Tag Archives: bear thoughts

Branches and roots and bark and being a home for others: I want to be a tree sometimes.

I like being a bear, but I would be fibbing if I said I never dreamed about being a tree. Trees are noble, silent, and everseeing and probably everknowing and smell great. Trees are tall and impressive. They taste good. They are fun to chew on. Trees are everything to everyone forever and never complain about having to fulfill that duty all of the time.

I like trees.

I am not a tree, though. I will never be a tree. And maybe that is for the best, but I do like pretending I can be a tree. One of my favorite pastimes is digging my pointy claws into the soft earth and pretending they are tangled roots to my tree being. I dig in and settle myself and let the wind and the elements run through my fur and my ears.

I pretend I can see everything in that spot forever. I imagine the seasons passing over me constantly and consistently. I imagine my fur as gnarled branches reaching toward the sky, acting as homes for birds and bugs and bees and leaves and light and anything else that is light enough to stay there when it wants to. I close my eyes and think about existing in the same spot for what must feel like always and experiencing that single spot for so long that you know everything about it.

Eventually the soil gets uncomfortable, though. I realize I am not a tree and shake the dirt off my toes and go back to being what I know I am: a bear. I will never truly get to experience the longevity or evereverythinging of treeness.

I only know how to experience bearness. I suppose that is not too horrible, but I do constantly find myself trying to know existing beyond what existing as a bear has to offer. I wish I could be like the raccoon I ran into while sleeping in a dumpster a few days ago who was chewing on his own leg and foaming from the mouth and (maybe even) the ears: I wish I could just accept who I am.

But I cannot. I think I always desire the -ness of another being, and I will probably always have a hard time accepting my own bearness. I can still pretend, however. I can still take a few moments out of my day to hurl my claws into some dirt and pretend that I am a tree.

Even if I am just a bear.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

I worry about what I look like when I run.

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I run when I need to run. It has its uses, running that is. For instance, just the other day I saw a tree with no leaves on its branches and its twiggy limbs were smacking up against another tree that did have leaves, ripping the leaves from the leaved tree. I thought I saw a tree murder in progress and, though I am ashamed to admit it, I felt the need to run as fast as I could. I was lost in the forest all night after running aimlessly for so long, but at least I got away from the tree murder.

I also sometimes run when I have bursts of energy for no apparent reason. It feels good to stretch out my legs and feel the wind brush through my fur. And even though I feel tired when I am done, I feel quite refreshed shortly after running.

I actually like to run.

But I do not like doing it in front other creatures…

I was recently running through the forest after thinking an interesting looking rock I found was actually a ghost when I suddenly heard a chuckling. I looked toward the sound to find several squirrels (oddly none of them Rob (the squirrel)) staring at me and laughing hysterically. I stopped mid-gallop and stared back. They were heckling me. At least five squirrels. All heckling me. One even did an impression of me by placing its back end high into the air and shuffling its front legs frantically. The other squirrels laughed at the impression. One laughed so hard it fell out of the tree.

I did not stay much longer to see the crowd further analyze my running. I trudged (at a very slow pace) back to my cave to lick my wounds.

The heckles haunted my dreams that night. I had a dream about one large squirrel poking me with a stick as I tried to run, but when I looked down, I had no legs. No paws. No way to run. Instead, I rolled through the forest as the squirrel kept poking and stabbing me.

I woke up growling and shuffling my feet… frantically.

Now I am consistently worried about how I look as I run through the forest. I even find myself not running from time to time, even when I really want to. What if the squirrels are watching? What if other creatures are watching? What if I really do look silly as I run?

I do not like running as much now. I want to run. I want to like to run. But the constant fear of not running how I am supposed to run keeps me from doing what I want to do.

Maybe one day I can see another bear run. Maybe the example could show me how it is really supposed to be done. Maybe I can learn to like running and maybe I can learn to run how a bear is supposed to run or maybe those squirrels will just leave me alone.

Or maybe I will just walk from now on.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

I wanted something yet I was not sure exactly what.

