I placed the crystals in her belly where mine had been cut open. I sewed her up, so our stitches matched. She was part of my recovery, my healing doll, that I made while sitting on the couch for three weeks until I got my strength back.
I smoothed the pink skirt I had knitted, smiling at the bright sequins along the bottom. I braided two feathers and a bead into the white-blonde yarn hair, stitched a mouth and eyes with embroidery thread, and shortened an ankle bangley bracelet to fit her ankle, her legs being made of stuffed sock.
She was beautiful, bare-breasted, and held my healing wishes in her own body.
I prayed over her, slept with her at night, and placed her to sit on the back corner of the couch as I read, rested and gathered my strength.
I didn’t name her. I thought I might do that later, down the road. Yet I never did. I kept her with me long after the healing was done.
After those three weeks, ready for my life again, she occupied a place on my pillow by day, and on my meditation shelf at night.
Many years later, I passed her on to a friend, for her own healing. My healing doll was sweet, and I can still see her face in my mind’s eye.
Jyoti
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