Bear Feet

When I was young, walking around at night in my pajamas. My mom would say, “Put some socks on those bare feet.”

“I would say, “Mom, those aren’t bear feet. Those are human feet.”

I’d watch TV with my socks on. Later, she’d tuck me into bed.

In bed with my teddy bear, I’d think about his feet and mine. Soon enough I’d be thinking about how he’d sleep all winter . . . sleep all winter . . . sleep all winter. Then I’d pretend I was doing the same—going to sleep for the winter. Soon enough I’d be asleep.

Now I face another February. I still have a stuffed bear on the night stand by my bed. He has bear feet. I still wear socks. When I go to sleep each cold night, I think about hibernating under blankets for the winter. Each morning when I get up to gray sky and cold winds, I feel just like a grumpy, grizzly bear.

I see the wisdom of hibernation. I have no patience with anything. Ask me. I’d say I’d as soon be sleeping all winter, sleeping all winter like a bear. I bet the folks around me would just as soon I were sleeping too.

Even now when people say “bare feet,” I can’t help but think “bear feet,” and see them in my mind.

If you’re at all like me, don’t try to climb Mt. Everest in February. Don’t go on safari either. Learning curves and big adventures are meant for other times of year. February is meant for hibernation for people with bear feet.

—me strauss Letting me be