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bear wants (2)

The feeling was weird but familiar. I wanted something particular, but I could not quite put my paw onto what that particular thing actually was. It was intriguing to consider, at first. Going through the desires I might normally have and evaluating if they met my current needs. Then it became annoying. The vague feeling would not leave and could not be satiated.

I decided to just go about my daily routine of various bear related activities and thoughts. I started the day off with a nap (as I usually do). Though I woke up feeling refreshed, I still have an itch to scratch, and the indescribable desire was still keeping my mind wandering.

I then went to the river to drink and avoid eye contact with the deer who also drinks there. Luckily, the deer was not there that day, so I could drink in peace. I was, again, refreshed yet still had a wanting feeling for something I did not have.

Leaves. I love to chew on wads of leaves that I gather around my cave. I did just that. I collected several leaves and placed them into my mouth and chewed and chewed and chewed and it was lovely and delicious.

But it was not what I wanted.

I was becoming increasingly frustrated with my inability to fulfill my phantom desire, and I went through a gauntlet of trials involving a great number of activities and such that I normally enjoyed doing. I napped in a dumpster. I stared at the weird raccoon who sleeps in the pizza boxes at the dumpster. I listened to Rob (the squirrel) and questioned his strange tales/advice as I normally do (this time he asked me if I had ever daringly run under the tires of a speeding car and I asked him exactly what a car was and he screeched and hurled an acorn at my nose, as he tends to do). I even licked my favorite clump of moss that rests in one of the many dark nooks of my cave. I also took two more naps. All of these things were lovely, but I still had the weird, familiar but intangible feeling of wanting something I had not recently had/done yet wanted to have/do without knowing what had to be had/done.

The end of the day had come, and the irritating, irrational feeling was still lingering. It made me exhausted. I slumped down to the nest of moss and leaves and rabbit skeletons that made up my cave floor and slept.

The next day, the feeling was gone. Perhaps I had slept it off. Perhaps I had only imagined it. Perhaps I just wanted to get through another day, and doing so was enough to satisfy the urge. I do not know, but it was good to feel like I overcame it.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also read a list by Bear that details how to approach opossums over at The Higgs Weldon.

Imagine the thrashing.

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I like to ask all the things I meet whether or not they dream. Some give me forward, understandable answers. Rob (the squirrel), for example, always tells me about a single dream he has where is he king of the forest and all efforts by all creatures of the forest must advance his influence and/or provide resources for him. He says his dream always ends with a large bird rebelling his rule and snatching him from his stick built throne. He always wakes up right as the bird of prey’s vicious talons enter his stomach. Strange but understandable.

I never ask for that much detail exactly, but I always figure it is good to let a squirrel express him/herself. Squirrels can act a bit… off when they do not get exactly what they want.

Some creatures have nicer dreams. A mole I accidentally sat on once and asked this question of to distract from the awkward topic of me accidentally sitting on her described very calming, sound based dreams. She told me that the sound of her tiny claws digging through soil relaxes her in her sleep for some reason as her mind recollects it during repose. It is usually accompanied with the mumbles and rumbles of things above her. I figured she would be frustrated by the sounds, but she explained to me that they are so familiar to her despite being a bit of a mystery, so they are soothing.

Not everything answers the question with a coherent response. Every raccoon I have asked, for example, has hissed at me as a response to my dream question. I realize that most of the raccoons are in the middle of a crucial dumpster diving expedition when I ask, but the hissing is really quite rude. Opossums, too, tend to respond in hisses as they rummage refuse.

The hisses are actually comforting compared to the silent responses I get from the most fascinating inhabitants of the forest. No rock has ever told me about a dream it has had. I have met many rocks, and not a single one has expressed even the slightest interest in dreams or sleep (or in other topics like water, fish, the sky, food, other rocks, or even the concept of silence). This sometimes leads me to suspect that perhaps rocks are not living, but I usually ignore this line of thinking since it seems to me inappropriate and slightly rude to presume the living status of something you are not living as. I am not, and have never been, a rock, so I have a hard time writing all rocks off as nonliving things.

Trees are a different story, however.

I know trees are living.

