Discernment Is All
Sara Wright
To hibernate
is to enter
a holy place,
A cave dug
under roots and dirt.
Moss and lichen,
sweet grass
raked beneath
a slumbering forest,
the door is hidden
from prying eyes.
Discernment is all.
Here the lesson learned is Patience;
sitting with misconception,
shadows in the night,
fear and confusion,
despairing moments.
Only peaceful bears
birth here.
Discernment is all.
Drowning isn’t foreshadowed
by this descent,
only the need to still
a racing heart and weary body.
Allow Peace to enter.
Focus mindfully on what
must be faced
until the translucent solar light
melts the snow in spring,
And the bears return.
is to enter
a holy place,
A cave dug
under roots and dirt.
Moss and lichen,
sweet grass
raked beneath
a slumbering forest,
the door is hidden
from prying eyes.
Discernment is all.
Here the lesson learned is Patience;
sitting with misconception,
shadows in the night,
fear and confusion,
despairing moments.
Only peaceful bears
birth here.
Discernment is all.
Drowning isn’t foreshadowed
by this descent,
only the need to still
a racing heart and weary body.
Allow Peace to enter.
Focus mindfully on what
must be faced
until the translucent solar light
melts the snow in spring,
And the bears return.
Working notes
This poem was written last winter as I struggled with what has become an annual cycle of depression over these past eight or nine years. I am 68 years old and I live alone except for animal companions, three of which are birds and one was a dog I just lost. I do all my own physical work stacking, carrying, heating with wood. I live in a protected but low area and with global warming, the constant freezing and thawing has made shoveling the roof impossible. When the snow and ice slide off the roof, the only entrance to my little log cabin is totally blocked and I am no longer strong enough to move the snow and ice and know it, so I am living in between storms in a perpetual state of fear. I have to be up on my roof three or four times a day to keep my entrance way open. Last winter, I fell and knocked myself out. I also have osteoporosis, and in February I crushed a bone in my spine from continued shoveling after hurting my back once again. I wrote this poem later that month to help me deal with my depression, reminding myself that hibernating (like the bears do) has value. This spring, I made a decision that I would have to leave my home for the winter whether I could afford it or not. As a naturalist I also have learned that I feel too cut off from Nature in the winter because of the huge amounts of snow that blanket the ground.
About the author
Sara Wright is a lifetime naturalist/ethologist (a person who studies behavior patterns of animals in the wild), who has been doing independent research on Black bears for 14 years. She also belongs to the North American Bear Center (bear.org) and offers an hour-long presentation about bears called “Dispelling the Myths about the Black Bear.” She lives in the western mountains of Maine in a small log cabin overlooking brook, field, and forest. She taught Women’s Studies at the university level for many years. She is also a Jungian Archetypal Pattern Analyst. She has a private practice, “Rootwork,” that she hopes will help women find their way in the world.