The Doll
Several years ago when I was in my mid-sixties, I studied weaving with Susan Barrett Merrill of Weaving a Life. During my studies, I wove masks, an amulet case, a shawl, bowls, and also a doll with a felted body. I was living through a season of inner transition as my Crone-Self was emerging.
During the hours of crafting my doll, she began to speak to me about my deepest longings, and she revealed visions and details of a life that spoke to my soul. When it came time to name her, I was surprised that she claimed my maternal grandmother’s name…my first name, Sibyl. I had always been called by my middle name, Dana, until this little doll inspired me to fully step through the portal to my elder years, through reconnection with my mother-line and ancestral lineage.
There are tribal cultures that celebrate naming rituals throughout a person’s lifetime. A name is changed and often chosen by the tribe to fit the inner world of a tribal member as he/she evolves spiritually and physically throughout the years. I resonate with this tradition.
It took two years after my doll-making, when I published Ink and Honey, to fully inhabit the name, Sibyl, and I will carry this name for the remainder of my life. My grandmother’s wise and gentle spirit accompanies me, as I live into her name and I’m grateful.
Soon after the doll was completed, I wrote the following quick reflection to capture my experience of “Sibyl” coming to life…
She is silent while she takes form, yet, glimpses of my future life swim past as the shuttle keeps time - over and under - over and under. I pass the cocoon of wool through the shed and for an instant I’m standing in a garden of lavender and bee skeps. There is a small gray stone farmhouse with green shutters beyond the iron gate, two sheep, one goat and beautiful fat hens that lay pale blue eggs.
Indoors, a hearth fire burns and there’s a resident mouse named Moses, that lives in a forgotten teacup on the top shelf of the pantry. In the corner, a small floor loom is warped and ready and baskets of yarn are neatly stored on open shelves. A dulcimer is nearby and a comfortable, worn, overstuffed chair sits close to the fire like a welcoming grandmother’s lap. An open journal is waiting there.
Later when the doll is complete except for her hair, clothes, and bejeweling, I hold her in my hands and listen for her voice. Silence. I resume my work. Gently plying the raw gray wool with my needle, fitting it atop her felted head. When at last her hair is styled to suit her, she whispers to the ears of my heart, “My name is Sibyl.”
Amber-colored velvet cocoons her shoulders, and she wears honey colored beads and a silver crow about her neck. Her velvet hood is only worn on foggy days, when melancholia overtakes her. She’s stuffed with prayers scribbled on muslin and dried lavender to bless her with gratitude for her wisdom and guidance.