Bear Fire, our very first reading meditation. Plug in your headphones and select the music we have paired for you, relax, read and escape. Adjust the volume to suit your comfort. 

Instructions – please use a laptop or Ipad for this activity

The old man sits by the river, watching the ripples turn and eddy around branches. Shining egg like rocks weathered by eons of water flow shaped the movement of the water, and the old man smiles. His weathered face a portrait of a lifetime, and his smiles now as his grandson throws a rock into the water.

Why do you sit by the water so much Grandfather? The young man asks. Thinking how boring it must be to always be seated like this looking at the same water. His long grey hair is pulled back into a ponytail, he has humoured his granddaughter that morning and agreed to a pink sparkled hair tie with a small plastic butterfly glued to its edge. 

“You are in exploration, my child. But one day, when you are craving peace and stillness, you will understand that nothing remains the same in this water, it changes all of the time. Its the moments of contemplation that creates curiosity.” 

The young man grinned, so often his grandfather who would forget his truck keys would be full of this riddle like wisdom. He found him amusing. 

The old man sees the innocent amusement and understands it for what it is. Not mockery, but a youthful exuberance yet to know. 

His grandson is young and energetic, playing the sports of his peers, driving cars and holding the hands of pretty girls, he is good. He has made time to sit together.

The old man hopes that these small moments will stay with the boy when it is time for the old man to journey to his ancestors, for he knows it is coming soon. 

“Can you explain to me why you need to come here, other than getting away from the noise of the house?” asks the boy. 

“Ah, yes, the noise. It is the noise” he returns quietly as he reaches for their mugs and the thermos of tea he bought with him.  He hands them to the boy and motions with his wrinkled brown hand to pour.

Returning to the fallen branch he sat on, like a saddled old friend, he takes out the leather pouch and small packet of waffery papers.

The damp hairs and strands of tobacco are pressed into the paper, held gently between his fingers, and he breathes in deeply as he rolls it back and forth. The scent is earthy and whiskey, warm and sweet, amber and leathery. Like home. 

“Those will kill you, Abuelo,” says the boy. 

“Most likely,” says he. “Most things you love do in the end.” 

“We wear layers my boy, coats and shirts; the stories we are told and form our love and friendships, our beliefs and the things we use to survive. But sometimes we have worn them so long the fibres have etched into our skin.

We keep this hidden skin, and it keeps us warm, but we must be careful. The skin can become forgotten and grows knots and tears. Every so often, we must be still” he lights the tip of the cigarette and draws the sweet smoke in, exhaling slowly.

“By being still, we are reminded of the threads that need trimming, the loose threads that no longer serve us but bind us. New skin grows with a new coat, full of promise and hope. This is what our ancestors want for us, and it only comes from the stillness. I come here because Out There is a wild place of an exaggeration, it makes our senses run like a bear with his paws on fire, and we do not know it. We smell the smoke but do not know what it is. So I come here to put my paws in the water.”

“Moments are the currents in the stream you and I sit beside, coursing along, flowing and ebbing, running into each other. Without them, the fish cannot swim, the water does not stay fresh and vibrant. Such is flow. Without it, the water becomes stagnant, the heart develops a sickness in the soul, and the tragedy of moving through life without purpose is sad and causes anger.” 

“Like old Martha?” asks the young man. Old Martha was the woman who lived near their village, coming out every so often to yell abuse and grumble at every person for all the perceived wrongs only a bitter heart can conceive of. Her walking stick was as sharp as her words and her hatred for small children was notorious. People were frightened of her rage. 

“Yes, like old Martha, shaking her fist at our ancestors, because she feels they left her. But they did not, and neither did God, she forgot to be still so she could hear the whisper, the movement and the rhythm of life within the stillness. One day she will know it, and it will be a refreshing drink on a hot day, parching her poor soul. We must show mercy to those in anger for their longing.”

“Abuelo, how do you know all these things?”

“Because I did not rush, and I listen for a lost language.” 

“What is this language you talk about?” asked the boy. 

“It can’t really be explained, you either hear it or you don’t” he replied. 

The boy smiled at his crazy grandfather and they sat, listening to the sound of the water, the bird and the movement of nature. 

The boy was still and the old man smiled.

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