The Bear's Hair
My eldest daughter is doing what so many women have done across the world through the ages. She is waiting. Men do and women wait. We wait for men to come home, we wait for babies to be born, we wait for queues to diminish, we wait for the actions of others to determine our own lives. And when the waiting is over the outcome is often not as we imagined it to be. And my advice to her, unsolicited of course, is to be a doer not a waiter. Time does not wait for women. If we do not seize the day and live every precious moment then we may find ourselves like the first Olympians, devoured by that greedy entity, so that all that remains of our lives are our regrets. I hope that the following story will be both an inspiration and a comfort to her now and in the times she will inevitably find herself choosing between waiting and doing.
The Bear's Hair - A Retelling of a Traditional Folktale
There was once a woman whose husband was called away to war. When he left, her life underwent many changes. She could no longer afford to employ a serving girl to do the heavy work. Gone were the days of meandering through the garden, then whiling away the evening hours in a hot bath. Now she had to work. And the work was hard and the hours were long.
Her day began before dawn, with chopping the wood and kindling the dying embers of the stove fire. When the oven was hot enough, she baked the bread she had left rising over night. At first light she packed the crusty loaves into a cane basket and carried them to market to sell. On her return she collected the dirty linen from the travellers inn then spent the rest of the morning at the river, doing the washing. In the afternoon she worked in the orchard.
Although her hands were calloused and her brow damp with sweat the young woman was happy. Kneading dough, turning soil and wringing out wet sheets was a welcome distraction from thinking about her husband and what suffering he must be enduring. She had a plentiful supply of fresh food to eat, and each day her body grew stronger.
After a year and a day her husband came home. She ran to greet him, certain he would be as pleased as she at his return. They embraced, but he refused to talk about the war. She brought him to the table and placed a steaming bowl of spicy noodles before him. He picked it up, went outside and ate alone. That night he did not come to their bed. The woman lay awake and wept as she listened to his ranting and raving.
In the days that followed the woman despaired. She wanted to be close to her husband but feared his anger. She loved him, but he would not receive her love. In desperation she went to a wise woman and confided her problem. The old woman listened and at the end of her tale spoke.
'First you must be certain that you love this man. If that is so, then you must travel to the mountains beyond and seek the black bear. Pluck one hair that grows on his throat and bring it back to me. Then we shall see what we shall see.'
And so the woman began her journey. She packed a bag with a sleeping roll, her favourite cooking pot, a bowl and food. The travelling was hard. Although her legs and back had grown strong from a year of walking and carrying, the climb was strenuous and the pack cut into her shoulders and made her neck ache. After a night of sleeping on the cold ground, she felt stiff and sore all over. For the first time she contemplated turning back. She wondered how the pain she felt in her body compared with the misery she left behind?
The woman took a small jar of camphor balm from her pack and rubbed her shoulders and legs. Within minutes the pain in her muscles eased, and she resolved to continue. But she would walk a little slower.
By late afternoon she reached the summit. She chose a place to camp, lit a fire and set about cooking a hearty meal. After rubbing the soles of her feet with balm and praising them for carrying her such a long way, the woman lay down and rested.
During the night sleet fell. The woman woke, and shivered at the sight of the thin, white blanket of snow on the ground. To her right was the opening to a cave. She hadn't seen it the night before, or she would have taken shelter there. She tramped over to it and entered. In the corner was a pile of bear scat. She sensed a presence other than her own, so quickly retreated.
The woman had discovered the lair of her quarry and a prickle of fear ran down her spine. It was time for her to put her plan into action. As the sun rose, the snow began to melt and the woman built a fire. She made tea, prepared the morning meal and warmed her body. After eating she refilled her bowl and left it outside the cave's entrance.
Later that afternoon she heard the bear's growl, and hid herself in the foliage of the trees. She watched as it stopped outside the cave, sniffed the bowl, then ate the contents.
The following day she filled the bowl once more, but when the bear returned, she stepped out from behind the trees, in full view of it. The roar it gave shook her bones to their sockets, but she stood her ground. For a time they both stood transfixed, breathing the single breath of lovers or those about to enter mortal combat. Then the bear turned, and disappeared inside the cave.
Each morning after that she filled the bowl and when the bear ate, she took measured steps towards it, until finally she stood within its reach. When the bear had finished eating, it stood up on its hind legs towering over her. It bellowed a bone-shaking roar. The young woman steeled herself against its ferocity. Aware of its razor sharp claws and monstrous mouth, she stretched out her hand for it to sniff. When it lowered its head she asked, 'please may I pluck a hair from your throat?'
The bear raised its head, exposing its neck and the young woman pulled out one jet-black hair. The bear growled and the woman bowed, thanking it as she shuffled backwards and away from the creature. It was time for her to return.
She walked non-stop until she reached the home of the wise woman. Barely containing her excitement, she held out the hair for her. The old woman took it, examined it and nodded her head.
'Yes, it is the hair of a bear, taken from its throat,' she declared. Then she tossed it into the fire. The young woman looked on in bewilderment.
'Do you know what I did to get that hair?' she exclaimed.
'I imagine so,' said the wise woman. 'You were preparing for this journey from the moment your husband left, although you yourself did not know this. Sometimes the only way for us to make the right choice is to feel we have no choice. But believe me, we always have a choice, and you chose to take responsibility for your life and the maintenance of your household in your husband's absence. You became strong with hard work and good food. Enjoying the fruits of your own labour is most rewarding.
But your husband lived a different life to you and on his return was unable to share in your fortunes. All your resources were called upon to heal him. You journeyed into the unknown to face hardship, uncertainty and your own fears. You survived this perilous quest by believing in your purpose, trusting and blessing the feats of your body, cultivating persistence and endurance and above all having faith in yourself.
Yes yor body was tested by pain but you set boundaries for it. Yes, your mind was beset with doubts, but you allayed them. Yes, you experienced fear, but you breathed through it. Now you must employ these same traits in the healing of your husband. A woman strong enough to face a black bear is strong enough to heal her husband.
This folktale has many variants throughout Asia and Africa. Sources for my retelling:
“The Lion’s Whisker” (Ethiopia) from The Lion's Whiskers and Other Ethiopian Tales, Brent Ashabranner and Russell Davis, Linnet Books, North Haven, Conn., 1997
"The Tiger's Whisker," from The Tiger's Whisker and Other Tales and Legends from Asia and the Pacific, by Harold Courlander (Harcourt, Brace and Company: New York, 1959) pp. 16-19.
Women who run with the wolves – contacting the power of the wild woman by Clarissa Pinkola Estes ©1992 Rider, London
