When our bears were little, I used to sing them lullabies. It was instinctive. I never thought about it—they just came out. Simple tunes, just a few notes. Simple words that carried simple but profound meaning. Words like “I’ll keep you safe.” Sing-song rhythms tuned to them. Soothing. Protective. Archetypal maternal energy flowing through me to them, caressing. It isn’t the words themselves, but the energy behind the words that matters, words being our human way of shaping the energy to communicate meaning. The bears receive the meaning being sent.
Twenty-five years later, I still sing to them if they are stressed or scared by something new. Or when they are getting ready for their long winter’s sleep. They come closer to hear, or stay still and listen. It is a connection far deeper than words. One that carries across species. We all like reassurance. We all like lullabies when we are feeling vulnerable.
And so a few days ago we gave them winter bedding for their dens—fragrant hay and dried leaves—and I sang.
They prepared their beds until all we could see was a nose or a fuzzy ear.