Magnolia

It always seemed like by the time I would notice that the magnolia blossoms had opened, the petals had begun to fade and fall from the tree, leaving a disappointing, slippery mass which seemed to scoff: “You’ve missed it again.” This year, though, our tree held its flowers for much longer than I had ever remembered: for nearly three weeks, which was long enough for me to feel the passage of seasons and the true intention of nature, and to appreciate the pink-and-white balletic beauty as I hadn’t before.

There’s a little girl that I notice every afternoon outside the school when I gather my little boys for the day. She looks to be about six years old, perhaps in first grade. Her hair shines as the sun, bright golden ringlets dancing onto her shoulders as she moves. She stands by herself, perched and waiting, and I do not see her face.

Each day, a woman appears from the shadows: the little girl’s caregiver, perhaps, and stands at the edge of the schoolyard, arms outstretched. The girl turns, rises to her toes, and moves to the woman as if she is running along clouds, bouncing, squealing, and emanating pure joy. She reaches the woman, bounding into her embrace as the two seem for a flash of time to become one person. They turn, hand-in-hand, and fade into the afternoon sun.

This springtime, I have officially embarked on my beekeeping adventures. My head is full of podcasts on extracting honey, images of queenless hives and American foulbrood, and the fear that I will somehow let these magical creatures down with my lack of understanding of the mystery that I have stepped into, albeit with noble intentions.

Before I knew, I didn’t know.

I sat by my hives in the morning, watching the foragers return to the hive with orange and yellow pollen stuffed into the little baskets on their minuscule legs even as their fellow worker bees head out in search of more sustenance. As the dandelions have nearly faded, I wonder what my new friends will find, what the next baskets will hold, and what nature’s bloom has in store.

I am learning that historically, some have considered bees to be souls, returning to represent those who have gone. This concept is immensely comforting to me, giving the rhythmic hum of the hives much deeper meaning than the captive beauty of the present, as though the little moments of time will circle eternally, changing form yet remaining the same.

My little son is often overwhelmed by his days. He holds himself together until he no longer can, until it has all been too much, maybe a bit like our new winged inhabitants at the farm. He got in the car the other day and told me that he wanted to get a shirt with a mad face. He wanted it to have words that said, “I hate everyone.” I told him that sometimes I thought I would like one, too. He has been drawing lots of rainbows lately, with cheerful colors on lined paper, made with markers in fine point. There seems a bit of a disconnect between the levity of the rainbows and the unpredictable storm clouds that loom close. I think he’s still figuring it out.

Aren’t we all?

My first stings have taught me that I don’t know, and that I have much to learn. The bees will tell me, as clearly they have, when I have spent too much time pushing myself into the mystery of their world, when it is time to step back, to watch, to anticipate. Sometimes, that might just be enough.

Today, the joyful little girl waits in her usual spot, but it is a different person, a man in a brown sweater, who has come to take her home from school. Still, she runs effortlessly into his arms as before.

Having bid farewell to the magnolia blossoms, the lilacs have now stepped up. Their beholden beauty will soon yield to the honeysuckle vines and rose blooms. The presentation, some years, is different, though the rhythm remains as true as the hum that I hear when I put my ear, just a bit tentatively, against the hive boxes.

Maybe I don’t really need to know. Maybe I just need to wait, to welcome the change that each moment has to offer, and to hope that I can harvest a little honey along the way.

So Why Does One Keep Bees?

Beekeeping is an invitation to a magical world of honey and beeswax, where understanding, cooperation, and harmony offer a golden gift.

With a trip to the hive, the day’s trials are lost to the whirl of purpose and production in the stacks of painted pine boxes at the forest’s edge.

We marvel at the dance of the bees; we witness a collective masterpiece, finding answers to questions we did not know we had.

