Tell the Bees (Encore)

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone,

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then

you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Now,

I have a story to tell you.

And it is designed to be a gentle landing spot for your mind.

When your mind has a place to focus rather than wander,

sleep becomes so much easier.

Just by listening, you'll shift your brain into task positive mode, and sleep will come.

I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story back on.

You'll slip right back to to sleep, usually within seconds.

Our story tonight is called Tell the Bees,

and it is a story that so many of you have asked for.

I know that the podcast has seen many of you through difficult times, and often you've asked for a story

that might be a balm to a heavy or grieving heart.

And this is my first attempt at that.

If you want to avoid any heaviness tonight, that's understandable.

Marmalade and crumb are always there for you instead.

Tell the Bees is a story about a long walk through the clover on a path toward good listeners.

It's also about a rosebush with a new home,

four-leaf clovers,

a house with shutters, gopher trails,

and saying things aloud when you're ready to take your finger out of the dam.

Now,

switch off the light.

Set down your device.

Hopefully you have looked at a screen for the last time to day.

Plump your pillow

and pull your blanket up over your shoulder.

Let my voice be like a guardian as you sleep,

keeping you safe and at ease.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

One more breathe in

and out.

Good.

Tell the bees

The clover was flowering all across the hillside.

Tiny white globes scattered like pearls were sprouting an inch above the surface of green.

Walking through them, I wondered how rare four-leaf clovers actually are.

They stretched as far as I could see in nearly every direction,

and I supposed among the millions that blanketed the land,

there must be many, many

with four leaves rather than three.

Once I'd spent an afternoon, some time in my teens,

picking through clover,

looking for the lucky ones with a friend.

He'd assured me that they weren't as rare as people thought.

And I seemed to remember that we'd found a half dozen or so that day,

between sprawling in the sun on a blanket

and listening to music.

I hadn't thought of that day

or that friend in ages,

and as I climbed the next hill,

I smiled, wondering where he was now,

if he remembered me when the clover bloomed.

The sky was wide and azure to-day.

a few high feathery clouds

and lots of sun.

It was so close to summer now

that it didn't even feel a bit like spring.

The trees were in full leaf.

The hyacinths and magnolia

had finished blooming,

and lavender and garden phlocks and salvia were beginning to show their flowers.

The days were warm, sometimes hot,

and the evenings lasted till well after dinner.

We could sit out on the porch till the stars came out,

still comfortable in short sleeves,

and sleep with the windows open all night.

I was on a walk with a purpose today.

I often rambled across the hills, just following my feet, not trying to get anywhere in particular,

just enjoying the paths I found.

Today,

I had set out with a destination and goal in mind.

I was on my way way to tell the bees.

It was an old tradition

to tell the bees about the changes in your life and family.

Births, deaths,

weddings,

arrivals and departures.

You told them when they happened,

told them the names of newborn babies,

the date that someone passed, or moved,

or returned home.

I hadn't grown up with the tradition.

I hadn't grown up with fields of clover and hills to walk, but

here I was now.

And at this stage of my life, I found it was a useful,

somewhat cathartic conversation to have.

And when there was news, I would make this trek and pass it along.

I wasn't a beekeeper myself.

For this apiarian heart to heart,

I walked to the edge of my neighbor's property, where their hives sat.

They didn't mind that I came for a chat now and then.

I could see the clearing from the top of the hill,

the sunny space ringed by trees,

a few hives built into wooden frames, with a bit of space around each colony.

I came down the slope slowly, watching for gopher trails and rabbit dens,

and found a fallen trunk to sit on a dozen feet or so away from the hives.

I laughed at myself.

I felt silly suddenly

and remembered that I always did when I came to tell the bees,

at least for the first few minutes.

I closed my eyes

and felt the ground under my shoes,

the rough bark against my legs.

What if I just let myself

feel the mix of emotions in the moment

without trying to fix any of it?

It was something I'd been working on lately.

When a big feeling arose inside of me,

rather than try to find a way out,

a way to block it.

I experimented with just

letting it come

and letting it go.

It felt dangerous because often we've got our finger in the dam.