I know because they change in shape and color and they move and grow and sometimes I even think I hear them sing to me when it gets particularly windy.

But they never speak.

Trees do not take the time to speak to you. No tree will express joy, discontent, or any other emotion even if given a perfectly suitable platform to do so. Trees remain silent, and I think it might be a choice of theirs.

So, as you might expect, no tree will answer my dream question. I have asked nearly every tree I have ever encountered, but every tree I ask gives the same stoic silence that the last one gave me.

But I really want to know. I want to know if trees rest and if they do, I want to know if they dream and if they do, I want to know what they dream about. I think things that dream tend to dream about the things they witness, feel, consider, and experience. Trees have the time and space to consider and witness just about everything, so their dreams must be amazing concoctions of patched together bits of everything that has been, is, and ever will be.

Their nightmares must be terrifying.

As interesting as it must be to be there for everything, it must also lead to some traumatic experiences. Trees see the bad, nasty side of the forest. They see the part of the forest that insists you survive off anything you can find if you desire to survive at all. They see how cruel winter can be to every creature and how the blistering sun can be during the summer and how there just are not enough resources for every creature and how babies of any species can be desserts for another species.

That must make for some terrifying nightmares. A tree suddenly waking from a horrible dream must make for intimidating sight. Imagine all the thrashing it could do with those desperate, all-seeing limbs.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also read a list by Bear that details how to approach opossums over at The Higgs Weldon.

Here are 100 tips on how to stay safe in the forest.

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Wrap yourself in many leaves
Avoid fast, large, metal things
Know where clumps of soothing moss are
Befriend many rocks
Never follow or emulate any of Rob (the Squirrel)’s advice, anecdotes, rants, suggestions, dares, doomsday scenarios, aggressive slurs, etc.
Drink lots of water
But not too much water
Do not drown
Never initiate conflict with a tree
Respect fish and their space (they will bite)
Bite fish carefully (they have sharp insides)
Remember: most sticks are sharp
So are rabbit skeletons
Do not take more than you deserve (the forest has a way of making sure it is always balanced and how it does so is not always pleasant)
Do not get tangled up in spools of fishing line, shredded tents, garbage bags, hammocks, etc.
Beware of loud sounds as they often belong to large things (refer to tip 2)
Do not die
Do not fall over
Do not stand on your head for more than a few seconds
Learn Spanish
Claws and eyes do not mix; keep them separated
Do not jump out of trees
Not all dirt is soft
Eat when you are hungry
Do not threaten lightning
Make peace with your enemies
But not with the deer across the river
Be wary of the deer across the river
Do not befriend the deer across the river
Smite the deer across the river
Find out where the deer across the river lives
Exact revenge against the deer across the river
Make the deer across the river atone for his sins
Do not feel bad about what happens to the deer across the river; he deserves this
…He deserves all of this…
Remain silent as often as possible
Bees are not food
Snakes are not sticks; do not try to scratch your back with them
Snakes are also not rabbits; they do not wish to be petted
Do not pet too many rabbits (this can create rival factions within the rabbit community that can lead to a lot of animosity toward you; remember, if you cannot pet them all, do not pet most of them and leave because you want to take a nap)
Some leaves can make you itchy; do not touch them
Always bring a towel, or fur and sticks stitched together in a rectangular shape
Never exact revenge
Unless you are exacting revenge against the deer across the river
Carefully exact your revenge against the deer across the river
Wait
Maybe this is not right
Maybe you should forgive the deer across the river
No
Never forgive the deer across the river
Make sure your toes get wet once in awhile
What did the deer across the river ever do to you?
It must have been awful
It made you angry and spiteful for such a long time
Do not chew on rocks for too long
But did the deer do something so unforgivable that you feel revenge is justified?
Maybe
Be rational
Of course not
Avoid ticks when possible
Regard tip 26 once more
Also regard rule 40 once more because it is important enough to repeat
Try to understand the deer across the river
Understand that shadows do not stay in the same place for long so move with them when necessary
The deer across the river is another forest creature just like you, it is vulnerable to the elements just like you, it feels and has friends and eats berries just like you, it has horns, which is weird and a little unsettling, but you cannot let those pointy sticks on his narrow head give you the impression that he is not a capable and decent animal, deserving of love and compassion and, most importantly, forgiveness
Forgive the deer across the river
He spat at you when you tried to forgive him?
Why?
Why do that, deer?
Eat grass whenever possible (it is good for the stomach and tastes like lovely dirt)
Deer, how could you do this? How could you slap the paws of forgiveness?
Stop the cycle of violence and misunderstanding that runs rampant throughout the forest
Trust lizards
Accept the negative response and be okay with your inability to control the deer across the river
Try to find a new river so you can avoid the deer across the river
Name trees when you can, but also be respectful of trees who already have names (sorry about the misunderstanding, Stephen)
There is no new river
That was the only river
The deer is still there, across the river
Do not make eye contact with the deer across the river
Just drink your water and go
This is not so bad
It is actually peaceful
The deer keeps making terrible hacking sounds, but they do not seem to be directed at you for once
Enjoy this time
It might not last forever
He is looking at you
Staring
Stop it
Please, deer
Please
Try to remember where you bury important things since finding them again can be very difficult
Stare back
Show some teeth?
Yeah, show the teeth
No, wait, do not threaten the deer across the river
You must learn to live with this awful creature who makes awful hacking sounds with its silly narrow head
Forgive the deer across the river, just do it
Live peacefully with the deer
Keep your teeth clean by chewing on loose sticks you find

