Kafka’s Traveling Doll: A Story About Letting Go
A little while ago I came across this short story, which has been attributed to Franz Kafka, and it really charmed me and it occurred to me that sharing it might offer some insights into your life as well. And I’m going to share my own short retelling of the story. And as you listen, notice what lost doll you might be carrying. Maybe it’s something you’ve outgrown, or something that’s changed shape or carries more or less weight in your life. Maybe it’s something you’re ready to meet in a new way. So relax for a second and just take a deep breath, and I’ll just read this to you. It’s called Kafka and the Traveling Doll.
In a Berlin park, a little girl stood by the path with empty arms and wet cheeks. I can’t find her, she said as she sat down, defeated, on the park bench. A thin man came along and sat down next to her and set down his hat, as if to make the day quieter. I can’t find my doll, she said to him, wiping away another tear. Perhaps. He said she isn’t lost at all, but only traveling Dolls are famous for that. The girl looked up unsure. She posted me a note, he added, lowering his voice the way one does for secrets. If you come tomorrow, I’ll bring it. The next afternoon he arrived with an envelope, dear friend, it said in small, careful letters I left to see the world. I will write so you can travel with me.
And so the journey began. Each day there was a new letter from a rattling train window where fields slid by like pages, from a city square where pigeons held parliament, from a little boat that rocked like a cradle, the doll learned to bargain at markets, to read the shapes of clouds, to sleep in strange rooms and wake with brave eyes. The girl listened, holding the words like a handrail. She asked questions and received answers how a postcard can be a doorway, how a suitcase can be a spine, how homesickness is just love, with somewhere to go.
Weeks later, the man arrived with a small parcel and one last letter, dear friend. It said Travels change a person. I have grown A seam here, a stitch there, and I am ready for a new chapter. Please welcome the companion who arrives with this note. She will need your stories as much as you needed mine. Inside the parcel that the thin man gave the little girl on the bench was a doll, new to the girl, but not a stranger. The girl studied the face, searching for old maps and new lines. She hugged the doll and in doing so made the change real.
The man putting on his hat said You’ve both been very brave. Will she ever write me again? The girl asked she won’t need to. He replied Now the adventures will be yours. They parted at the bend, in the path, the park, carrying their footsteps away, like a quiet promise. Isn’t that a beautiful, beautiful story. If you’d like place a hand over your heart or your belly and ask yourself what am I ready to? Let travel on without denying the love that’s there. Let travel on without denying the love that’s there. And what letter would it write to me today? Take one last slow inhale and a long, steady exhale.
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