The Wee Peeple Newsletter

April 2021                          Issue 170



Holding Images of Beauty and Perfection

seems to promote Healing





Queen Bonnie's "Overly-Familiar"

surprises the Dollmaker in yet another


 Classic Photo

(with masks this year)

   in 2021... 


Sherwood Forest Faire



Yes it was a



The Dollmaker and her driver, John, were involved in an

auto accident...


John's truck was totaled..

and it took the Dollmaker the rest of the month of April to recover from

a chest contusion (caused by the seatbelt)

afflicting every deep breath she took

and a black eye (caused by the air bag).



This is What She Learned

while recovering:



Holding Images of Beauty and Perfection

seems to promote Healing




never underestimate the Power of


Healing is like the growth of plants- it all happens in slow motion..

So, all month, the Dollmaker hung out with

Perfect Water Lilies, Wildflowers, baby Tomatoes, Peaches, Bok Choy...

symmetrical Stones and stones with perfect holes

regarding them as Healers of the Natural World

serving to remind her of the Perfection of her own human body.



Heal the Spirit- Heal the Body!

Meanwhile (right on time) her books on Gardening, Nature Spirits and Fairies came in

so, every day she read about co-creating with Nature



It wasn't hard to find Perfection in Nature

while indulging daily in "Walking Meditations".


For many days the Holey Stones occupied her total attention..

At a snail's pace, she sorted them out

from the thousands of stones in her collections

and, one by one, (in slow motion) carefully wired them

 and hung each of them on her fence

creating a "protective barrier" around her "inner garden"



All this "Rockwork" led quite naturally to many more days spent

Healing (again in slow motion) at her outdoor table

Painting the Rocks!



Pain at this point was beginning to yield to "FUN"!

And one day, toward the end of the month

when the Dollmaker was feeling pretty chipper,

She and her dear friend Carol took those rocks down to the River...


Hiding Rocks at Fisherman's Park!


A Dock Rock!



As Rivers are well known to "wash one's troubles away"

The Colorado did not disappoint...




This single day hiding rocks at the river did more for the Dollmaker's Healing

than ten days on the couch!


"So many indigenous people have said to me that the fundamental
difference between Western and Indigenous ways of being is that even the
most open-minded Westerners generally view listening to the natural
world as a metaphor, as opposed to the way the world really is.

Trees and rocks and rivers really do have things to say to us."


—Derrick Jensen



and these are the rocks she collected while at the river

to be painted (and hidden) on yet another day...



So, after that...

the Sorting of the Stones continued...

Rounded ones began to perch upon square ones- and that led to..

Painting Rock Owls

Right away she sold two of them online

which was a huge boost toward the Dollmaker's

"Restoration of Creativity"




"Every positive change, every jump to a higher level of energy
and awareness, involves a rite of passage. Each time we ascend to a
higher rung on the ladder of personal evolution, we must go through a
period of discomfort, of initiation. I have never found an exception."


-author Dan Millman





and Finally...

The Return of the Green

also brought a Return to Dollmaking...


Sharing the Energies of Spring and the Energies of Healing

a Special Order


Holding -instead of a walking stick- a Holey Stone.

And, reflecting in his face, the deeper Understanding of Life and Love

and Thanksgiving

that only Pain can Teach.







And now... Here is a beautiful story the Dollmaker published long ago...

which had more relevance to her this month...



On the bulletin board in the front hall of the hospital where I work, there appeared an announcement. 

 “Yeshi Dhonden,” it read, “will make rounds at six o’clock on the morning of June 10th”. 

The particulars were then given, followed by a notation:

“Yeshi Dhonden is personal physician to the Dalai Lama.”

I join the clutch of whitecoats waiting in the small conference room adjacent to the ward selected for the rounds.

 Yeshi Dhonden, we are told, will examine a patient selected by a member of the staff.

The diagnosis is unknown to Yeshi Dhonden as it is to us.

We are further informed that for the past two hours Yeshi Dhonden has purified himself

 by bathing, by fasting, and prayer.