Thank you for reading my 100 tips on how to stay safe in the forest.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

I found a chair.

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The forest is cluttered with a variety of wonderful objects that are not native to the forest. Some of them are completely harmless (donuts, tents, wind). Some of them seem to serve no purpose to the forest (tires, chairs, strange birds). And some are downright bad for the forest’s overall well being (the deer across the river). Throughout my travels of the forest, I have found a great number of these curious artifacts. I almost always stop to inspect them. Sniff them. Lick them. Stare at them. However, no matter how I approach these objects, nearly all of my interactions with them have one thing in common: I usually accidentally break them.

I never mean to end the life of the strange objects I find in the forest, but I almost always do. Take, for example, a lovely plastic chair I recently stumbled upon. It was a beautiful red color, some of it fading into a more orange hue from exposure to the sun. It had to have been in the forest for quite some time, so I felt beckoned to examine it beyond a simple glance from afar.

I approached the chair.

It was still, so I was assured that any further poking around would not be met with some kind of violent reaction from the chair.

I sniffed it.

It smelled like dirt. It also smelled a little bit like insects (not any specific kind that I could detect).

I licked it.

Dirt. Again. Also insects. Again. I think I could taste the sun on it, too, but then again, I am not entirely certain what the sun actually tastes like (though I have my theories).

The chair was withstanding nearly every part of my normal investigation pattern: approach, sniff, lick. I only had one step left: sit. I frequently find myself trying to sit on new things I find in my ever vigilant search for the most comfortable things in the forest. Was this chair going to be comfortable? At the time, I had no idea, but I had to know.

So I sat on the chair.

It was nice for a moment. A brief moment. Then the tiny legs of the chair snapped and I found myself hurtling toward the ground. It was not a long trip from the top of the chair to the ground, but it was long enough to frighten me and send me running off into the forest. At the time, I did not know that this action was me actually killing the chair by accident. I had to run away just in case this was the chair’s way of trying to kill me on purpose.

I hid behind a tree for awhile.

When I felt like it was safe to come out, I did. The chair was still broken. Its sad cracked legs were shattered. Pieces of them were scattered around the forest floor. I felt guilty.

I put the broken chair through the same process of investigation as I had the whole chair (approach, sniff, lick, sit). This was to ensure that the chair did not change its mind about not being violently reactive to something after becoming a broken chair.

It did not break again when I sat on it the second time, but it was clear that I had left a significant amount of damage from my investigation.

