The Gleason Method

The father of a leopard family had to scout out new lands. This caused him to be away from his young son. He will be back in one day.

The father of a leopard family had to scout out new lands. This caused him to be away from his young son. He will be back in one day.

When the bear was a father of young cubs, he had visions. One after another, till he felt too much, and started to act weird. The other bears mocked and said keep his children away from him. But the visions were from the Divine and were instructions to endure a very dark and violent storm. When the storm hit the mountain. the bear who had the visions was the only one with a way to keep all the mountains cubs safe. Finally, he was understood.

When she was small, everyone thought she was quiet. But the forest knew her heart was loud. She didn’t roar — she hummed. She didn’t fight — she stood firm. When storms came, she wrapped her arms around herself and waited, knowing even the tallest trees bowed to time. She was only a little girl, but inside her, the Bear was learning to rise — not to destroy, but to protect. Today, I am a bear.

When she was younger, she was a Leopard — quiet, watchful, moving between shadows and sunlight. She blended in, learned how to adapt, and survived by knowing when to hide and when to strike. The Leopard taught her patience, agility, and independence. But it also taught her what it meant to feel unseen. As the years passed, her reflection began to change. Her spots softened into the golden hue of something greater — something that no longer needed to hide. The Lioness rose within her, not to erase the Leopard, but to honor what the Leopard had survived. She learned that true strength isn’t in staying invisible — it’s in standing firm, protecting what you love, and walking openly in your power. Now she moves through life with the grace of her past and the roar of her future. She doesn’t chase approval; she creates belonging. Her courage calls others to rise. She has learned that every wild thing within…

When the night grew long and quiet, the little boy sat by the window, watching for headlights that never came. He knew better than to cry — foxes don’t cry, they listen. He listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, the way the wind pressed its face against the glass. The world felt too big, but the Fox inside him whispered, “Be still. Not every return is late — some are just longer journeys.” So he waited, patient as the moonlight, clever enough to know love always finds its way back home.

I am the Owl, born to see what others turn away from. When darkness fell, I didn’t hide; I listened. The world went silent, but I could hear the tremble of truth in the branches — faint at first, then clearer. There was a time when the moon grew too bright. Its light poured over the forest like fire, and my eyes, made for shadow, strained against its glare. I lost the gentle rhythm of night and the calm between thoughts. Every reflection seemed alive. Every shadow whispered my name. I thought I might never find the quiet again. But the Owl is built for the in-between — for learning to see through both the dark and the dazzling. So I turned my head slowly, all the way around, and saw what others couldn’t: the light was not an enemy. It was simply too much truth, too soon. So I waited. I learned patience. I perched in the stillness and…