We All Know Not to Mess With Bears

I don’t know how much longer I can run. The forest looms in shadows, each tree a specter closing in on me. Moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting eerie patterns on the ground. The distant growl of the bear echoes, sending shivers down my spine. He’s closing in. Although I cannot see him, I know he's there, somewhere behind me, like that uncanny feeling when someone’s gaze pins you down. I sense him.

I sprint over tangled roots and carpets of fallen leaves. The air is thick with the scent of pine, each breath a struggle against suffocating fear. Glancing over my shoulder, hoping for a fleeting moment of rest, I catch a glimpse of fur and gleaming, fiery orange eyes. He's gaining on me. I've seen enough wildlife documentaries in my life to know that if he catches me, I won't make it out of the forest.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my chest heaving with the weight of exertion. The thudding of my heart drowns out the rustling leaves and distant night sounds. I know I must focus, but the forest seems to close in, shadows reaching out like gnarled hands eager to snatch me away. The bear’s roars and stumping paws reverberate—a relentless soundtrack, a symphony of dread, the last thing you would ever want to hear.

Branches claw at my face as I push through the underbrush, adrenaline blurring my vision and surroundings. Every snap of a twig beneath my feet sends a jolt of fear through my veins. In that disorienting moment, the forest becomes a maze, and my instincts the only guide. I glance backward again. I shouldn’t have.

I lock eyes with terror, its snarling visage illuminated by the ghostly moonlight. For a moment, time seems to freeze. Though, I know it doesn’t. It never could or will grant us that. Still, my memories and thoughts pulse through my head. Each fleeting second intensifies my awareness of life's fragility.

I would die without ever having learned how to snorkel or dive, and I think of my daughter, a late bloomer in the grandchildren's department. I won’t see little Stacy graduate high school or witness her lift a veil in front of the family.

The bear leaps onto me, and as my screeching head hits the ground, he lifts a mighty paw into the dark, dense air. Within a quick slash, I wake up.

The relentless echoes of the bear's roars cling to me as I find myself in the calm sanctuary of Dr. Lawson's office. The soothing scent of polished wood envelops the room, creating a sense of warmth and security. My eyes instinctively wander to the large painting that dominates the wall over the fireplace.

A majestic grizzly bear stands on its hind legs, an embodiment of raw power and untamed wilderness. Its voracious growl seems to stain the peaceful, bright natural colors of the forest scene. Much like life, the painting is a paradox—beautiful yet harboring an underlying sense of dread. The room's texture echoes the natural setting of the bear's habitat. It all seems… poetically intertwined… especially considering my not-so-great dream.

The rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall merges seamlessly with Dr. Lawson’s composed silence. The therapist, an island of calm in the room, observes me with an empathetic, studying gaze. His words, when they come, flow like a gentle stream, intertwining with the ticking of the clock.

"Dreams can be mirrors reflecting our deepest fears, John," he says, his words carrying the wisdom of someone who has navigated the complexities of the human psyche. "Sometimes, it's hard to tell whether we're running from reality, our own shadows, or simply just a bear."

The textured carpet beneath my feet seems to absorb the weight of my thoughts. I sigh, my gaze fixed on the comforting patterns that adorn the floor. The room holds an atmosphere of confidentiality, a space where truths can be laid bare, if you are brave enough to admit them to yourself first, that is.

Dr. Lawson leans forward, pen in hand, breaking the silence that has spun again with a gentle prompt. "Tell me more about the bear, John. What does it mean to you?"

I, now enveloped in the therapeutic embrace of the moment, speak hesitantly. “It’s a number,” I heave, gently massaging the heated ache in my forehead. “It’s the clock and the candles; the time and the finish line,” I continue.

The heaviness of it all hangs in the air, and the room, with its wooden walls and the watchful eyes of the grizzly bear, seems to hold a mirror to the complexities of my fears and the torment of time. "It's my 75th birthday today," I confess.

Dr. Lawson's gaze deepens, a well of understanding in his eyes. He nods slowly, inviting me to continue the journey into my thoughts. "A significant milestone, John," he observes. "Turning seventy-five can be a reflective time, a crossroads where one confronts the tapestry of their life."

The clock continues its rhythmic cadence, a steady companion to our conversation. I take a moment, letting the mass of the number sink in. "It's more than a number," I admit, my voice a whisper against the silence. "It's the realization that time is not infinite, and the finish line is no longer a distant concept."

Dr. Lawson scribbles notes on his pad, his pen moving with purpose. I wonder what he’s writing. "The bear in your dream, John, symbolizes more than a primal fear. We all know not to mess with bears. This is a manifestation of your apprehension towards the passage of time, the strict certainty of aging."

I nod, the conversation resonating in the room like a quiet revelation. The grizzly bear, once a distant threat in the dream, now becomes a poignant metaphor for the inevitable march of time, the voracious growl mirroring the echoes of my age.

The therapist leans back, giving me space to explore my thoughts. "As we age, there's a natural inclination to look back, to assess what we've achieved, and to ponder what's left on our life's canvas. The fear you felt in that forest, John, it's a reflection of the uncertainty that often accompanies your golden years."

After I did not speak, he pushed on, “"Your dream, John, is an invitation to explore these fears, to confront the bear within and understand its significance in the broader context of your life. It's not merely about running away; it's about turning to face what awaits you.”

"It's my 75th birthday today," I repeat.