I like finding new things in the forest. I like investigating those new things, too, but I wish I knew a more effective, less damaging manner of doing so. I am sorry, chair that I broke. Also, I am sorry, everything else I have sat on by accident or on purpose. That includes you, the opossum who was nesting in my moss collection. It was an accident, opossum. I promise.

I just want to know more about where I live, and I hope I can learn how to do so in ways that do not leave chairs and opossums upset and/or crushed.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

The sky is so violent but colorful.

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Just the other day, the night sky was screaming in color over its own black emptiness. It was extremely alarming at first. I was sitting in my cave, rolling the rib of a rabbit skeleton on the ground as I waited for sleep, when, very abruptly, a loud crashing sound echoed through the night sky and bounced off the walls of my empty cave.

I ran outside to check what could cause such a disturbance. My first guess was thunder, a sound with which I am familiar but still keeps me awake when it is being particularly cranky. But this sound was a little different from thunder. It was more continuous. More abrupt. More colorful.

When I got outside, the popping and crashing sounds came again. More this time, too. I looked up. The sky was filled with amazing colors that are not very common in the forest. The only things that come close to these colors in the forest are reptiles in various stages of anxiety, grief, or happiness. The sounds and the colors kept coming. Straight lines of white and gold zipped into the air. Each would then burst into a cloud of smoke and sharp looking color. It was hypnotizing. It was also terrifying. Unnatural yet oddly appropriate.

This was not the first time I have seen these strange lights and sounds, though. It happens on occasion, but it always takes me by surprise. I do not know where they come from or why they are ever here. I do not know why they are still slightly terrifying. I do not know why I like them so much.

The first time I remember hearing and seeing them is a distant memory at this point. I remember that my cave was still new to me. I had just recently found it (it came with several piles of lovely moss and a mouse who eventually died one winter later). I was trying my best to be comfortable in my new habitat when the violent sounds ripped through the sky. I was so terrified that I decided to put my paws over my ears and wait for the sounds to go away. After a long while, however, I realized they were going to keep going. I decided to investigate. The colors were so foreign to me then (just as they are now, frankly). I stared all night. They eventually died down, but I stayed outside of my cave until the sun rose. For a brief moment, I was hoping that the sun, too, would shout some violent colors in the sky. It did not. It made its usual warm, glowing color and sounds.

I still have no idea what causes these strange lights and sounds. I wish I did. I wish I understood their purpose and place in the forest. Maybe one day I will go following them. I will follow the sounds and the sights. I will try to locate exactly from where they are coming. I will make a discovery and expand my understanding of something strange to me.

Or maybe I will just let them continue being a mystery. A mystery which I will take pleasure in knowing that I will never really know anything about it.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

Fuzziness matters.

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Fuzziness is an important aspect of who I am and how I see myself as an individual creature of the forest. My ears are fuzzy. My belly is fuzzy. My neck is fuzzy. Even my paws are fuzzy, which is strange considering they are also leathery and tough. Paws are strange, but we are not here to discuss paws. We are here to discuss fuzziness.

How do I maintain the fuzziness of my fur? This is an important question for any creature who is given the gift of a thick coat of lovely hairs. I cannot speak for all creatures of the forest, but my fuzziness is maintained through a regiment of important daily processes.

Allow me to elaborate.

I spend a great deal of time every single morning rubbing my fur onto something with an interesting texture. Sometimes I seek out the smooth edges of a pebbles to help slick back my fur. Other times I look for something jagged and scratchy like the side of a tree or the side of a rusted dumpster. These rough textures also help alleviate various itches I might feel at the base of my fur. They ruffle my fur, too, making my fuzziness much more messy than usual, but the feeling of the means are worth the awkward looking ends.

I once dragged an old, ragged piece of a carpet I found into my cave. I spent a great deal of time rubbing all of my fur against it. It was one of the best things I had ever found in a dumpster, and I loved every minute I spent with my fur practically glued to its surface. Unfortunately, I eventually had to dispose of that prize after several raccoons ate most of it. I stopped them from completely devouring it, but what was left was hardly enough to maintain my fuzziness.

