I have been coaching this little one, ever so slowly, to come to my hands. A lot of meetings have happened regarding her arrival, some under the big maple tree, others by the side of the duck pond. Often times these meetings took place with a house in darkness, an eager puppy at our feet, and the heat of the wood stove barely rising. Her story, and the ones preceding her, have developed like ripples on a still lake. Gently, but ever reaching.
My husband, stubby pencil in hand, has written her life story. And me, wool and cloth in hand, have created her. An untarred road lays ahead, profusion of many pot holes stand before us, we are however enthusiastic and hopeful that it will all happen the way we feel it in our hearts. Creating toys, and stories, like these happens in moments of sudden plenty. You grasp at straws, you scrawl and beg and suffer, and then an instant of out pouring comes. Like April rains. But you can't stop to wait for the diluvial salvation, you have to keep mending, and gluing, and pinning and crochet hook in hand take little steps into the garden of your most perilous dreams. Such is the life of the creative.
Some dolls feel like bouts of delirium. Some dolls feel like a snow storm. Others feel like a dusty summer afternoon. Some are very particular and are a touch and go situation. Anya feels to me like a pilgrimage. We start with her something that to both feels visceral and so right. We have been summoned by the bards and sheepishly we've answered YES. Let the wild rumpus begin.
