When I lived in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I was told the story of a little brown bear cub. There is a living breathing Bear Whisperer in this town, who looks after the local bears, those that live 'in town' and those that live in the surrounding National Forest and National Wilderness areas. He told the story of finding a little brown bear cub, crying after its mother, from whose dead and dry teats the little one was attempting to suckle. The mother bear had been killed. I don't remember how, but there was the little cub, too new to the world to know that she was never going to wake up and that what had given him sustenance was now decaying, toxic, and poisonous. Clinging and doing what she had taught him to do would never provide him the nourishing he required.
So, the Bear Whisperer found the little guy. He carefully and quietly approached, humming a little 'happy bear' tune. {He actually does this.} Then, he walked back to his truck, using his mobile phone to contact some local support. He had warmed, bottled milk brought to the location, as well as one of his most 'bear-scented' {I can only imagine, as bears really do stink} shirts.
The Bear Whisperer carefully approached the little one, who was now crouched in hiding within a few yards of his mother's carcass. The man carefully placed the shirt a few feet away from the carcass, humming all the while. He let the little bear smell the milk. Then he waited. It was many hours and the Bear Whisperer finally fell asleep, only to wake at the insistent tug of the little bear's mouth on his sleeve as it tried to remove the bottle of milk from his hand.
The Whisperer moved ever so slowly, letting the little one learn how to suckle from this new source. He hummed deep soothing tones. He rubbed the already-bear-scented shirt over the Mother's fur in a place that had been warmed by the afternoon sun.
When the little bear had finished both bottles of milk and was clearly sleepy, the Whisperer let the little one curl up next to him. He rubbed the little one's back very gently and carefully. As the little bear relaxed, the Whisperer finally was able to let him sleep.
While the little bear slept, the Whisperer arranged for more milk to be brought to him, and for the 'capture den' in the back of his truck to be readied. As soon as the little one wakened, the Whisperer gave him more milk, then began to slowly walk toward the truck, over a hill, and along a mountain path. The little one followed, hiding the least sound or strange scent, as his mother had taught him to do.
After a time, the odd pair reached the truck. Friends had set up a ramp into the makeshift den in the back. The Whisperer carefully crawled into and out of the little den, so that the baby bear could see that there was nothing there to harm him. Then, the Whisperer held the second bottle of milk at the top of the ramp, quietly encouraging the little one to climb up.
As the Whisperer tells it he doesn't know how long he stood or crouched there, waiting, keeping the bottle of milk warm in his big gloved hands. Finally, the little one lumbered up the ramp and into the den, crying in his baby bear voice for the milk.
The Whisperer gave the bear the bottle, propped so that it could drink easily. And he waited. He sat in the driver's seat of that truck until the little bear fell asleep again. Only then did he move the makeshift ramp, close the tailgate, and begin to slowly and quietly drive away... to somewhere the little bear could be safe. The Whisperer nurtured the little one as its mother would have done, keeping it safe and out of harm's way. He introduced the little bear to others of its kind. Others whose vibrations were similar and who would help the little bear along its way.
And, one day, when the ursine foundling was little no more, the Whisperer sat nearby for a long time, having a quiet communion with the friend he had nurtured for so long. That night the bear, who was not so little anymore, heard and smelled others of its kind and left to join them. The Whisperer was very very glad and hummed a little happy bear tune just to himself.
The Bear Whisperer ended his story with a tear in his eye. "What would have happened if I hadn't found the little guy?"
Every so often, the bear visits the Whisperer. They know one another by their markings, their smells and the love they share together.
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It is a human tendency to cling to what is known and familiar, even when it is toxic and dead with respect to our own resonance.
My Teacher used to say that a drowning man will grab onto a Great White Shark, knowing the danger, but, in his panic, preferring that to the vast watery unknown in which he perceives himself to be lost. The drowning man would rather be eaten alive than lost in the unknown.
We often mistake the Great Whites and the Whisperers in our lives.
May you discern the one from the other and may there always be Whisperers in your life!