Water is also important part of fuzziness. Though fur smells incredible after rolling around and basking in many weeks’ worth of forest odors, it is occasionally nice to refresh and revitalize that fur with some clear, cool river water. At first, it seems counterintuitive. When fur is wet, it ceases to have fuzziness. It becomes drenched and loses everything that defines fuzzy. Once the water dries, however, the fuzziness feels crisp, clean, and brand new. I do this process minimally, though. I have a great deal of pride in the collection of smells and debris I collect as I traverse through the forest, and I do not take lightly the idea of trading all of that in just for some wet fur.

Furthermore, this process also means having to see the deer across the river. Oh, how vile that creature is with its ghastly, empty stare. It knows what it did. It will never forget what it did. I will never forget what it did.

I apologize for the digression.

Another great way to maintain fuzziness is to seek out a symbiotic relationship with another creature and/or find a very good friend. For a very long time, no less than three mice (one large one and two tiny ones) resided in a tuft of fur on my back. Their warmth and tiny hands soothed and combed my back fur. I did not let them go uncompensated, too. As often as I could, I would toss small berries or patches of grass onto the tuft by slinging them with my mouth. This beautiful relationship lasted until the tiny mice outgrew the large mouse. They ended up arguing and fighting over the rations of berries and grass. The quarrels became so terrible that their violent squeaks would keep me up at night. I finally evicted them from my body lying on my side and shaking. They quickly scattered into the forest, which was unfortunate because I would have liked to at least formally meet them before they left for good.

I sometimes ask other forest creatures if they would be willing to fill in where the mice left off, but I can find no takers. Those relationships are rare, so if you are lucky enough to find one, make sure you nurture it to the best of your abilities.

Fuzziness matters. It is not simply an issue of aesthetics either. How my fur interacts with my environment says a lot about who I am, and I truly hope all other creatures of the forest take their fuzziness as seriously as I do.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

Do squirrels ever regret things? Probably not.

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Some say life is full of regret.

Not this bear’s life. My life is full of naps and acorn counting. Surely whatever woodland creature made such a negative utterance has done some terrible things or, at the very least, some things that made him/her feel terrible. While I would never claim to be Saint Bear of the Forest, I do feel that I have lived a good life thus far, and I have no plans on changing that.

It does make me wonder if maybe deep down I am not a good bear at all. Is my lack of regret actually a sign of internal villainy?

Do villains have regret for their villainous actions?

I asked Rob (the squirrel) what he thought, but he merely wrung his hands together and chuckled maniacally. It was a valid answer but not really the one I was looking for.

Rob (the squirrel), who has been known for mild villainy on occasion (mostly to ants and grasshoppers) seemed to be devoid of regret. Did we share the same moral compass? The thought perturbed me. As much as I consider Rob (the squirrel) a good friend, I did not want to be lumped into the same emotional maturity level as he. Surely he felt regret about something.

After some prodding (and light fur licking) Rob (the squirrel) said he regretted many things. He elaborated with the regalement of the time he stole seven sunflower seeds from a mouse family. They were storing them for the winter. Rob (the squirrel) felt so guilty he tried to return the seeds the following day only to discover the mouse family had been ravaged by a hungry Hawk. In the wake of this tragedy, he proceeded to eat the seeds with a clear conscious and never dwelled on the mouse family’s fate again.

I told him I didn’t think that sounded like regret.

Rob (the squirrel) shrugged his little grey shoulders, bit my nose, and scampered up a tree.

Alone, I began to dwell on my past actions. I began to wonder if there was anything I had done for which I wanted forgiveness. Did I require atonement for some past sin?

No. I couldn’t think of anything.

Either I was a sociopath or a saint. Sainthood seemed less likely. There was a third option, however: perhaps I block out every bad thing I do to protect myself from feeling regret and remorse. That was an interesting thought, but I had no memories or evidence to entertain it.

Then, like an acorn being hurled at my head from the top branch of a tree, it hit me: I did have regret that I could recall. At least a little of it.

Last week I found an ant hill ripe for eating. I remember dragging my tongue across their mount, lapping up dozens of little workers with each passing. I stood there for quite some time enjoying the spoils of my discovery.

