aikithereska
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The dying mother gave her daughter, Vasilisa, a wooden doll, with the instruction to give it a bit to eat and drink whenever she needed help. In this way the mother showed her love to the daughter; she left something of herself to temper the grief, long after her breath faded away and the last heat flowed from her body. She knew the girl would need this for a little while, and someday not at all.
There’s no counting how many times Vasilisa reached into her pocket, stroked the worn wood, and thought of her mother’s smooth arms. We all remember the magical space between one sort of truth and another; we all remember that dolls could eat and drink when we wished it so, and could speak. And help. The doll became the mother. The girl listened to the doll who was really her mother. Whatever the doll whispered to the girl really came from the girl herself, on the path of growing wise.
With the doll’s counsel, the girl faced the witch Baba Yaga. Vasilisa was sent to fetch light from the witch’s house — a fool’s errand, from which she was not expected to return. But who is to say that Baba Yaga would have done the girl harm? The old ones knew the witch best. She was wild and dark, and also kind, if you peered long enough into her bright eyes. She was mother to all.
Some will tell you that the tale is about achieving something impossible, some needless test — but it’s not. Forget the poppy seeds sifted from the mountain of soil; leave the bad corn with the good. At the heart of the story, we travel to a dark place and we look for light. The magic is the wooden doll, who is really the mother, who is really ourselves. The magic is the way we project ourselves into so small a thing, and set ourselves free.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Jenn Wilson and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
