Under the weather.

Pomona shows off her luscious braid, by Fig and me.

Pomona woke up several times during the night.The rustle of tree branches, the smack of wet leaves against the poor old window, and the vibrant smell of dirt and rain in a dance outside kept those wakeful moments a bit longer than usual. At some point, still pitch dark, she decided to get up and patting her warm bed looked for a small and battered journal. Thoughts, like the leaves outside, moved from subject to subject and a vivid memory came to her: the last walk she took through an abandoned building, full of rust and broken windows, patches of grasses and strong wildflowers littering the place and giving it back to nature. She remembered her enthusiasm as she found and old-shoe-turned-nest by some long gone bird. She adored birds, their songs, their flight, the feathers they left behind, the nests they abandoned.

Pomona waits for the day to begin, by Fig and me.

After writing some lanes down in her ochre journal, she got up. Her long and skinny legs seemed to remind her of the teasing she usually got, both at home and in the village. She was much too tall for her age and people were always comparing her to a weed, with some demeanour in their tone but Pomona always took it as a compliment. To her, weeds were plants of exceptional strength and endurance. She hoped her legs would mirror their example and that they would be strong when she was 80 years old. Pomona always saw herself as an old lady, not in current terms, but she liked to imagine what her life would be like when she was ancient. She loved to think of different and exciting possibilities every time she thought of herself in the distant future. Too young to deal with practicalities she was at times ashamed of the gallant turns her life would take in her old age. After blushing a moment or two for such vagaries of the mind, she got dressed.

Her favourite linen dress, by Fig and me.

She put on her favourite linen dress. The one with the big pockets, perfect for stashing a biscuit, a pen, a found nest, a piece of paper with beautiful writing. Some days she carried plants in those pockets, most often than not she collected pebbles and liked to draw them as parts of magical creatures who lost them while in pursue of greater adventures. I guess you could say Pomona has a very lively imagination. Passing her hands through the front pin tucks made her remember the rushes that grew by the creek where she spent her mornings. She loved to wear this dress and was very happy it was freshly laundered and ready for use.

Pomona looks for bird's nests, by Fig and me.

Pomona sits outside, by Fig and me.

Feeling the chilly floor she put on her cotton stockings, tossed a fussy braid and she was ready to go into the kitchen for some tea. She gazed at the mirror and decided to wear her floral crown. It was one of those days she said to herself, where the meadow will be so wet I will be drenched to my waist, and the birds will sing so loud they will deafen me, the smells will bring life into me and the sun will warm me up. But first tea.

Pomona smiles, by Fig and me.

Moving through the house still a bit in darkness, she put the kettle on the stove and welcomed a new day.

Posted on May 12, 2015 and filed under dollmaking, petite fig.