An Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove

Bear medicine, heron wisdom, and the unveiling of my truest self

This morning began like many others—quiet, slow, and grounded in stillness. I was sitting on the couch, sipping my coffee, when I looked out the window and saw him: a young black bear near the lake, not far from the edge of Deer Ridge. My breath caught.

I quietly walked to the slider and stepped outside—careful not to alarm the dogs—and watched. He eventually wandered off toward the neighbor’s yard and out of sight. I stepped back inside to refill my coffee, then returned and settled onto the deck stairs, watching—half hopeful, half in awe.

And then I felt him.

Not from where I was watching—but from my left. I turned, and there he was, sauntering silently along the tree line, just feet away. I stood slowly, calmly—shaking inside with a mixture of joy, awe, and something far deeper. He noticed me and turned his body in my direction. We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. A quiet moment stretched between us. He seemed curious, gentle, almost playful. And in that moment, I truly felt seen.

Then, with a soft turn, he strutted across the yard, disappearing into the woods.

And I swear I heard, in the silence between heartbeats: "Welcome to the club."

A side note: The middle picture here he is sniffing where Rafiki pooped just 15 minutes before. Getting to know his neighbors I guess.

The night before, I had woken to a soft bang outside—something had hit the bird feeder. Sukha, my sweet and ever-aware companion, barked. I intuitively knew it was a bear—nothing else could have reached the feeder at that height. But I didn’t yet know how deeply I’d feel its presence the next morning.

This wasn’t just a wildlife sighting. It was a visitation. A message.

Not long after the bear vanished into the trees, I looked back toward the lake—and there she was. A great blue heron, skimming low across the smokey still water, her wings barely brushing the surface. Graceful. Silent. Present.

Two messengers, each carrying something sacred.

A few months ago, Owen and I had dinner with one of his clients. Afterward, the man texted him, saying it was lovely to meet me and that I was "an iron fist in a velvet glove." I’ve carried those words with me, trying to understand them, unsure how to receive them.

But as I stood with that bear, I understood. That strength wrapped in softness—that’s Kapha. That’s bear medicine. That’s me.

For so long, I’ve identified more with Vata—the wind that stirs, the thoughts that swirl, the ideas that move faster than the body can follow. And yes, I do get thrown out of balance in that direction often. But beneath all of that movement, there is something rooted. Strong. Protective. Steady. The part of me that heals. The part of me that holds.

The part of me I saw reflected in that bear.

In Ayurveda, the bear is a beautiful symbol of Kapha dosha in balance: nurturing, intuitive, protective, and peaceful. Kapha is the great stabilizer—the calm in the chaos. But it’s easy to overlook Kapha in ourselves when Vata is always pulling focus, spinning the wheels. And that morning, nature sent me a messenger. And he looked me in the eye.

The heron was the second messenger—a perfect complement. Air and ether over water. Solitude. Grace. Vata in balance. Stillness in motion.

What I’m left with now is a quiet knowing. A sense that I’ve met something ancient and true—outside of me, yes, but also within me. That bear helped me recognize a part of myself I’ve been walking with all along.

And if you’ve read this far, maybe it’s your reminder too:

Slow down. Root down. Be still enough to be seen.

Nature is always whispering. Sometimes, she even walks right into your yard.

Rooted. Strong. Seen. This is me standing in the very spot where the bear and I first locked eyes.