Long ago, across the great water in the place now called Wisconsin, there was a cataclysm. Some say it was fire, others hunger. Many humans and animals died. A mother bear and two little cubs, desperate for escape, decided to swim across the great lake. They waded into the water, one cub on each side of the bear. After a while, the cubs began to get very tired. The bear knew that it was far too late to turn back. And so she said, “The land is not very far, my children. Don’t give up.” But the cubs got weaker. Within sight of land, one cub sank into the waves. Soon after, the other also drowned. The bear’s heart was broken, but there was no going back. She waded ashore and laid down, gazing out on the water where her cubs had perished. After some time, both of them rose to the surface as two little islands. And so the bear still lies there, atop the dunes, looking after her children for eternity. – Anishinaabe legend
June 2022
A two-lane highway south. The first sun rays of morning shine through the window. I glance at the clock. So early. The solstice was less than a week ago. About an hour from the destination, my muscles begin to constrict. Electric prickles up my spine. I suck breath into clenched lungs. Dread. The tension grows stronger the closer I get. I fight the urge to turn around and flee.
It’s barely eight a.m. and the Sleeping Bear Dunes visitor’s center in Empire is already swarming. A potpourri of license plates in the parking lot. It’s never early enough to avoid the crowds this time of year. I stand in line to buy an annual pass. It will take time to explore it all. I live two hours from this place and have never been here.
The cashier unfolds a brochure for the two men in front of me. A father and adult son.
“You are here,” she explains. “There’s a very nice hike near--”
“What’s the most popular part of the park?” the older man interrupts her.
I listen. So I know where to avoid, at least during peak times. When it’s my turn, I ask for the pass and no advice. And scurry out the door.
Somewhere along the road between two pretty little lakes, the anxiety dissipates. My grip on the steering wheel loosens. A deep, luxurious inhale and exhale. This place holds the answers that I seek.
October 27, 2019
I emerge from a dark pine forest. Up ahead, a bear is sitting next to a river, in the tall grass on the riverbank. It is a wide, shallow, rocky river, like those you find at higher altitudes. I walk towards the bear. The threat of danger doesn’t occur to me. His demeanor is so gentle. His soft golden fur shimmers. Gauzy, late morning sunlight shines into the river valley. I’m almost next to him when I feel a voice in my head. Beware. He can hurt you. I slowly back away, a feeling of regret. Maybe I should take a chance. Maybe I’ll lose out on something beautiful.
I am far from alone at Pyramid Point, but it takes just a couple of minutes to find solitude in the curve of a dune. The others cluster at the main lookout, take photos and selfies, and leave. I stand on the precipice, breath caught in my throat. The intensity of our turmoil is so often unknown. Until it ebbs away. True peace is a void. A silence. I gaze down at the waves. So far down. Vertigo moves through me and the world spins. Am I looking down or up? That obscure border of terror and euphoria which comes from pure awe. It feels so good to feel it again.
A fallen tree, worn smooth from the caress of wind and sand, beckons. I come to rest on it and dump the sand out of my shoes. We are led to believe that, when we are young, time is in abundance. Time is indeed infinite. However, a lifetime is not. No matter how hopeless things seem, there is always a choice. The right choice is rarely the easiest one. But once you decide to make it, things seem to fall into place.
The voice from that long ago dream resurfaces. Beware.
Sometimes we make the wrong choice. Or so it seems. Maybe there is no wrong choice, only lessons we need to learn the hard way. I slide down from the tree, into the sand, and lean my head against the trunk. We endure so many little deaths in life: relationships, pets, jobs, residences, meaningful material things. Betrayals. Missed opportunities. With each loss, we also lose an incarnation of our self. We must find a way to rebuild without the missing piece. I linger until the wind nudges me, telling me it’s time to move on.
Back at the parking lot, a retiree couple exits their shiny Audi. “Is it a long walk?” the man shouts at me.
“About fifteen minutes.”
They look at each other and sigh.
“It’s worth it.” I add. Then I realize their value system is probably much different than mine.
Bug spray is extracted from a glove compartment. They hose themselves down, grumbling.
I sit in my car, eyes closed. Encased in an orb of peace.
April 20, 2020
I’m trapped in a tiny white room with two doors. The bear prowls around outside. I have inadvertently lured him here. Gotten myself into more than I can handle. I search for other, secret ways out of the room. I distract him at the right door, while a part of me flees out of the left door. I open the right door. He has fallen asleep on the threshold. A little cottontail rabbit stands between us. She’s up on two feet, in that pose of curiosity and innocence. I wonder if I should save her, but I know she can take care of herself. The bear stirs, comes closer to me, gently. I begin to pet him, but get ready to run. The only way to escape him is to soothe him.
