Hope-keeping

I know I'm not alone in my obsession with raw, wild crafted honey—the more obscure, the better. I stumbled across Ghost Pine pollen a couple years back and the fascination continued. I find great joy in eating this exquisite Ghost Pine pollen honey with one of my tiny metallic rainbow spoons. This is the liquid gold of which I speak.

There is a home in nearby Clifton, Virginia that I often drive past that has the most beautiful beehives in view of the road. They are painted in vivid geometric patterns and I love spotting them.

It’s wild to think of how alarming it can be to suddenly hear a bee buzz loudly near one’s head. And now I am reminded of the heartbreaking classic film from 1991, My Girl. (sob)

And yet, beekeepers exist. They dress in their elaborate veils and protective gear (or not, I suppose) and they tend to the bees. They brave the spine-tingling buzzing. They risk the stings. They collect the honey.

Today I found myself reflecting on a few recent experiences and feeling some grief. Allow me explain. Two experiences in particular took me through the cycle of curiosity to hope to disappointment to mourning. This is where the bees come in.

I worked through the feelings around being vulnerable, showing up with a beginner’s mind and allowing for hope that ultimately led to me alone, crying on a Saturday night and in expressing it all--I had a flash of insight. There is a cost to optimism, yes. And it can really sting. However, if I imagine myself “keeping” HOPE the way an apiculturist keeps bees, I can feel my resilience spring into action.

In this scenario, I am as strong as I am vulnerable. My heart is as generous and open as it is resilient and strong.

I will likely face a sting from time to time, but that does not stop me. There will surely be days when I rush back inside to cry, holding an ice pack, but that’s to be expected. ((Perhaps even part of the fun…))