BEAR Medicine

Courage, Imagination & the Medicine Bear

Two years ago, I traveled back to Canada to celebrate my mother’s 70th birthday. After three years in Europe, it felt exhilarating to return home—to the wild landscapes I had been longing for and, of course, to my mother.

My partner once told me, “Canadian skies are so far away, endless and expansive.” He said the only time he had ever felt such vastness was when he slept under the stars in Tibet. “The sky goes on forever.” I had never thought of it that way before, but he was right. Those skies were endless. And they were magical. That summer, I spent my nights sleeping beneath them, wrapped in their vastness.

I love the word magical. It reminds me of childhood—of endless daydreams and the boundless landscapes of imagination. I remember being a little girl, walking to school, where we were allowed to play in the forests between the school and the ocean. We would climb trees and make mud pies for our imaginary beasts—our companions, our protectors. By the end of the school day, we’d return to find the mud pies tampered with, eaten! Imagination was as real as anything else.

It still is.

Imagination is vital to our life force. It takes us beyond the physical world into Chitta Kosa, the limitless space where our soul moves freely. To me, imagination is spiritual—a sacred place I visit every day.

The Visit from My Medicine Bear

Last week, while teaching, one of my students—a beautiful, strong woman—began to cry. I could tell it was a release, a deep relief. And as she exhaled that weight from her body, something shifted in me too. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a presence I hadn’t felt in years.

My bear was sitting beside me.

This bear has often appeared to me in meditation, but he hadn’t spoken to me since my time in Canada three years earlier. And now, in the middle of that yoga class, he finally spoke.

He is goofy, yet deeply wise. His coat shines a soft blue-grey, and even sitting, he towers at ten feet tall. He was not facing me, just being there, solid, grounded. And then he turned toward me and said:

“I have been sitting here to show you how courageous you are.”

That word—courage—landed in my bones.

For so long, my courage had felt like anger, like pain. But in that moment, I understood. It had shifted into something deeper—pride. Pride for all I had been through. For all I had overcome. For all I continue to reach for within myself.

I looked into his eyes, this goofy, wise, soft, strong bear, and suddenly, the self-pity lifted. The anger for all the times I didn’t express myself lifted. The blame, the rage—gone. And there I was, sitting in class, overwhelmed, tears in my eyes.

A Tribute to My Teachers

I feel like a gazelle leaping through life—falling, rising, falling again, and rising stronger. My bear walks beside me, my medicine bear.

To all the teachers who have given me so much:

• David Garrigues—the most inspiring yoga teacher I have met, teaching me to stand up, take action, and look within. www.davidgarrigues.com

• Adarsa of Elemental Design—the true Diva of my life, showing me the way of a true Wild Woman. www.adarsashuideva.com

• My sister, a powerful force of nature—www.infinitamantra.com

• My mother—who taught me faith, a lesson more vital than I ever knew.

• My father—who taught me to keep going, no matter what.

• And Peter, my best friend—who taught me the most valuable lesson of all: Let go, let go, and let go some more.Do not take your thoughts too seriously. Step back in the face of anger. Watch.

Women & Wolves: The Lesson of Rage

I have been working on a blog using Women Who Run with the Wolves—a book I have carried with me for over ten years, guiding me in understanding myself, my rage, my lessons, and my journey. I feel so called to teach through this lens, through imagination, surrender, and devotion—which for me, is yoga.

There is a section in the book that speaks about Rage, drawn from the story of the Crescent Moon Bear. It resonates deeply now because I finally understand—my rage was always my courage.

Here is an excerpt:

“So rather than trying to ‘behave’ and not feel our rage, or rather than using it to burn down every living thing in a hundred-mile radius, it is better to first ask rage to take a seat with us, have some tea, and talk awhile—so we can find out what summoned this visitor.At first, rage acts like the angry husband in the story. It doesn’t want to talk. It doesn’t want to eat. It just wants to sit there and stare, or rail, or be left alone.It is at this critical point that we call upon the healer, the far-seer, the one who can tell us what good can come from exploring this emotive surge.”

There it is.

Have tea with it. Find its source. See its future expression. Pause and ask yourself—how do you want to use this immense surge of energy?

Much Love, Amy

PS—The photo attached is from a friend. Only moments after I shared this story with him, he pulled it up and said:

"I just opened Spotify, and this was the first song that came up."

A picture of a bear and a man.

Coincidence? I don’t think so.