Today’s a day of waiting. A rare pause in the cartwheeling chaos that has taken me through this year, to the longest day. This solstice day, some have said, marks the theoretical end of swarm season. I beg to differ, as I am reminded of a much later date one year ago where I stood motionless amid 30,000 bees as they peppered the morning sky.
My daughter is having a medical procedure today. It’s delicate work at the hands of a capable surgeon. She is surrounded by the colorful personalities and capable hands of her nurse, her anesthesiologist, and her doctor, much like the worker bees as they circle their queen.
The forager bee flew directly at me, or maybe the wind was responsible for how she landed on the top of my head. I felt the buzz of her wings and, perhaps in a small way, braced myself for the inevitable. My eyes swelled halfway shut from the sting, but just for one day.
When I tend to my hives, I almost always wear my full bee suit. I like to wear dishwashing gloves, not because they protect from stings (though they do soften them a bit). It’s because I feel a bit less vulnerable, somehow, while I do my job.
Early this spring, I looked up from my bee boxes to see a man with a stuffed pack strapped to his back as he walked along the street.
“I want to do that,” he announced, “without the suit.”
“Then you will,” I said, as he marched onward.
It’s easy to lose myself in the hives, to forget about the hard things, which just don’t seem as hard when I am holding a frame to the sun, a frame packed with pollen, honey, and my magical, buzzing friends. And it’s easier for me to be transported when I’m wearing my bee suit.
Moses goes to a new school, quite a distance from home. He collects drawing papers each night, stuffing his backpack with as many markers and colored pencils as he can fit into his backpack. He chooses his clothes, always a variation of red, black, or grey. And he never forgets to wear one of his black neck gaiters. I suspect that these rituals protect him, too, from vulnerability and provide comfort in his tumultuous, chaotic world—sort of like a bee suit.
I think it’s like that for any of us. When we find the flowers, the coffee, the companionship, the colored pencils, the honeybees—the things that make us feel comfort and protection—it’s a gentler trip to the other side.
I wonder if the man with the backpack will ever keep bees, with or without a suit. I don’t think it’s really about the suit at all. I think it’s about what we know we need in a given moment to take us where we are meant to be.
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