I Love Trees

Oh dear. I was planning to write a blog to go with my poem but the day turned out more busy than I expected at work and then my tablet died and would not charge, so I offer you just my poem about my love of trees. I hope that it's okay.

I Love Trees

I love trees.

They never preach,

They teach.

By their actions.

You can hug a tree

And it will never

Push you back.

It will give you its strength.

You can smell its blossoms,

Kiss its leaves

Or eat its fruit,

The tree will never say, no.

You can tell everything to a tree.

It will never judge you

Or gossip about you,

Or tell you off.

You can lay under a tree,

It will give you a shade

And sing you a lullaby

Of whispering leaves,

With birds who nest there

Joining in.

I want to be buried

With a seed of a tree,

To grow in a tree,

To become everything

This tree is.

And to grow

In the next seed

Of that tree,

And the next,

And the next,

And to be all

That this tree is

Forever and ever.

I love trees.

Maya.

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Dolly

Here we are again. That time of year when I start to notice just how few chunky knits I have in my wardrobe. For someone who grumbles about the "cold night air" from July onwards, this is clearly an oversight. Moreover, it's one that could be remedied without so much as trip to New Look on Victoria Road West or the even easier excursion to their website. That's because (little known fact) I'm not too bad at knitting and crochet--or even sewing for that matter. Not brilliant (let's not go overboard here), but kind of all right. For my skills, such as they are, thanks are due mainly to my mum, but also, in part, to a doll.

I'm sure I wasn’t the only small child to have experienced mixed feelings about dolls. The angel-faced, glossy-haired, frilly-dressed collectors' pieces with their sightless, fish-eyed watchfulness ensured that walking past their glass cabinets in the homes of relatives and family friends was an ordeal surpassed only by stepping over the missing floorboard in the attic: there was always the sense of having narrowly escaped some obscure horror. Nonetheless, at the age of eight, something possessed me with the urgent desire for a doll of my own. Not any doll, you understand, and (happily for my parents) not a doll that could be bought in a shop. No, this was the doll I had set my heart on:

I'm sure you understand. I mean, look at her. How cool is she? And light years from those judgmental ornamental dolls which glared from the dust-free splendour of their display cabinets. And the grimoire that had inspired me with a longing for this doll? None other than the legendary Golden Hands Encyclopedia of Crafts--that handsome, seven-volume collection of partwork titles, each bursting with secret knowledge of skills as diverse as quilting, pebble painting and découpage.

Over the years the Encyclopedia inspired many of my, often ham-fisted, attempts at creativity, but my pretty rag doll was the first. I was practically a beginner at sewing but I diligently followed the instructions in the partwork, tracing the pattern for her arms, legs, head and body and cutting them out before pinning them to the thin canvas I had cadged to realise my creation. Sewing her together seemed to take forever but somehow I found the patience to see my project through, embroidering her features and looping the strands of wood that served as her hair. The doll pictured in the Encyclopedia had red hair, but my Dolly was a brunette. It's possible that this was a deliberate choice to make her in my own image, but I suspect the reason was simply that mum had some spare brown wool on hand. It was, after all, the 1970s.

Finally my Dolly was complete. Now, even as her proud and less-than-critical creator, I could see that she wasn't quite as expertly crafted as the doll in the Encyclopedia. Nonetheless, I was overjoyed and promptly embarked on a new sewing project: one to ensure she had something to wear! Dolly has long since disappeared, most likely a casualty of some move or other and, as mentioned, she may not have been the most robustly made doll to start with. Still I think of her when I pick up a needle and thread or a crochet hook or pair of knitting needles for that matter. I improved my skills with all these implements in the pursuit of creating clothes for Dolly. Perhaps this winter I'll get those knitting needles to work on a bigger jumper, one for myself. When that happens, there's no doubt I'll remember the times I spent making clothes for Dolly.

Thanks for reading, Alison.

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