Through a whirlwind of events, in a handful of intense weeks, I have become a beekeeper. I did not consider being able to learn beekeeping until just suddenly about three weeks ago, I saw a photo of a top bar hive and I thought, that’s my hive. It was literally like the photo on the internet awoke something in me.
Like a knowing. Just go now, figure out the details later.
And then there was the bee that flew into my kitchen four separate times in one afternoon. It flew in through the open sliding glass door, came near me in the air, flying gently near me. It didn’t go toward anything else in the house, it didn’t go toward the windows, or the ceiling lights—it flew to me. And I raised both my hands and said you have to go back outside, and the bee flew just a few feet in front of me as I walked it back outside through the kitchen and the family room and out the sliding glass door. Then I shut the door.
I felt a little guilty, like maybe I’d had a visitor and I’d been rude by telling them to leave.
And three other times that warm day, when the door was open again, the same exact scene played out. And by the fourth and last time, I was like, this is not normal. This is a message.
I wish I could write more elegantly about it all, but the words are not flowing. I followed each day step by step. What do I do next? This thing. What do I do after that? This other thing.
When I went to my first bee class, the metal chair dug uncomfortably into my back. I felt shy and overwhelmed.
I learned a little about hives and realized the season for starting a new hive was ending. The teacher said, there is still time. On the way home I was at a stoplight when I realized there was a bee crawling across the driver’s side of my windshield. I opened my window and reached an arm out, and the bee crawled on my finger.
I just sat there, this bee on my finger at a red light, with four lanes of traffic and concrete and steel everywhere. I thought, this is probably not normal. Then the light turned green and the bee flew out the window and I drove home. If I’m supposed to have a hive, somehow this all comes together. I don’t know why, or how, but somehow it comes together—and if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.
And it did.