I smiled looking into the forest, where I thought I saw a shadow flicker, maybe just a play of light, or maybe the mother and her cub, who had once been part of my life, letting me know they were all right, that they remembered. Since then, every autumn, when the leaves start to change color, I find small gifts on my porch, berries, pine cones, once even a beautiful stone, as if someone is still trying to say, we’re still here, we remember, we’re grateful. And it reminds me that sometimes the most important encounters in our lives happen without warning, and the deepest connections are formed in moments when we least expect them.
Now, as I write my book, I often think about that mother bear who trusted me with the most precious things she had, and about the cub who taught me that to love means knowing how to let go. In a world where the line between wild and tame seems so clear, they reminded me that compassion knows no boundaries, and trust can be born in the most unexpected places, overcoming fear and prejudice. And when visitors ask me about the small wooden bear figure on my shelf, I smile and say it’s just a souvenir from the Adirondacks, but for me it’s something more.
A reminder of those few weeks when my house became a shelter for a wild creature, and I became, if only for a little while, the guardian of a life that was never mined to keep, but only to protect, before returning it to its rightful owner, the endless forest, and the mother who never stopped waiting.