Bear or Balloon?
I actually saw a black bear while I was hiking this week. That bear wanted nothing to do with me, like everyone said (including Martha at the Massachusetts Wildlife Association who, after taking my report about the bobcat crossing through my front yard, triple-confirmed what to do WHEN I see a bear—because I asked 3 times). The bear took one look at me and ran up the mountain and into the thick of the trees—fast—as promised. After worrying about this possibility for months, I was surprised at my lack of fear. Ok, I did call a friend to be sure it was safe to keep hiking and basically gave him my longitude and latitude and promised to text when I got back to my car. Still, it felt a lot like a rite of passage—35 years of city life complete, my first bear sighting was an official badge of transition to my new life.
Later, I ran into Arthur, a man in his 80’s who tends to the trails on this mountain just to be helpful. I told him about the bear. He told me this little story:
“I have a few dwarf apple trees in my yard,” he said. “One summer morning, a huge black bear was lying under the apple tree, stretched out and lazy. He hardly moved as he reached for the apples that had fallen to the ground around him. He ate the apples while stretched out under the tree. I watched him for a long time. When he’d eaten all the apples around him, that bear stood up and shook the apple tree until more apples fell to the ground. Then he laid down again, stretched out again, and lazily reached for those apples and ate them, too.”
Both the bear and Arthur had a message: you can work smarter, not harder, and enjoy a great return on your life-investment. Genius. A brand of genius I seriously lack. Or at least was not gifted the life-circumstances that made it an accessible choice. Instead, I liken myself to a manually-inflated balloon, breathing that balloon bigger and bigger with extraordinary effort to expand and expand until nearly bursting; then squeezing to keep in all the air until I can’t squeeze anymore. Suddenly, (it seems sudden) I leak air at warp-speed and zoom directionless around the room until I splat, flattened on the floor. It’s a familiar place.
I have been this balloon-person all my life. It’s a survival process. Very functional when I was a child. Not functional anymore. Not functional for decades. Just exhausting. I am finally in the realization that after packing up 35 years of life in Boston, moving to the Berkshires, and starting a new business, I have been living this balloon-behavior non-stop for the past 8 months. It’s an awareness that I’d like to push away. I’ve done decades of healing work and it’s hard to know that my go-to mode of operation is still one I created when I was 4-years-old. Balloon behavior. Ugh. I wish I could call Martha: “Hi—me again, no the bear thing is fine. I have a balloon problem…”
I hear the rain tapping on my windows. I allow myself to journal about what it might be like to be this bear. To receive, to relax while I effort, to use less frenetic balloon-energy and still get the results I seek. The ink from my pen glides across the page as the rain falls on my first garden of tomatoes, peas, lettuce, and pepper plants. Zucchini blossoms are no longer something that land on a fancy-restaurant plate. Gorgeous and bold, they look tropical under the massive green leaves that harbor them. I water every morning and stare at the green tomatoes and pea tendrils as if I could catch a glimpse of their next growth spurt. It’s mediative. Miraculous. And so unfamiliar it kind of hurts. I have a lawn mower. An upstairs. STORAGE. My new friends have chickens, kayaks, music bands, and compost. I have fallen in love with this place—the Berkshires. The mountains. The people. I have a new business and a new book I am about to give birth to. In every possible way, I am in unfamiliar territory. Including bear territory.
How do I create a shift from balloon to bear? The ink from my pen reminds me of what I already know from my life experience, my training, and from what science has now proven works: BREATHING, MOVING my body, and JOURNALING. These are the tools in the Kids Super Journal that can empower children (and adults) to self-manage challenge, embrace joy, and generate wellbeing. These tools saved my life. They continue to empower me to accept what still needs healing and sweep up those cobwebbed corners, too. I can learn to live smarter, not harder. I have the tools to practice something uncomfortably new. I can teach myself to be the bear.
This week’s Kids Super Journal podcast teaches kids about all this: Work Smarter, Not Harder: Lesson from a Black Bear. As the saying goes, we teach best what we most need to learn.
I’ll pause with this: local, award-winning author and fellow entrepreneur, Lara Tupper, the dearest, new friend a woman could ever hope to have, just sent out her newsletter with her monthly journal prompt for adults: Permission to Vent. Permission.
I offer myself permission to absorb the reality that I still operate in a survival mode. It pinches my gut. I breathe into that sensation. I feel discomfort so deeply, my joints ache. And it’s ok. Everything changes. I keep breathing. Then I journal: It is time to become the bear...
Stay tuned...
The Kids Super Journal activity book will launch on Kickstarter Tuesday, July 12th. Please sign up for launch notification and support this important and timely mindfulness-based journal that empowers children to self-manage life’s challenges, embrace life’s joys, and generate wellbeing through a research-backed strategy that combines, breathing, moving, and journaling.