Listening to bears

Again, by no means an excuse. Andrea's Oktoberfest story will be done before Oktoberfest is over. There's just been a lot going on here recently and I've hardly been at home for two days. I'll try to finish it in the morning, or after work.

And now Amber has upped the challenge with Lego. Thanks Amber.

This story was inspired by Krystle, who told me if I wanted someone to listen to me, I should go talk to a bear. But don't take that the way it sounds. She's nicer than that.

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[ Begin in the Yukon territory. Find the smallest river, like a wrinkle in a forehead of pine needles. Look at the hairline of the forest. I sit there, on a leftover stump, on the side of a hill, me, and a bear.]

Bears are perhaps the most intimidating animal. Lions roar, but there's a reason that things we are afraid of "bear" down on us. When a bear charges all you'll hear is the crunch of earth beneath her paws. The feeling is the same as when all the junk on the top shelf of the closet tumbles down on top of you. You can't stop it. You know that much and so you cover your face and wait for the impact. You know it will hurt, but if pain is inevitable it's not really pain, because there was no better option. Bears really are painful creatures.

And yet I sat on a tree stump and looked one in the eye. Sometimes when people stop listening, we have to talk to our worst enemies. I had come to the forest to get some time alone, and found myself hating it all the more. I got exactly what I wanted, but didn't want it anymore. Which is why I had come to the forest in the first place. I always got everything I wanted, but didn't want what I got. I felt like a man reaching in his pocket for something he forgot was there, only to bring out a diamond and be disappointed because it wasn't the thing he couldn't remember. I knew my life was an errant ship, floating only because it was so attached to the icebergs that punctured its sides. I needed a week to clear my head. A week with no inputs, no new information, nothing to confuse me. A week to find myself and clean me out.

And yet I was talking to a bear. My hands rested on my chin. My breathing was steady. My eyes calmly surveyed the scene. I should have been scared, but for once I knew exactly what I wanted, and I was about to get it. A bear. Six feet away from me. Getting nearer, quickly. Finally, someone running towards me. Perhaps they will find me interesting, charming, entertaining. How do you talk to a bear?

"In my left hand is a hole, and my right hand is open wide. But the breath that flows in my left hand doesn't leave through my right hand. It's stopped at a big intersection in my chest. Like a cartoon hose with a kink in it. It's getting bigger and blocking more breath. Pretty soon it could choke all the air out of me. Or it could pop. Either way, a disaster. But since it's deep inside me, half way between my hands, I can't exactly unkink it myself. My ribcage gets in the way."

People stereotype bears. They think they're all dirty, all bulletproof and that every bear has fish breath. It's just not true. The bear I talked to at the hairline of the forest had breath that smelled like strawberry jam.

So that's how I arrived here. The kink in my heart is gone, but so is everything else. God, you fixed me alright. The breath enters in one hand and flows out the other. So, even though I think there were gentler options, thanks for sending the bear. It wasn't a very professional surgery, but when people don't offer any hope, sometimes a bear will do.