The Thoughts of a Polar Bear

Iused to wonder what the polar bear was thinking when my children and I visited him at the zoo. I know that I had thoughts of rescuing him every time I watched him pace back and forth on his small patch of real estate, shaking his head from side to side in search of someone to play with. Or maybe his head was trying to do an Etch A Sketch-style erase of his understanding of the definition of insanity. After he lunged into his pool to do a few revolutions of a furry freestyle crawl, then climbed onto his piece of earth to resume pacing back and forth, I always fantasized about interrupting his routine. When I made eye contact with him, I’m sure he telepathically begged me to look for a hammer near his display window with a sign stating, “In Case of Emergency, Break Glass.” I looked, but there wasn’t one. So, all I could do was send my thoughts of freedom to the polar bear and hope that he felt encouraged.

Thoughts of that polar bear have become part of my pandemic routine that includes pacing back and forth in front of my dining room windows. Originally, I claimed that I paced on my small patch of real estate to collect enough Fitbit steps for my exercise goal each day. But after several months of retracing my path during my self-imposed isolation due to a compromised immune system, I’ve been forced to acknowledge that I’m doing it because I have nowhere else to go. I think this reality check was rudely tossed my way, like a dead fish, by my freedom-loving creative spirit that craves new experiences to digest.

My creative spirit is apparently unhappy with the pandemic cage I have placed myself in. For lack of new experiences to look forward to and process in prose, poetry, and paint, my expressions have become a reiteration of my history. Thoughts have been ricocheting off the same protective walls day after day, after day, and always land on a stack of memories from the past and questions for the future. Lately, my artwork has been very square-looking and my words have been boxy and stagnant when I try to portray this caged existence that has no release in sight.

I try to tell myself that simply existing right now is the most important thing and that participating in the arts has always been an act of unnecessary indulgence. The creativity isn’t flowing in my penned up state, but I have a roof over my head, a place to safely rest at night, and I have access to an ample food supply provided by my zookeeper husband who goes out to do all my grocery shopping. Trivial matters like the number of Fitbit steps I accumulate and what shape my thighs are in have landed on the irrelevant pile concerning pandemic existence. So, these days I find myself pacing around my dining room table simply to help convince my creative mind that, as long as I’m moving, I am free.

I believe I now know what the caged polar bear thinks. Please send your thoughts of freedom my way. This is an emergency.

Louis Martinelli