And it feels like

if we take it out,

we'll be swept away in the wave we've held at bay for so long.

But so far,

though it hadn't always been easy or fun,

I hadn't been washed away,

and I stopped feeling afraid that I would be.

So I let myself

feel silly,

a bit unsure of why I was doing this,

and what I expected to come from it.

I took slow breaths

and felt my belly expand when I breathed in,

felt it contract when I breathed out.

There was a loosening across my collarbones,

a softness between my shoulder blades.

Well, it's been a while since I came to visit, I started.

There's a new family moved in across from us.

I pointed in the direction.

If you fly straight that way,

in the greenhouse with the shutters.

And we're going on a trip in a few weeks.

First camping trip of the year.

We've been fixing up that camper since last fall, and I think it's ready for our first voyage out.

And we'll be gone for a week or so.

I took another deep breath.

I was warming to it,

to just saying out loud the things that had been thumping around inside my head for a while.

We planted a big rose bush in the side yard.

I've never been very successful with roses, but

I hope this one makes it.

If it's not too far, maybe you could buzz over

and see it.

Were the bees listening?

I could see them from where I sat on my log, busy tending to their colony's needs,

probably flying out to visit that field of clover I'd come through,

carrying home the pollen and nectar.

I hope the rose bush makes it, I said again,

because I dug it from Grandpa's garden, and I wouldn't want to let him down.

He had such a green thumb.

It was a roundabout way to deliver the news, to tell the bees the heavy shadow on my heart.

But I thought they would understand.

We each got something from the garden, all of us grandkids,

and I took the rose bush

and a few of those succulents he used to call hen and chicks from the flower bed by the front door.

I had noticed that with grieving, it was sometimes like cleaning out your closet.

It might get worse before it got better.

Still,

speaking the words,

I could feel a lifting of the weight on my heart.

Telling the bees was helping me loosen my grip on the big feelings inside.

Sometimes all you are left with when someone is gone

is the pain of missing them.

So you keep the wound fresh,

preferring the hurt over nothing at all.

But telling the bees about Grandpa

recalled all that I had from him.

Not just the roses and the hen and chicks, but

years of memories and advice and silly jokes.

Both things could be true

that I was sad and missing him, and that I was happy and remembering him.

I sat for a while longer,

listening to the hum from the hives.

I figured it was the least I could do

after they had listened to me so dutifully.

I was happy to hear what they were up to.

Then I pushed back up on to my feet,

feeling that sort of cleared out quiet

that comes after a good cry.

I was looking forward to the long walk back,

to watering my rose bush

and watching it bloom through the summer.

Tell the bees

the clover was flowering all across the hillside.

Tiny white globes, scattered like pearls,

were sprouting an inch above the surface of the green.

Walking through them,

I wondered how rare four-leaf clovers actually were.

They stretched as far as I could see

in nearly every direction.

And I supposed among the millions

that blanketed the land,

there must be many, many

with four leaves here, rather than three.

Once

I'd spent an afternoon,

sometime in my teens,

picking through clover,

looking for the lucky ones with a friend.

He'd assured me that they weren't as rare as people thought.

And I seemed to remember

that we'd found

a half dozen or so that day

between sprawling in the sun on a blanket

and listening to music.

I hadn't thought of that day

or that friend in ages.

And as I climbed the next hill,

I smiled,

wondering where he was now.

If he remembered me

when the clover bloomed.

The sky was wide and azure to day,

the few

high,

feathery clouds and lots of sun.

It was so close to summer now

that it didn't even feel a bit like spring.

The trees were in full leaf.

The hyacinths and magnolia had finished blooming,

and lavender,

garden phlocks,

and salvia

were beginning to show their flowers.

The days were warm, sometimes hot,

and the evenings lasted till well after dinner.

We could sit out on the porch

till the stars came out,

still comfortable in short sleeves,

and sleep with the windows open all night.

I was on a walk with a purpose to day.

I often rambled across the hills,

following my feet,

not trying to get anywhere in particular,

just

enjoying the paths I found.

Today

I had set out with a destination and goal in mind.

I was on my way to tell the bees.

