The Bear and the Blessing We packed food, hiked into cool mountain air, ate wild strawberries along the way, and reached Triund—a high ridge ten thousand feet above Dharamsala. We spread out our sleeping bags and slept under the stars. That night was two days before the full moon in May—Vesak, the Buddha's birth, awakening, and death. A blue moon. Rare and auspicious. The next morning, we left our packs to explore a nearby canyon. I stood in front of a boulder and noticed a cave. "Brian, did you see—" And then it came. A sound like nothing I'd ever heard—part roar, part growl, part snort—and from six feet away, a massive black bear charged straight at me. When the bear's face was two feet from mine, I went for refuge, screamed, jumped—and blacked out. When I came to, my belly was pressed against a branch, the bear's body along my back, its jaws chewing my head. The first moment of consciousness was pure, unbounded fear—no edges, no space around it, just total immersion. But right next to that fear was the knowing of fear. And then a thought: There's no point in being afraid. You're going to die. With that, something released. The body softened. The mind opened. Fear vanished. Then—joy. Luminous, radiant joy. Clarity. I watched sensations and thoughts arise and pass. In fear's place was curiosity: What will it be like to watch this mind and body dissolve? The bear was still chewing on my head.