A tale whence Vasalisa and her Doll, meet Baba Yaga....

The Russian tale of Vasalisa, and Baba Yaga, the mortar and pestle flying in witch, is bursting at the seams with fertile ground for those seeking trails out of ordinary definitions of dolls, amongst a medicine pouch o other things. Here, first up is a ChloeOpal version...

Vasalisa loses her beloved mother, and not in a suburban cul de sac, or supermarket aisle way. Sadly, she dies, but not before weaving her wisdom, and love, into a doll, which she gifts Vasalisa from her deathbed. A blessing. Her only request is that she feed the wee poppet. A vessel, or container of guidance, from the nurturing feminine, who loves, and wants the best for us amidst life's unknowns. Couldn't we all do with some of that?
One could ask what rituals, or practices, do this sustaining, or feed this aspect, for self?

Of course on her mothers passing, Vasalisa's father remarries in poor judgement, 'tis the way o things in fairy tales. Resulting in a stepmother, and sisters, who treat her like their personal shit kicker. Do this, do that, clean this, and she does so, with pure heart (oh da polarities!), gaining consolation from the realm of the Doll's magic, imbued as it is with the energies of her maternal lineage. This eats at the (always) wicked step women.

Now, another version of the wicked woman, is the old witch in the woods. Enter Baba Yaga. Traced through from time immemorial, the Wise Woman of yore has increasingly become the scary one. Particularly with the advent of botox, consumerism, and a few other faintly dogmatic belief systems used to justify mass murder. So, Baba Yaga, who's now become the pop you in the oven n gobble you up version of the nature dwelling solitudinal Crone (I warned you this was my interpretation!). Damn it, she should settle down and behave in a more respectable manner. One that has less to do with her gut, more to do with bowing and scraping. Less eccentricity, more conformity. That's not to say, however, that some Crones (note the capital C) ain't scary, or tough as.

So, Vasalisa's inherited set of wicked women, hear that another one, the Yaga, is in town, or rather, clearing in the woods. That her chicken legged cottage, (eggs being fertility symbols of birth and beginnings tabootsky), which can move about, has landed nigh. They decide a fab way to get rid of Vasalisa goody two shoes boring shmoring ex-wife child, is to put out all the household fires, and send her off to Baba Yaga for replacement embers, sure she'll never return. Hence, that's exactly what they do....

HOWEVER, and don't you love HOWEVERS...

As Vasalisa sets out scared out of her wits, in distress at entering said dark scary forest, where dwell, trolls, ghosts, ghoulies etc, all those beings (slash aspects) that jump or creep up from behind. That threaten to knock us into places of no returning to sanity, or safety, ever again. You know the places. We all have them, simply a matter of degree. As Vasilisa sets out, she is, however, carrying her trusty Doll. That part of her inner life that Vasalisa's nourished, by paying attention to, and feeding it. Through the twists and turns of the woods, the Doll guides her. It leads her away from her well behaved life, straight to Baba Yaga's door. Bugger, we say at this point. Why did I feed you again? Past the skeletal fence with eyes a glow, and straight on into the witchs lair/ cosy home. Every half decent ol witch has an excellent lair / cosy home, which in some cultures ends up being her sleeping bag, in a bus shelter, where she has to watch the pneumonia...

I'm taking a time to tell this tale, but basically Baba Yaga sets a series of impossible and eeevvvil tasks like sorting wee Poppy seeds from a massive pile of black soil. Yet, the Doll (inner Shamanka) assists her in doing the impossible. Having a life! Ooops, I mean, doing the sortings, cleanings (more) and weavings of straw into gold and such. Think I may have just blended another story in there somewhat. So, in the end Baba Yaga hands her a skull and goes 'Oh alright girly I shan't eat you after all, bugger it, I'll give you fire, so your peoples wont freeze to death or starve (which they are currently doing cos' Russia and Siberia get pretty chilly. Something their wicked stepnesses didn't foresee in their planning, or lack thereof).

So preparing to thank this frightening being, she stops as her Doll has jumped up and down in her pocket, 'Just get outta here' says she. So Vasalisa the brave, fair or wise, depending on which aspect the teller likes best, gets outta there, and returns to the uncosy home. Making her ways through the woods led this time by the eerie lights of the skull, who's eyes are handily embers all a glowing. The stepnesses are pretty cold and hungry by now, and hence pleased to see Vasalisa, who lights the fire and places the skull in the corner of the room. From whence it watchs. Watchs, looking, looking, at the usual dynamics.

What I enjoyed about the versions we were told a few years back by Jenny Cargill-Strong, a local storyteller, was that there were multiple endings. One of which saw the stepnesses burnt to cinders by the skulls firey eyes, as is traditional. The endings I liked, were where the stepnesses behaviour was changed by the process, or wasn't, but Vasalisa no longer cared. For she has faced, with assistance from the Doll, the Crone, dark forest, trolls, ghosts, suchness (within and without) and lived.

My version is very different again, from that of the wonderfull Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estes', who has devoted a chapter in her book 'Women Who Run With the Wolves' to a more detailed version of this story, and breaking it down into the teachings contained there. Cantadora, poet, Jungian analyst, and all round Wise Woman, soul food lies within her writings. She emphasizes Vasalisa's growing connection to, and feeding of, her Doll, as a returning to her intuitive guidance, and instinctual nature (a process indeed, for all folks). That which allows her to engage with, and navigate increasingly with Wild Woman ways in the world, including upon her return to whence she came.

"Vasalisa's doll is from the provisions of the Old Wild Mother. Dolls are one of the treasures of the instinctual nature. In Vasalisa's case, the doll represents vidacita, the little instinctual life force that is both fierce and enduring. No matter what mess we are in, it lives out a life hidden within us."
                                        p88-89 'Nosing Out the Facts: The Retrieval of Intuition as Initiation'

Certainly the enspirited dolls I have made, channeling some of the creativity gifted by my mother (very alive!), seem to emerge organically. Indeed through, and perhaps because of layers of challenging emotions upon my soul. Finding a way to work with them, transforming, as they come to be, with rather cheeky smirks that hint they know something more than their maker.