Who the heck is Baba Yaga?
See that woman in the picture there, flying around in her mortar and pestle with the fruit of the land in her hair? That’s her.
Baba Yaga is of the earth and of the air, equally comfortable digging in the ground or flying in the wind.
But earth or air, she is all about moving forward into exciting places where one might not otherwise go.
When life hands her the hard and scary stuff she raises her chin determinedly, examines it curiously, and very likely grinds whatever-it-is up in her mortar and pestle.
Then she tastes it and either blows it into the wind—be gone! move along now! off you go!—or raises her eyebrows, delighted at the taste, throwing it into the cast iron pot of soup that is always a-simmering on her kitchen stove. (And, just so you know, Baba Yaga’s soups are some kind of amazing. Be prepared for some lip-smaking earthy-airy just-what-you-need.)
Baba Yaga is not afraid of casting what no longer serves to the wind. She knows it will go where is best: maybe it’ll get sucked up into the big beyond. Maybe it will land on a fertile field of our dear earth and grow into next autumn’s harvest. Maybe it will fall on the forest, sprouting what is to become, years form now, an ancient and revered tree.
She isn’t afraid of aging. Recently, for example, in light of a birthday freak-out which sounded a whole lot like: “I’m 41 and old!” she practically cackled. (I know! The nerve!) “You spring chicken you! Wait till you have to tweeze your chin hair 3 times a day!”
And I said, all pouty: “Is that your idea of helpful? Showing me what I have to look forward to?”
And then she gave me what I can only assume is her version of a wink, saying, “Just saying,” and off she walked, I presume, to tweeze. Or not.
Baba Yaga ain’t afraid of no ghosts and neither is she afraid of death. She would remind you that death is, after all, just a part of this crazy, awesome adventure called life.
“You get born,” she says, “you live out whatever years you got, and then you die. Would you really want to live forever anyway?”
“Think about it,” she goes on, apparently not finished. “Isn’t part of what makes life so amazingly mysterious the fact that things change and pass? This, what you got here right now, this is it. How’s it going for you, Sweet Pea?”
Hmmmm. I need to go think about that.
“Good,” she says. “But don’t think too long. You could get stuck up there, in that dear noggin of yours!”
Baba Yaga is not one for shooting the breeze kind of chit chat. (When needed she leaves that to me!) If something needs saying, why, she says it. She doesn’t ever tiptoe around worried about what you might think. Anyway, can you picture a thick strong woman with chin hairs and a babushka gingerly walking on eggshells? Not likely.
But really, Baba Yaga looks tough and might sound a bit harsh at times, especially in our world where so many things get coated in too sugary sweetness, but really she just says it like it is.
Oh, and she’d like me to let you know that it’s Baba Yaga, OK? Not Baby Yaga, and not Baba Yoga. Baba Yaga. All A’s, plus a B and a Y and a G.
“Um, Heidi?” you might be wondering, “Minor point here but isn’t she a witch that eats children?
People! It’s called symbolic. Do you still believe all the fairy tales literally? Didn’t think so. Same here.
Yeah, but eating children?
Think parable. Think analogy. Metaphor.
Here’s just one way to see it: You can live my life out like a child, expecting someone to come along and save you, which is very cute when you’re seven, but not so much when you’re 37, 47 or god-forbid 87. Or you see through your 7-year-old notions—which Baba Yaga is keen to help with—at which point the beliefs that were cute and understandable when you were 7 can’t help being transformed.
And that, my friend, is a very good thing indeed. And, by the by, frees up plenty of room for childlike joys: you know, the un-stressful kind of goofy, magical, kick-your-heels-up fun. Because, who, pray tell, doesn’t like feel like a kid sometimes!
Curious? Come explore with me! Come grind up your shtuff. Come stir the broth. Come work! Come play! Baba Yaga awaits.