Though I am a beekeeper, I do not keep the bees. It is they who keep me, filling the supers of my soul with wonder and awe.

re: Peaches

As we pulled up the long drive to my friend’s house, we were greeted enthusiastically by a little girl, the picture of sunshine, wielding a squirt gun and pulling the trigger as she announced that she was giving our car a wash which, indeed she was. We had come to buy a few jars of honey. The elderberries had been harvested for the season, and I needed local honey to make this year’s supply of syrup. We left, escorted out by the sunshine girl, with our honey, and also with a gift of a jar of peaches that had been canned in honey. I loved the way the fruit reflected the amber and yellow hues of the honey inside the Mason jar. I could almost hear the pop of the jar’s unsealing as I imagined how liberating it would be to eat the jar’s contents entirely by myself.

We drove around the back of my friend’s house on the way home, peeking at some of the many, many hives that the family tends. I, too, aspire to be a beekeeper; I hope to harvest my own honey to use for elderberry syrup. For me, the learning curve is great, and so is the accompanying anxiety and self-doubt. I know, though, that’s just how I am.

As I have already spent hours worrying about my future bees, I worry, too, and incessantly, about my children. For those who have come to us through foster care, having already experienced loss, trauma, and a perhaps higher level of chaos than even we have going here, their burdens are great…so heavy for such small shoulders.

Our youngest boy, as with some others who have come before, saves his most challenging behaviors for home. Lately, we have been home a whole lot. The day’s circus act begins long before the time that he has to sign in to his chromebook for school. His teachers and classmates have seen him playing with blocks, doing flips, swinging, and leaving the scene. They have also seen some moments of clarity, when he has retrieved a “brown bear” during the treasured read-aloud, or when he has proudly shown his brother’s lizard for sharing time. When he decides he has had enough for the day, he is done. There is no going back to the screen; at least, I cannot get him there.

Everything that happens is from now on.

I was feeling defeated, sad for a boy who had been through a lot in his small life, and frustrated at the circumstances which are far beyond anyone’s control. When I shared these sentiments with a compassionate teacher, she assured me that we would be okay. I shouldn’t push him to participate, nor should I struggle with this. I should, she said, give myself some grace…which I did.

That made me think about the canned peaches. Once, I did eat an entire Mason jar of peaches, only they were canned in sugar syrup, not honey. They were a gift from a dear seventy-something-year-old coworker at the department store where I worked through high school and when I was home for college breaks. I worked in the “candy and stationery” department; she worked on the other side of the escalator in “china and silver.” When I had no customers, I would sometimes visit Eloise as she rearranged her place settings or unpacked fragile china cups. We shared stories and conversations; she blushed as she offered marital advice (way before that was a thing for me), and I told her of my plans to travel to England (where, she pointed out, many of the china patterns in her department had originated). When I actually did spend a college semester in London, Eloise presented me with a parting gift of garden peaches that she had canned herself. I knew I couldn’t take them on the airplane, though I did consider it, so I ate every last peach before I left.

The other students were settled in with their internships weeks before my position at a children’s hospital had begun. I was agitated, even surrounded by flea markets, eclectic restaurants, and expansive rose gardens, as I longed for my shifts to begin. Looking back, I wish I had been able to enjoy the freedom of idle hours rather than to carry the restless burden of something over which I had no control. Perhaps, too, I could have saved the peaches for when I returned home. But, I didn’t.

I want to be a helper. I want to mend things, to fix what doesn’t seem right. I want to get the jar open. I stood in front of the class of twenty starry-eyed prospective foster parents, designated as “teacher,” when I had so much to learn.

“It’s not about you,” I heard myself say, as I told stories of damaged rose bushes and overturned tables. I wanted to believe that. I still want to.

All your love was down in the frozen ground.

Recently, a therapist gave me permission. She gave me permission, and actually recommended, that I try to release myself from the situation; that I let my child own her own grief, and that I trust that she will work things out on her own when she is ready. So, I didn’t fix it. I had been trying for a few too many years. I would have continued, too, to try, likely to no avail. Rather, this therapist helped me find my place, which is merely walking alongside…not unlocking, but merely supporting as my child uses the key.

Maybe I will know when the time is right to indulge in the honey peaches. For now, I am just going to enjoy thinking about how it will sound when I open the jar.

It’s the sound of the unlocking and lift away. All your love will be safe with me.

*Song lyrics from re: Stacks by Bon Iver

Thank you, my friend, for the honey peaches.