Having breakfasted well, I had performed only the most desultory of ablutions,

 and, having given no thought at all to my soul,  I glanced furtively at my fellows.

Suddenly we seem a soiled, uncouth lot.

The patient had been awakened early and told that she was to be examined by a foreign doctor,

and had been asked to produce a fresh specimen of urine, so when we enter her room, the woman shows no surprise.

  She has long ago taken on that mixture of compliance and resignation that is the facies of chronic illness.

  This was to be yet another in the endless series of tests and examinations.

Yeshi Dhonden steps to the bedside while the rest of us stand apart, watching.

For a long time he gazes at the woman, favoring no part of her body with his eyes,

but seeming to fix his glance at a place just above her supine form. I, too, study her.

 No physical sign or obvious symptom gives a clue to the nature of her disease.

At last he takes her hand, raising it in both of his own.

Now he bends over the bed in kind of a crouching stance, his head drawn down into the collar of his robe.

His eyes are closed as he feels for her pulse.

In a moment he has found the spot, and for the next half hour he remains thus,

 suspended above the patient like some exotic bird with folded wings,

holding the pulse of the woman beneath his fingers, cradling her hand in his.

 All the power of the man seems to have been drawn down into this one purpose.

 It is palpitation of the pulse raised to the state of ritual.

I cannot see their hands joined in a correspondence that is exclusive, intimate,

 his fingertips receiving the voice of her sick body through the rhythm and throb she offers at her wrist.

 All at once I am envious- not of him but of her. I want to be held like that, touched so, received.

And I know that I who have palpated a hundred thousand pulses, have not felt a single one.

At last Yeshi Dhonden straightens, gently places the woman's hand upon the bed, and steps back.

The interpreter produces a small wooden bowl and two sticks.

Yeshi Dhonden pours a portion of the urine specimen into the bowl and proceeds to whip the liquid with two sticks.

This he does for several minutes until a foam is raised. Then, bowing above the bowl, he inhales the odor three times.

He sets down the bowl and turns to leave. All this while he has not uttered a word.

As he nears the door, the woman raises her head and calls out to him. "Thank you doctor," she says,

and touches with her other hand the place he had held on her wrist.

 Yeshi Dhonden turns back for a moment to gaze at her, then steps into the corridor. Rounds are at an end.

We are seated once more in the conference room. Yeshi Dhonden speaks now for the first time.

He speaks of winds coursing through the body of the woman, currents that break against barriers, eddying.

These vortices are in her blood, he says. The last spendings of an imperfect heart.

Between the chambers of her heart, long long before she was born,

a wind had come and blown open a deep gate that must never be opened.

Through it charge the full waters of her river, as the mountain stream cascades in the springtime,

battering, knocking loose the land, and flooding her breath. Thus he speaks and is silent. 

“May we know the diagnosis?” a professor asks.

The host of these rounds, the only man who knows, answers.

"Congenital heart disease,” he says,

 “Interventricular septal defect, with resultant heart failure."


A gateway in the heart, I think, that must not be opened.  Through it charge the full waters that flood her breath. 

 So! Here is the doctor listening to the sounds of the body to which the rest of us are deaf. 

 He is more than doctor.  He is priest.

Now and then it happens, as I make my own rounds, that I hear the sounds of his voice,

like an ancient Buddhist prayer, its meaning long forgotten, only the music remaining.

Then it possesses me and I feel myself touched by something divine.


Originally an excerpt from Mortal Lessons

a book by surgeon, Dr. Richard Selzer


Yeshi Dhonden





Special Thanks goes out to these people who made a huge difference in

the Dollmaker's Healing:

Laurie Eyting, John Rodriguez, Catherine Lewis, Carol Schumacher and Lynn Eason

who all helped with acquiring food, driving, errands, and providing

both physical and spiritual nourishment during this drastic time.

She thanks you all from the bottom of her heart.


to all her Facebook Friends who offered encouragement, sent love, memes, flowers and

Well-Wishes online for a Speedy Healing!






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