It was an old tradition

to tell the bees about changes in your life and family.

Births,

deaths,

weddings,

arrivals and departures.

You told them when they happened,

told them the names of newborn babies,

the date that someone passed, or moved, or returned home.

I hadn't grown up with the tradition,

and I hadn't grown up with fields of clover

and hills to walk,

and here I was now.

And at this stage of my life,

I found it was a useful,

somewhat cathartic conversation to have.

And when there was news, I would make this track

and pass it along.

I wasn't a beekeeper myself.

For this apiarian heart to heart,

I walked to the edge of my neighbor's property where their hive sat.

They didn't mind that I came for a chat now and then

I could see the clearing from the top of the hill,

the sunny space ringed by trees,

a few hives built into wooden frames

with a bit of space around each colony.

I came down the slope slowly,

watching for gopher trails and rabbit dens

and found a fallen trunk to sit on a dozen feet or so away from the hives.

I laughed at myself.

I felt silly suddenly,

and remembered that

I always did when I came to tell the bees,

at least for the first few minutes.

I closed my eyes

and felt the ground under my shoes,

the rough bark against my legs.

What if I just

let myself

feel the mix of emotions in the moment

without trying

to fix any of it?

It was something I'd been working on lately

when a big feeling arose inside of me

rather than try to find a way out,

a way to block it.

I experimented with just

letting it come

and letting it go.

It can feel

dangerous

because often we've got our finger in the dam

and it feels like

if we take it out

we'll be swept away in the wave we've held at bay for so long

but so far

though it hadn't always been easy or fun

I hadn't been washed away,

and I stopped feeling afraid that I would be.

So I let myself feel silly,

feel a bit unsure

of why I was doing this

and what I expected to come from it.

I took slow breaths

and felt my belly expand

when I breathed in,

felt it contract

when I breathed out.

There was a loosening across my collarbones,

a softness between my shoulder blades.

Well,

it's been a while

since I came to visit.

I started.

There's a new family moved in

across from us.

I pointed in the direction.

If you fly

straight that way,

the greenhouse with the shutters.

And we're going on a a trip in a few weeks.

First

camping trip of the year.

We've been fixing up that camper since last fall.

And I think it's ready for its first voyage out.

So

we'll be gone a week or so.

I took another deep breath.

I was warming to it,

to

saying

out loud the things that had been bumping around inside my head for a while.

We planted a big rose bush in the side yard.

I've never been very successful with roses.

But I hope this one makes it.

If it's not too far,

maybe you could buzz over and see it.

Were the bees listening?

I could see them from where I sat on my log,

busy tending to their colony's needs.

Probably flying out to visit that field of clover I'd come through

and carrying home the pollen, the nectar.

I hope the rose bush makes it, I said again,

because I dug it from grandpa's garden,

and I wouldn't want to let him down.

He had such a green thumb.

It was a roundabout way

to deliver the news,

to tell the bees the heavy shadow on my heart.

But I thought they would understand.

We each got something from the garden,

all of us grandkids,

and I took the rose bush

and a few of those succulents he used to call hen and chicks from the flower bed by the front door.

I had noticed that

with grieving,

it was sometimes like cleaning out your closet.

It might get worse before it got better.

Still,

speaking the words,

I could feel a lessening of weight on my heart.

Telling the bees

was helping me loosen my grip on the big feelings inside.

Sometimes,

all you are left with when someone is gone

is the pain of missing them.

So you keep the wound fresh,

preferring the hurt over nothing at all.

But

telling the bees about Grandpa,

I recalled all that I had from him.

Not just the roses and the hen and chicks,

but years of memories and advice and silly jokes.

Both things could be true

that I was sad and missing him

and that I was happy

and remembering him.

I sat for a while longer,

listening to the hum from the hives.

I figured it was the least I could do

after they had listened to me so dutifully.

I was happy to hear what they were up to.

Then I pushed back onto my feet,

feeling that sort of cleared out quiet

that comes after a good cry.

I was looking forward to the long walk back,

to watering my rose bush,

and watching it bloom through the summer.

Sweet dreams.