🐾 Bear’s Herbal Lesson: Discernment in a World of Too Much

I’ve had dogs my whole life. I’m almost 50, and I honestly can’t remember a season of my life without them. Big dogs, lap dogs, loyal companions, stubborn wanderers. And every single one of them, without fail, has eaten grass.

A German Shepherd basks in the sun, content and relaxed amidst a lush green field.

If you’ve had dogs, you know what happens next. They gobble it down, and within hours — you’re cleaning up the inevitable pile of vomit. It’s practically a universal law: dogs eat grass to purge.

They don’t know the difference.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Then Bear came into my life.

Bear is not like the others.

Bear’s Way of Eating Grass

When Bear eats grass, it’s not indiscriminate. He doesn’t dive into the nearest patch and mow it down like a lawn service. He pauses. He sniffs. He walks past whole fields without taking a single bite. And then, when he finds a certain kind of grass, he eats it — slowly, deliberately, almost reverently.

And here’s the thing: he doesn’t vomit. Not once. He digests it.

I didn’t realize how special this was until last year in Sedona. I was camping with friends for my master’s graduation, and I met a woman hiking with her dog. Her dog stopped to graze, and she casually explained:

“Dogs learn from their mothers what grasses are for food and what grasses are for medicine. Most don’t know the difference. But the ones who do? They’ve been taught.”

It hit me like a bell.

Bear carries a lineage of wisdom. He knows the difference between nourishment and purge. He eats with discernment.

And in that moment, I realized: Bear was teaching me about more than grass.

The Avee Contrast

Now let me bring Avee into this story. Avee is my Tibetan Mastiff. She’s magnificent, but when it comes to grass, she’s like a toddler at a candy store. She eats indiscriminately. And the result? She vomits. Every time.

Bear and Avee became my living parable. Two archetypes of how we approach the world:

• Avee Mode: Take it all in, no discernment, deal with the consequences later.

• Bear Mode: Slow down, test, choose. Eat only what heals.

I realized I’ve been Avee more often than Bear. And maybe you have, too.

Psychology: Embodied Discernment

Psychologists talk about embodied cognition — the idea that the body holds knowledge we often override with thought. Bear is a masterclass in embodied discernment. He trusts his body. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t eat from panic. He knows when to wait, when to receive.

Humans, on the other hand, are experts at ignoring the body’s wisdom. We override hunger with diets. We override exhaustion with caffeine. We override grief with productivity. And then we wonder why we’re sick, burned out, or spiritually starved.

What Bear models is secure attachment to his own instincts. He doesn’t panic-grab. He trusts. And that is a form of psychological health most of us are still learning to reclaim.

Philosophy: Phronesis — Practical Wisdom

Philosophy gives us a word for this: phronesis. Aristotle described it as practical wisdom — the ability to make the right choice in the moment, not through theory, but through experience and intuition.

Bear is phronesis in fur. He doesn’t need a textbook on grass. He knows. His wisdom is not abstract; it’s embodied, inherited, practiced.

The lesson? Wisdom isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing what to choose now.

Sociology: What We’ve Forgotten

Human culture has trained us out of instinct. We’re told what to eat, what to wear, who to marry, what to believe. We outsource our discernment to authorities, experts, influencers.

Indigenous cultures knew better. They watched animals to learn medicine. They notice what plants deer avoided, what roots rabbits dug, what herbs cats rubbed against. Animals were teachers, not just companions.

Bear’s instinct is part of that lineage. He reminds me — reminds us — that instinct is data. Discernment is survival. And without it, we live in Avi-mode: swallowing too much, purging later.

Metaphysics: Plant Spirit Medicine

Metaphysics adds another layer. In many traditions, plants are more than food. They are teachers. Each carries a vibration, a medicine, a signature. Grass isn’t just filler; it’s threshold medicine. It grows at the edges, between forest and field, cultivated and wild. It feeds, heals, cushions.

When Bear chooses a particular grass, he’s not just eating. He’s communing. He’s aligning with the vibration of healing. He’s saying: “This is medicine for me.”

And that hit me hard: how often do we consume teachings, programs, even relationships without asking: Is this my medicine, or someone else’s?

Bear taught me: discernment is sacred. Not everything offered is yours to eat.

Consciousness & Cosmology: The Web of Knowing

Consciousness studies remind us that instinct is pre-verbal knowing. It’s the intelligence of the body before words, before logic. Babies know how to suckle without instruction. Migratory birds know how to fly thousands of miles. Instinct is not primitive; it’s profound.

Cosmology widens the lens. Grass isn’t just grass. It’s part of the mycelial web — the underground network of fungi that connects forests, stores memory, and transmits nutrients. When Bear eats grass, he’s tapping into the nervous system of the Earth itself.

And here I am, thinking I’m the teacher. But Spirit laughs: the dog is the sage.

Quantum: The Collapse of Choices

Quantum physics says infinite possibilities exist until one collapses into form. Bear walks past thousands of blades of grass, and then — this one. Probability collapses into nourishment.

Humans get paralyzed by choices. We hesitate, overthink, swallow too much. Bear shows the quantum way: test, trust, choose. That’s discernment. That’s freedom.

A young man with an intense expression is surrounded by swirling, fiery tendrils, symbolizing the chaotic flow of unfiltered thoughts.

My Personal Mirror

The hardest part of this lesson? Realizing how often I’ve lived like Avee. I’ve eaten indiscriminately — not food, but life.

I’ve swallowed programs that promised healing, only to purge later in disappointment. I’ve swallowed relationships because they were available, not because they were nourishing. I’ve swallowed obligations out of guilt, only to burn out.

Bear shows me another way. His patience. His trust. His willingness to wait for the right medicine. That’s the path I’m walking now.

Integration Practice

Here’s your practice this week, straight from Bear’s herbal lesson:

1. Notice What You’re Eating. Not just food. What media? What emotions? What relationships? Where are you swallowing without discernment?

2. Ask: Nourishment or Purge? Before you say yes, pause. Is this meant to fill me or flush me?

3. Slow Down. Like Bear, sniff first. Give yourself permission to walk past options. Not every blade is yours.

4. Reclaim Instinct. Spend time barefoot in the grass. Feel Earth’s nervous system. Journal what rises.

5. Choose with Courage. When the right blade appears, collapse the probability. Choose. Trust your body.

Closing

Bear doesn’t know he’s teaching me philosophy, psychology, and cosmology. He just knows grass. But in his patience, I see a whole way of life: slow down, test, choose.

In a world of too much — too much information, too many options, too many obligations — discernment is not luxury. It’s survival. It’s also liberation.

Because when you stop swallowing everything offered, you start tasting what truly nourishes.

Collapse the probability. Trust your instinct. Be like Bear.