letters to the sunday scaries (and hibernating)

i’m asking the bear for her medicine.

the poem is a temple - or a green field - a place to enter in which to feel.

i read mary oliver’s words in her essay, My Friend Walt Whitman, and i stared at them. because there’s a green field of feelings in my gut and i’ve been ignoring them. i don’t think i can write a poem, but i can write something. and i hope you find something you need in this, too. i hope you enter your own field. and maybe we can wave at each other in our own fields. or maybe just knowing we are both there is enough.

i’m sitting in my sweats, drinking a winter blend of tea from trader joe’s, powdered sugar still on my lips from the chocolate almond croissant from the french bakery i love by my favorite bookstore.

and i’m sad.

i feel it my chest, the way it’s heavy but also hollow.

i feel it in my eyes, the way they droop over my vision.

i feel it in the lump in my throat i’ve been ignoring all morning.

i feel it in how slow my limbs move.

have you been moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed?

when i used to administer that screener, i would say, “some people say it’s like moving through molasses.”

i feel like i’m moving through molasses today.

tomorrow is my first day back at work after two weeks off. as i made my tea and added a splash of the extra creamy oat milk, i wondered if i was sad because work was starting tomorrow. or because i’m back to promoting my book and scheduling signings and readings. or because i have things to do. or because i need to do the dishes.

at first, i thought i was sad that life was going “back to normal.”

but then i realized that what my sadness really is: sadness that this isn’t my normal life.

i don’t have a hard normal life. i work from home, rarely need to travel for work or go into the office, and except for a few occasions, i work inside normal office hours and don’t really take work “home with me.” (i technically always have it home with me, but i’m not typically very worried about it when i’m not working.)

my husband also works at home, we live in a relatively safe area, i’m surrounded by great friends and family, and i get to play with my two dogs all day.

i have a dream life.

i published a book and while it’s stressful to be a self published author and wear all the hats (and inevitably forget some of my hats and fall behind on or forget something), it’s amazing and rewarding and something i chose.

maybe it’s winter, or maybe it’s exhaustion from the busyness of 2024, but i want to hibernate longer.

perhaps it’s also the exhaustion of my grief, and the fact that’s it’s still there. it might just be my perception of it, but i’ve been feeling a new kind of loneliness in my grief. others still understand and know that six months is not a long time, not really. and when i have harder days than others, no one says anything to make me feel like i should be over it.

but also, no one really checks in anymore. my life has moved on. i’m not known as sam, the friend in crisis who’s mom just died. i’m sam, the friend. sam, the wife. sam, the author. sam, the employee. and oh goddess, i am glad. for that time when grief was who i was, fully and completely, it was horrible.

but holding all the pieces of myself together is a new challenge. one where i can talk about my grief if i need to, but people don’t assume i need to unless i bring it up. it’s challenging to be stricken with a grief episode (which has been massively tied up with my cptsd, as my mother was also my abuser) and also just have to work, cook, clean, organize, plan, promote, celebrate, support, and be.

i’m not falling apart anymore, but i have placed pressure on myself to be together. and that’s not possible, either.

my seams keep rupturing, my pieces aren’t smooth yet, they’re jagged and they don’t quite fit right. there’s cracks and things aren’t even. and i feel like i’m falling, but also i don’t, because through it all, i’ve stayed standing.

i’m passed the point where i’m at the bottom of the mountain, and i’m no where near the top.

i’m ebbing in between surviving and thriving.

and i’m tired.

i’m tired in my bones, i’m tired in my blood, i’m tired in my eyes, i’m tired in my left pinky toe and the birthmark on the side of my head.

in another essay of mary oliver’s (i’m reading through her collection of essays, Upstream), she wrote,

when the chesty, fierce-furred bear becomes sick he travels the mountainsides and the fields, searching for certain grasses, flowers, leaves and herbs, that hold within themselves the power of healing. he eats, he grows stronger. could you, oh clever one, do this? do you know, anything about where you live, what it offers? have you ever said, "sir bear, teach me. i am a customer of death coming, and would give you a pot of honey and my house on the western hills to know what you know."

bears hibernate. bears heal.

yesterday, i was flipping through my Yule version of the Seasons of the Witch oracle, written by lorriane anderson and juliet diaz, with illustrations by giada rose, and the first card in the deck is Bear Medicine. in the guidebook, it’s keywords are, “hibernation, meditation, healing.”

you have pulled the bear medicine card because you will find guidance, understanding, and healing for your situation in moments of solitude. you will begin to see things from a different perspective once you've had time to recharge your batteries. your problem may even present itself in an entirely new light after some self-reflection.

if i were to bring honey to the bear in my own woods, in the shadows of my soul, in the part of my that contains ancestral knowledge and wisdom, what would he say? or what would she say? i like to think my bear mentor is a mrs. bear, and not a mr.

i think she would approve that i just went to my bedroom to lay down and write instead of sitting at my cold kitchen table. i think she would tell me that i’ve done enough preparation today. she would tell me to curl up under a soft blanket and go back to reading or watching a movie. she would tell me that i’ve already scheduled all of winter’s book events (if you’re in new mexico, i post all the events on my instagram, @mssamanthanagel) in advance, and all i have to do is show up with my table and books and a pen. she would tell me that, yes, daily life requires some effort. i need to wake up earlier than my soft winter body wants, i need to stare at my computer screen more than my tired eyes would like, and, unfortunately, i’ll need to do the damn dishes every day for the rest of my life, and that’s okay.

my word for 2025 is softness, and i think mrs. bear would tell me that i can bring in the softness of her hibernation into my life, even if i’m awake and (somewhat) alert.

some ways i can bring softness into my life:

• moving slower and breathing deeply

• giving myself more time to get ready so i don’t rush

• drinking tea > coffee

• reading slowly, not with the goal of finishing quickly

• listen to calming music

• light a candle

• do one thing at a time - my adhd tends to make me skip around, but i feel exhausted at the end of that

• go to sleep earlier

• take more baths > showers

• put lotion on after the bath

• color in the beautiful witchy coloring book i got for christmas

• wear comfy clothes that are loose and feel soft

• watching feel good shows and movies (i’ve been debating a friends rewatch)

• never ever ever the overheard light

• planning for more small group cozy hang outs > a large party or loud gathering

• suspending my goals that had spring deadlines and pushing them back to summer so i can take a break

• browsing substack > scrolling tiktok

and you, dear reader, how will you embrace this winter? how would your bear guide you?

this was certainly not a poem, but it definitely allowed me to feel. well, this and the norah jones album i’ve been listening to.

i hope it cracked a door into your temple of feelings.

xoxo

sam