After I thought I had my fill, I left the ant hill alone and wandered off to take a nap. When I woke up, I was hungry again. I tried to locate what was left of the ant hill, but I could not find it. Perhaps I had licked too much of it. But in reality, I felt like I didn’t eat enough ants. I wished that I had. There: that is regret.

I regret not having eaten more ants.

Suddenly, I felt better. I was comfortable in my own fur again. I had regret. Which was normal.

I wondered if I ate the deer by the river, if I would regret it later.

Probably not. He knows what he did.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site?

What was before bears?

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I have no idea what came before bears. If I had to guess, I would say lots of things. Trees seem older than bears. I bet trees were around long before bears. Maybe ants? Ants seem like they have been around much longer than bears. The sky. There is no way any bear has been around longer than the sky.

I suppose trying to figure out all of the things that came before bears is a little too grand of a task. After all, it seems like everything is older than bears, especially mold, rocks, and most frogs (their wisdom proves that). I need to narrow down my line of questioning.

What was before bears that led to bears?

I have no idea what was before bears that led to bears. I have some guesses, but that is really all they are: guesses. I do not have any hard evidence like bear bones I dug up or a lovely picture of an old bear.

Bear-trees. That is one of my hypotheses. I think it might be possible trees and bears used to be one thing at one time, a very very long time ago. I feel connected to trees in an inexplicable way. They are so silent and so peaceful and so nice about me chewing on them, collecting their stick children for further chewing, and letting me have the moss on their sides for possible chewing. Trees give. Maybe I am being too self-centered, but sometimes I feel like trees give specifically to me (and presumably all bears). That connection feels ancient. It feels like trees have been giving to bears since before bears were even bears and trees were even trees. So that leads to me thinking that maybe a very, very long time ago we were one thing.

I know this is hard to visualize, but it is very nice to think about. The peaceful, giving life of a tree is something I understand, so it makes sense to me that bears and trees might have once shared lives.

Another guess I have about what was before bears that led to bears is based around another thing that feels ancient and old to me. Dirt. Maybe bears are just fuzzy dirt. Dirt seems like it has been around for everything. Just ask it. Dirt even manages to be more silent and peaceful than trees. I have a myth in my brain that involves dirt realizing it wanted to try being more than dirt by being like all the creatures and non-dirt things that step all over it all the time. In this myth I made up, dirt decides to be a thing that is still rather silent and peaceful but gets to be fuzzy and eat fish. So some of dirt becomes the first bear. That might be me just making up stories, but would it not be so pleasant to consider it true? Maybe everything comes from dirt like that.

Trees and dirt are nice, but I do think those two ideas are more me trying to find commonality in the things I admire about the forest and less about what was actually before bears that led to bears. My practical guess for this situation that I do not truly understand is that all bears came from smaller bears. This line of thinking seems the most reasonable (and boring) to me. As much as I like to believe that I am the product of trees and dirt, I have a feeling that I am actually the product of just some other, smaller bear. A bear that is tiny and helpless and trying to figure out the forest just like I am. A bear that wants to be of trees and dirt and not an even smaller bear. A bear that likes tiny fish in tiny rivers and collects tiny rabbit skeletons. I suppose that is not so awful. It is not as magnificent as dirt and trees, but it is nice to think about a creature that is like me in every way but just tiny.

I will probably never actually know what led to bears, what was before bears, or why I feel more connected to dirt and trees than I do anything else in the forest. I like not knowing, though. It lets my brain wander into things that might or might not be, and who knows if I would be able to do that if I actually knew the answers to all of these questions.

I am a bear.

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Hello, I am a bear

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Tag Archives: bear thoughts

Branches and roots and bark and being a home for others: I want to be a tree sometimes.

I worry about what I look like when I run.

I wanted something yet I was not sure exactly what.

Imagine the thrashing.

Here are 100 tips on how to stay safe in the forest.

I found a chair.

The sky is so violent but colorful.

Fuzziness matters.

Do squirrels ever regret things? Probably not.

What was before bears?