Every year about this time, the bear in me—who firmly believes we should all be curled in our warm dens now, dreaming undisturbed until the berries are ripe—wakes with a start to a sea of colored lights and incessant merry music. She snarls. She knows from past experience that it isn’t going to end soon. There’s no rest for bears in sight. She’s not fun to be around at all.
“There, there,” I croon to her. “We’ll just have to make the best of it. Let’s go a walk in the pine grove for a while. That might do us some good.” My inner Grumpy Bear grudgingly agrees, and off we go.
Once we’re in the woods, surrounded by the towering trees, my bear goes wandering off somewhere. The day is sunny and cold. The lake at the edge of the pine grove is still, as is the air. For a while, I stand motionless, aware of the texture of the trees’ bark, of the thick carpet of needles and leaves beneath my feet, of the taste and fragrance of the air.
I walk on the edge of the grove, skirting the lake. I smile when I see the nursery up ahead, a patch of the forest on the lake’s edge where a dozen young pine trees grow. I’ve been watching them for years, and I greet them with joy as I near. I remember that the holly tree is just beyond them, and a wave of nostalgia rolls over me. I’m in the land of Little Pine. This is his season.
I wasn’t going to revisit his story this year. My files were lost in a technical failure. And besides, thinking of Little Pine made me think of my friend, Kimberley, whose teddy bear collection starred in the photos in one of the books. Sadly, she passed away a year ago, and I miss her, and I miss Little Pine, too. He was accidentally cut down a few years ago, the summer after I’d written the third year’s story. It broke my heart.
But all around me, small pines were growing. I felt as if Little Pine’s spirit was filling the whole grove, spurring new pines to growth. Something in the depths of the grove caught my attention and I turned to see shafts of sunlight falling on a forest full of baby trees.
“It’s Festival Season, Susan,” I gently said to myself. “How can you not tell Little Pine’s tale? That is what you came here today to understand.”
When I got home, I poked through my remaining files to see if any vestige of Little Pine was hiding there. To my amazement, one of the three volumes had survived. And wouldn’t you know? It was the one about the bears, and the last bear that Little Pine meets in the story is a sweet golden brown one, dressed in red and white checked gingham and wearing a handmade heart pendant that says, “Free Hugs.” And to top it off, her name is Kimberely Kindbear.
So I’m posting the Little Pine story, A Beary Merry Festival Indeed, here on my blog, a chapter a day until Festival Day. It’s making me smile, and reminding me that kindness, and beauty, and wonder are all around us. All we have to do is see them.
It’s a magical time of the year. Be patient with your Grumpy Bear. We’re all caught up in the jingling of it. Just do the best you can, and keep an eye out for miracles.
Warmly,
Susan