Three Little Bears

As I ended the zoom call last night with my daughters, I did not have the usual melancholy that leads me down a path of picket fences that were never painted white, no basketball hoop in the drive; never a house where kids gathered for popsicles and slumber parties.

I listened to these two incredible women sharing details of their life experiences with me and one another. We covered so much ground, as usual, almost two hours. When the call ended, I was comforted by a photo that often reminds me of our bond. Three polar bears setting out to find nourishment and refuge, imprinting their footsteps across a vast territory. Wild and free. A mama and her cubs.

It occurred to me that maybe all the struggle and regret of never surrounding them with the white spiky posts and idyllic setting was the exact thing that created this uniquely feral and beautiful trio of individuals.

I was born free, willing myself back to the only Mother that has kept me in the womb of her stars. Mother Nature. She taught me how to speak bear to my cubs, rubbing noses as I kissed them at night, whispering stories about butterflies finding their way home. Their eyes lit up as contagious giggles and curiosity blanketed the three of us snuggled up in bed. "What happens to the butterflies, mama?" they would ask. Holding back my own fear, I kept the ending an ongoing unknown, as I had no idea where any of us were headed. I will always remember the scent of their just washed hair and my salty tears as I tucked them in behind walls.....not meant for bears. Slowly teaching them there is a journey ahead, and they too will find freedom in the bosom of that Mother.

My path was to be a guide, flawed, but fierce. Wise to the heartbeat of a pink sky, vigilant to the screech of the barred owl. Our lives were a migration of sorts, where I often got lost, confusing the blinding white picket fences just out of reach with the dream of white fluffy snow we longed to roll around in. They no doubt have endured too many dens, covered thousands of miles witnessing the fragility of heritage lost.....up close and personal.

But it is with that lens, the roots and uproots of their lineage that was reflected back to me on the computer screen, last night, where I now see they are indeed wild and free. There is no obligation to me, rather, there is honor to us. There is grace given for exposure to storms that lasted far too long. There is knowing that being together in spirit takes us back to a place and a language that orchestrates a magical rhythm, like a snowstorm of butterflies.

This holiday season , I am picturing us now, three little bears, well, a mama and her grown cubs, in a rare gathering, under the Northern Lights listening to the complex tune of bright colors, when suddenly, I glance over, and see the two of them rolling around in that snow, giggling, finding their way home. I love our untamed trio. It is a dedication to the Mother who wraps her world around us, and we know to just inhale and exhale her abundance.