Bear Medicine

I was pulled out of deep sleep by the sound of a small creature running across the roof of my cabin. It’s a familiar sound during the day, usually made by frisky squirrels scampering about their daily adventures. The only other time I’d heard that sound at night was about a year ago, when I’d been awakened by a territorial dispute between some local raccoons — but that’s a different story.

As my eyes opened and began to focus, I noticed that one half of my bedroom window looked like it was blacked out. The realization hit me just as I heard the sharp sound of a knuckle rapping on glass. It was a bear! And my bird feeder — empty though it was — was toast.

I heard the clang of metal falling to the ground, and the rumble of firewood being knocked off and displaced from the pallets along the exterior wall. There were sounds of fumbling, like the bear had tried to stand on the wood, and had been surprised when the small woodpile had rolled out underneath those huge feet.

Gradually the sounds of batting the metal feeder died away and I wondered if the bear was gone. Feeling bold, I crept over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his retreat. To my amazement, the huge black shadow reared up and looked right back at me! I bent my knees, shrunk back from the window, my eyes wide. Very slowly, I crouched back to the bed as the bear reared to full height, looking first at the window, then above, to where the feeder had hung. Whew! I hadn’t been seen! The bear was hoping for another feeder to pillage.

That huge shadow loomed outside my window for another few moments, front paws knocking against the window a couple more times before disappearing into the night.

After a few moments of silence, sitting completely still, I began to come back to myself. My heart was racing, and my entire body was vibrating. My breath was shallow, and I was losing feeling in my fingertips.

How many times have I felt this way? From standing under the fluorescent lights of a grocery store, to sitting in the passenger seat of a car, I have had this tidal wave of sensation overtake me over and over again. Usually a spiral of self-critical thoughts accompany the bodily chaos: why did I have to be this way? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just be a normal person??

But this time, my brain was completely silent. I burst out laughing, right there in my dark bedroom. My body had worked exactly as it should! An enormous mammal had been just on the other side of my window and my body had responded, ready for action. This was precisely what my nervous system was meant to do: it was beautifully healthy and, dare I say, normal?

And so I turned to all the lessons I have learned in these past two decades of panic attacks and triggers and all the work of healing a trauma body. I let my laughter break me out of the freeze response. I remembered Peter Levine’s work and I let myself shake. I jumped up and down and let my body jerk and move as it wanted. I let it discharge all that stress, that potential movement. I didn’t want any bit of it stored away. When the shaking slowed, I hummed a little and went to get some water. And the whole time I had a grin on my face, one I’m still wearing right now as I remember it.

What a gift this bear has given me: the experience of my body responding to a looming shadow in the dark, and confidence of knowing how care for it.