September 2022
Summer has come and gone, but the light and warmth linger. All the way here, again, and I realize I’ve left my debit card at home. Six dollars shy of enough cash for the rustic campground outside of Empire. My mind grasps at solutions. How many times have I figured things out on the road, in places much more distant and strange? Worst case, I just drive home this evening. I have my credit card, but I have never bothered to memorize the PIN. Then I remember the campground accepts checks and money orders, too. I walk into the little post office in Glen Arbor. A bespectacled blonde lady asks if she can help.
“Hopefully,” I reply. “Can I buy a money order with my credit card?”
She shakes her head. “Only cash or debit card.”
I sigh and shrug. “Okay, thanks. This was my last hope.”
She asks for an explanation. “Hold on for a second,” she says, after I tell her my ridiculous story. “I just need to finish this transaction.” She rings something up, then takes a ten out of the cash register and hands it to me. “Go camp.”
My mouth drops open. “I wasn’t asking…”
“I know. Go camp. Pass the kindness along someday.”
I back away, averting my eyes from the cynical sneers of the others in the lobby. “Thank you. I will.” I walk out the door. I have. Many times in the past. She needed to give to me, just as much as I need to learn how to accept generosity without shame.
I head south from Glen Arbor, to a trail known only to the locals. I pass a handful of others, but find myself alone on the bluffs. I sit and watch sparkles of sunlight dance on the waves. Listen to the hypnotic hiss of water kissing the shore and receding. A wistful lullaby. A bubble of sadness rises within me and bursts. I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze.
Society’s answer to grief is to avoid it altogether. Find someone new, get a new pet, take up a new hobby. Stay busy busy busy. Don’t you dare think about the loss. There’s nothing worth discovering in the abyss. And so we bury it. And when the carcass resurfaces, each time more hideous, bury it again. And again.
No. I shall sit with it. As long as it takes. Anger, shame, guilt, sadness, regret, and even joy. Grief is the most complex of emotions. That’s why it’s so difficult to alchemize.
June 1, 2020
I’m on a high platform overlooking a river. The bear appears, walking downstream. Golden fur against deep green. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s the bear. I take a photo of him, but it doesn’t turn out. The bear sees me and barrels up the steep ladder. I’m terrified, but stand my ground. I wave my arms and yell, No! No! No! He retreats and returns. Over and over again. I realize he’s bluffing. Doing what a bear does. I’m safe because I know what to do: stand my ground.
Sometimes death is swift and painless. Sometimes it’s a slow, excruciating decline. Hope becomes something to distrust. With each loss, the instinct is to extinguish the light in that corner of the heart forever. Until everything is darkness.
Out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement. A man is running the trail that winds along the bluffs. Blonde hair, red face. He huffs and pauses and then keeps going. I turn away and gaze down at the waves. Maybe if I sit still enough he won’t see me.
October 2022
Drifting into a doze. Raindrops on autumn flame outside my window. A flash. The bear is curled into the fetal position in the womb of my heart. I bow my head and whisper, “How long will you continue to allow your pain to define you?”
The early morning drive down is mostly in darkness. Peak leaf season is done. The popular scenic drive winds through the dunes. A handful of cars in the lookout parking lots. I brace myself against the cold wind. At the edge of the dune, a sign warns of the dangers of climbing down to the lakeshore. It takes a minimum of three hours to climb back up! Rescue costs $3000! And yet every year there are those who refuse to heed the warning.
I smile. We all act foolishly sometimes. The point is to never allow it to happen again.
I follow the wind-obscured footprints to the Sleeping Bear Dune lookout. She is a humble little dune perched on the edge of the massive bluff. Her island children lie offshore, obscured by a dirty haze. Mist mixed with smog from nearby Traverse City.
If slumber endures, one enters the territory without dreams. A vast, desolate place from which there is no return.
The bear is dead. He gave up long before I ever came along.
A childlike sadness wells up. Please wake up, Bear. You deserve to live.
The final stage of grief is acceptance, which, in many cases, requires self-forgiveness. And that beautiful realization arrives. I’m going to be okay. It’s not the object of the love, but the love itself that’s important. It is a gift to feel it.
The bear is dead. But I am alive.
