As I approached my car this morning, I reached to open the front door, and then, as usual—I reached to open the back door so I could put my lunch bag in the back seat.
Except, I spotted a honeybee hanging out on the back door, perched near the handle.
I stood for a moment, gazing at him. He was just… resting. I leaned in a little closer to make sure I was seeing an actual honeybee, and his stillness struck me. He turned a little, as if to look back at me.
Huh, I thought to myself. I wonder why he’s here?
“Well, hello Mr. Bee. I don’t want to disturb you, but I am going to be driving here in a minute.”
I slid into my driver’s seat and closed the door.
Mr. Bee was still perched in the same spot.
I put my car in gear and very slowly, I pulled forward out of my parking spot.
I smiled and watched as Mr. Bee flew off, and I thought it was odd. And yet—his presence on my car felt purposeful. It felt like he greeted me with intention, whether it was to remind me of the promise of spring, to bid me good morning, to wish me a good day, to bring me a good omen, or simply to say hello from my mom.
Mr. Bee made me think, though—of how afraid I used to be of honeybees. I am allergic to their sting, and I’ve been stung a few times. And each time, the reaction is exponentially worse.
I made peace with honeybees in September 2010, when I traveled to
the onset of my divorce. While there, I pulled over to step through an old
cemetery. I still can’t explain why, it was just something I needed to do.
It was teeming with honeybees, buzzing by my head, close to the ground, and everywhere in-between. Their flight was slow and methodical, their patterns making them appear to be floating, rather than flying. Clearly, they were on a mission to gather nectar.
I said a prayer to the bees then. I asked that they leave me alone. I said I was going to trust them not to sting me. I let them know that I meant them no harm or threat. I told them that I needed to be there, and that I didn’t understand why, but I asked that they let me be, so that I could grieve.
And then, I watched in wonder as the bees slowly moved away from me and on to other parts of the cemetery where I wasn’t walking.
I have had a soft, gentle space in my heart and a healthy respect for bees since that day.
Now, when I come across one or more honeybees, I approach with a sense of wonder, respect, and curiosity. I always speak to them. They are intricate and beautiful creatures, and we very much need them on this planet.
When I think of how I used to approach them—with fear, irritation, and judgments—I wonder how many interactions I have tainted in my life because of the attitude I used to have.
And, I wonder how this ties to my approach to other beings, including humans… I wonder if Mr. Bee’s visit this morning was just to remind me of what’s important today (and every day).
Just be me… and be present in the moment... and the rest will come.
Thank you, Mr. Bee, for your timely reminder… even now, as I finally type this blog, tears stream down my face.
Perhaps Mr. Bee’s real reminder wasn’t meant to hit me until just now.
Perhaps Mr. Bee’s presence was a message straight from God—oh, how delicate and flimsy my faith has been lately. But in this moment, all I can think is:
All is well.
All is well.
All is well…