Thoughts on Bears and Daylight Saving Time

Someone spot­ted a black bear just a few scant miles from Quisenberry Lane recent­ly, post­ing online some incred­i­ble black-and-white self­ies the bear took with their wildlife cam­era. I’ve been wait­ing almost 30 years to see one on my prop­er­ty. Everyone respond­ed with “bring your pets inside and get your gun,” but they were think­ing of brown bears, which tend to be far more aggres­sive than black bears. Though black bears will tear it up if you threat­en their cubs, this guy was prob­a­bly just lum­ber­ing about, look­ing for an open trash can to scavenge.

Once abundant​​​​​​ through­out the United States, habi­tat loss and unreg­u­lat­ed hunt­ing made the American black bear (Ursus amer­i­canus) almost extinct in Kentucky. Some of the oak forests logged at that time now have repop­u­lat­ed with ful­ly mature trees, and the bear has made a tremen­dous comeback. 

Since I was a lit­tle girl, I have been in love with bears. Maybe it was because of Mama Bear and Teddy Bear Love, my beloved stuffed ani­mals. Maybe it was learn­ing We’re Going on a Bear Hunt in kinder­garten. Or read­ing the Little Bear series by Maurice Sendak, chron­i­cling the adven­tures of Little Bear, his moth­er, and his best friends Cat, Duck, and Hen. 

But I will nev­er for­get learn­ing about hiber­na­tion in third grade. When the air sharp­ens and the leaves fall, bears don’t rage against the dying sea­son. Instead, they gorge them­selves on nuts, berries, and acorns. Then they find a dark, safe cave or den and sleep for sev­er­al months, their heart slowed, their breath qui­et­ed, their body curled into itself. When they awak­en from their extend­ed tor­por, a spe­cial­ized metab­o­lism means their bones and mus­cles will be rel­a­tive­ly unchanged.

Sounds heav­en­ly. I think about bears as I men­tal­ly pre­pare for Daylight Saving Time this week­end. I think about bears as I load my din­ner plate with starchy car­bo­hy­drates and pour red wine up to the top of the glass. I think about bears as I don my favorite fuzzy paja­mas and tie-dyed socks. 

While humans do not actu­al­ly hiber­nate, we do need more sleep dur­ing the cold­er months, ide­al­ly an addi­tion­al one to two hours than dur­ing sum­mer. Basically, when there is less avail­able light, the human brain pro­duces more mela­tonin, which can make us drowsy and set us up for longer states of dream sleep. And we are drawn to heav­ier, nour­ish­ing meals; fluc­tu­a­tions in our hunger hor­mones and low­er sero­tonin lev­els make us hun­gri­er than in times of more abun­dant sunlight. 

This makes sense. All ani­mals win­ter to some degree or anoth­er, and humans are ani­mals. Even for those who grap­ple with get­ting good, sound sleep, win­ter­ing is nec­es­sary. Seasonality is ubiq­ui­tous, despite our encul­tured dri­ve to fuss and flur­ry on all cylin­ders at every moment of every day, and espe­cial­ly so after we “fall back” at Daylight Saving, which iron­i­cal­ly coin­cides with the start of the fran­tic hol­i­day season. 

Humans can be so exhaust­ing. Animals and plants don’t need to be taught how to win­ter well. They don’t pre­tend it’s not hap­pen­ing, bar­rel­ing through their days with the same vig­or and speed of sum­mer. Instead, they lean into it, sleep­ing and snug­gling. It’s a nat­ur­al part of existing.

Rest is not the oppo­site of growth, but a part of it. If we want to wake up to our life, we must first start in a state of slumber. 

Consider Jesus leav­ing the tomb on Easter morning. 

Or Princess Aurora stir­ring at love’s true kiss. 

Or Rip Van Winkle, blink­ing his eyes to find he’d lost 20 years. 

Or the Buddha insist­ing he was not enlight­ened, only awake. 

Many Shamanic cul­tures cel­e­brate a com­ing-of-age rite where a young per­son is buried alive overnight, com­muning with Mother Nature to be reborn in their truest form the fol­low­ing morn­ing. Saint Irenaeus, the bish­op of Lyon, said, “The Glory of God is the human per­son ful­ly alive.”

Waking up is holy work. Be a bear.