I imagine her beaded headband was put on in a rush, the feather tucked in quickly, as she is anxious to start her day. She has a somewhat odd shape to her body, telling me that outward appearances have little to do with her values. The small carved bone or antler “gourds” she wears around her waist and along the hem of her dress make me think she is a “nourisher” of others – perhaps physically, perhaps spiritually (the bells on her feet announcing her coming to them, bringing laughter and dance and courage).
My small spirit doll is entirely handmade. And I have pressed carefully on her body to try to feel the “heart” within her. I am quite confident there is one. Perhaps not a candy heart, but a heart nonetheless.
My Raggedy Andy doll represented and honored my childhood. It was my mother’s love, her hands that made him, his secret heart she placed inside. He was there when I was punished, and cared when my own small heart would break, he believed in my dreams, and understood when he was left behind.
My new Native American spirit doll has much the same qualities – lovingly made, a celebration of imperfection, a mix of purpose and joy.
As I am writing this story, we have just taken the first few steps into a new year, new beginnings resting on the old. I believe I will unpack my old Raggedy Andy doll and place him with intention next to my new Native American spirit doll, and keep them both where I can be reminded of all that has gone before in strength and positive energy and beauty – and all the promise of these things yet to come.
I wish for you all in this coming year: bells that ring on your feet in happiness, braids that fly in energetic purpose, one earring lost in courageous acts, gourds to nourish others along the way, and a heart sweet with secrets and the trust of someone you love.
My heart has an extra beat in it sometimes. Not always, but rather frequently, and I can feel it. It’s not a flutter or a skipped beat or a concern. It is simply an extra “thumpity” in the middle of a regular “thump-thump.” It’s rather like when a needle of an old record player used to catch on a scratch in a recording, and a note repeated itself – unexpectedly, out of rhythm, but still a part of the overall melody. I notice it. It draws me into itself. And I think perhaps that’s why it does it. I suspect the heart wants to be noticed. more “Messages from the heart.”
“I just can’t wait for her to be able to read.”
It was a young girl’s voice I heard, full of enthusiasm, anticipation. It floated over to me from the far side of a six-foot wall of books. more “Happily ever after.”
In the latter half of the fourth century, there lived a man named Pelagius. He was a Celt, a prominent British theologian. A large man, tall, heavy, slow to move, thoughtful, Pelagius was rather intimidating in appearance, by all accounts, with flowing long hair that was shaved at the sides and back. He loved his food and drink. He adored babies. He found God in all living things. more “Walking with dogs, “friends of the soul.””
She wore the golden crown with regal bearing, and it reflected brilliantly in the sun. Her gown brushed against her ankles in the slight breeze that also swept through her hair. Her right shoulder dipped in casual elegance, arm draped languidly at her side. Her left hand rested smartly on her hip, bracelets dangling. more “The princess in the pink mask.”