I See You

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend of mine that I hadn't had a chance to talk with for a while. We go way back -- to the carefree days before being married with kids. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much in one sitting. At one point during our conversation, though, she stopped and said, "You're such a hoot! Do you remember when you..." Then she proceeded to recount various wacky things I'd said in the past. I'd completely forgotten, but she remembered.

Most of the time in my house, I feel my husband is the one with a sense of humor. I'm just the nudge who makes you eat vegetables, take baths, and who grunts like Marge Simpson in disapproval. It's nice, though, to have someone remember who you are inside. Who remembers that you can also be droll and unconventional and even downright silly.

And the great thing is that I remember all kinds of wonderful things about her, too. Sometimes I think that's the essence of a really great friendship. Knowing and being known -- and being able to laugh like a couple of lunatics.

Can't Hardly Wait!

Maybe it's because I'm an early bird that I'm always so relieved once January is over and the days start getting longer again. But this year, it seems that warm weather just can't come fast enough. And I know the reason why. This spring, I'm getting beehives!!!

Meanwhile, today, I had a wonderful time taking the New Beekeepers class with the CT Beekeeper's Association. Doesn't it look like a perfect day to indulge daydreams of summer?

I can't explain why I want a hive, but I've always liked bees. Of course, honey is a very special thing all on its own. My first honey memory is from about kindergarten or the first grade. (I can't remember the year, but I remember crying about being forced to wear an "ugly" black velvet dress with a white satin collar instead of the crazy color combo I wanted.)

Anyway, midway through December, my Uncle Neal sent us a package wrapped in brown paper for Christmas, and we were all trying to guess what it contained. Then on the big day, it was one of the very last gifts we opened. My sister and I watched my parents carefully pull the paper away from the box, which only seemed to contain even more paper, lots and lots of paper. But nestled inside all this wadding was a jar of honey that he'd harvested from his own bees. I remember feeling a kind of wonderment and awe at this amber liquid. At the time, I don't think I could have explained what made it so special, how it represented the best of summer in a bottle. But between the scrummyumptious butter and honey sandwiches, a light bulb went on in my tiny brain. I realized that someone could actually keep bees.

My desire for a hive goes deeper than just honey, though. I just like bees. When I was about 8 or 9, I used to sit on the walkway to our front door during the summer and wait for honeybees to collect nectar from my dad's garden. Then I'd very gently, very softly stroke their fuzzy backs. I knew they weren't tame or pets -- but I still considered them like good friends come to visit.

Several years ago, my dear friend Jodi at Curious Acorn started keeping hives, and I've been completely jealous vicariously enjoying them ever since. However, with all the bear traffic through our yard (and periodically garage) in Jersey, I never dared keep bees there. In the new house, though, the biggest animals I've seen have been foxes, and I don't think they like honey. So this is it. I'm starting an apiary.

In the meantime, nothing is getting done at home because I spend day and night researching all about bees. My family rolls their eyes every time I say, "Do you want to hear something cool?" because they know some factoid about Apis mellifera is coming up next. If only that could be a Jeopardy category...

My DH has been co-opted graciously offered to build my hives. (Instead of Langstroth hives, I want Kenyan  top bar hives, but that will be a post for another day, I think.) To keep him focused, I've been sorting through the garage, which hasn't really been touched since the movers dumped a bazillion boxes in it last August. I also keep "reminding" him of his deadline like a little kid that really wants a toy. Truly, this is becoming worse than waiting for Christmas ever was.

How many weeks is it until May? Fingers crossed that I don't burst before then.

On the Shadow Side of Morning

“For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

When my husband walked into the kitchen and told me there was a shooting in a Connecticut school, my knees literally buckled. I remember being horrified and grief-stricken by the slaying of the Amish children, by Columbine, by the tragic movie theater incident this past year. However, this one is somehow different to me, maybe because it's closer.

As you may know, we recently moved to Connecticut, and Newtown was one of the towns we had considered. In the end, we decided it was too far for my husband to commute, and rush-hour traffic was moving the wrong way. Still... I can't help but wonder, if we'd made a different choice would I be burying a baby this week?

By Sunday evening, I had just started pulling myself together, but then we got word that one of my husband's colleagues lost a daughter in the shooting. The news has left me completely undone.

Ever since, I've been thinking about something one of my friends posted on Facebook. "On days like this, I wish I believed in God so that I could believe in hell." I can empathize with his outrage and the desire for justice and retribution, but I can't find a response. I do believe in God and hell, and it doesn't help me. I'm still filled with this dark, howling sense of grief.

I see and hear people -- kind people with good intentions -- trying to lessen the pain that our whole country feels right now. They say things like, "Now these little angels are in a better place" or "They're in the arms of Jesus."  I can believe it, but speaking as a mom, it feels like hollow comfort. The thing is, before I ever fell in love with my children's spirit or personalities, I loved their bodies -- every miniature part from their tiny fingers and toes to their soft bellies and mewling little cries.

Maybe that's why even parents of less-than-lovable children show such devotion. A true parent doesn't love a child because of what they do but because they exist. It's simply their existence that gives birth to love. I can say that my kids sometimes (ok, everyday) do things that really irk me and I wish they'd stop, but I never tire of their physical beings. I love the warmth of their breath, the pressure of their arms around my neck, their hands as they grab mine, the giggles when I tickle a belly button, silly grinning faces, the sound of their steps coming home from school... I could name a thousand things about them that fill me with joy. To have all these things snuffed out in a moment, I don't know... I guess I'm a heretic, but I can't think of anything that would fill that vacuum, not even hope.

I don't blame or accuse God, but I'm struggling to find some kind of peace in this. I just can't shake or process the senselessness, the total pointlessness of this nightmare. I don't know how to write a card, how to comfort a bereft parent without sounding lame or false or meaningless. And there are other feelings rolling under the surface that I don't even know how to put into words.

Anyway, I will wrap this up because my own little ones need to sleep, and though it's trite to say, I will hold them closer and longer.