The Bear - On The Birth Of My Son Small manchild born this day so close to death. Your entry to the world denied until one violent thrust separated you from your mother’s thighs and stillbirth. Prayer, so hard to come to prayer that a monk quietly exhausted himself praying in my stead. While primeval anger engulfed your sire until at last free to find joy and embrace your form. The Bear tiny amulet of power completing cycles with shamans who remained silent to the power within, bestowed. The Bear sits there, still, quiet by my fireside. Waiting, Smiling, Knowing the dreamtime and life force whose power beckons, becomes, and is yours. Small manchild. The Bear carved in ivory, legacy of an unknown Inuit hunter. Silent complete to himself, suspended on a leather thong at your window, through which light dances in patient rainbow dreams. Sun’s rays through an amulet swings softly in daylight. Now clasped in your tiny fist as you suckle the breast of a mother made to bring power to the world of mere men. So they dimly surface to the meaning of your life. Sean Learmonth Prattis Ottawa October, 1983