The Rag and the Rabbit

The Rag and the Rabbit

This is the tale of how a rag turned into a rabbit — and helped me heal my inner child.

I frequent a beautiful old oak tree in my local woods and often pick up the litter that others leave behind. For some time, I had noticed a piece of old grey cloth discarded deep beneath the brambles. It was too far in to easily reach, so I left it.

But it bothered me. It felt out of place — a small discord in my otherwise sacred space of contemplation.

One day, I could ignore it no longer. Even if my coat was ripped by thorns, I was going to remove that rubbish. Armed with a long stick, I poked and prodded until I could draw it toward me.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was not a worthless rag at all, but a lost and forlorn one-legged bunny rabbit.

I instantly knew she represented my inner child. Surely she had once been loved. Surely she had been cried over when she was lost.

I immediately named her Hoppity.

I loved that she was imperfect — because aren’t we all? Life takes its toll. We carry inner wounds, and sometimes outer ones too. It is these very oddities that make us who we are… perfectly imperfect.

There was no way I could throw her in the bin.

So I brought her home and washed her over and over, trying to make her clean enough for the washing machine. Then I pegged her out on the line to dry. Unfortunately, she still smelled musty and would need several more washes. Someone suggested soaking her in bicarbonate of soda to remove the odour, so off to the shops I went.

What began as cleaning slowly became ritual.

First, I prepared Hoppity’s bath, sprinkling dried flowers into the water. Once she was safely ensconced, I felt it only right to prepare one for myself. It seemed symbolic that we should bathe together — so I ran my own bath and scattered rose petals and Epsom salts across its surface.

Hoppity and I were deeply cleansed that day.

Even so, she remained slightly whiffy. She had holes, and much of her stuffing was gone. It was time for some serious surgery.

(Don’t worry — I gave her an injection first. My mum suggested that.)

I lit a candle called Compassion and began.

I opened her carefully and removed the old stuffing that held the lingering scent of neglect. I replaced it with fresh, soft filling. Before stitching her closed, I placed a rose quartz crystal inside her chest — a small, hidden reminder that she — that we — are loved.

I mended her wounds, stitched floral fabric inside her ears, and made her a neck scarf. When I finished, she looked like a completely different rabbit.

None of this surgery was lost on me.

At a very young age, I learned to distance myself from my emotions. Even now, I feel them rise into my chest, but I cannot always move them beyond that place.

As I tended to Hoppity, I remembered a vow I took when I was about ten: that I would never cry, never use tears to get my way. I saw crying as weakness.

I was also reminded of how misunderstood I often felt — a shy, introverted child who loved nothing more than to disappear into a good book.

The details of my story are not important. What matters are the beliefs I formed and the armour I built.

I was loved very much — just as Hoppity must once have been.

Spirit often uses the outer world to guide me inward. Hoppity was not just found; she was sent.

Through her, I remembered softness. Through her, I allowed care. Through her, I tended to something fragile — and in doing so, tended to myself.

What ways do you find help you with your healing?

This story is dedicated to

the ten-year-old girl

who made a vow to be strong.

You were never weak.

You were simply tender.

And you were always loved.