Throughout that long summer, and many that followed, we opened up hives and searched for queens together. He would point to a frame and explain what might be wrong and how to fix the problem. He would notice my nervousness and tell me to relax.
One steaming August day, he called early. “Come over, we’ve got a swarm,” he said. I arrived in jeans and a T-shirt. There, dangling from a branch 20 feet in the air, were thousands of humming bees. At the center of the ball of bees was their coveted queen, searching for a new home. My grandfather was ready for me. Propped against the tree were a ladder and a saw. My task was to remove the branch and carry it, along with the swarm, to a hive. “Go ahead and climb up there,” he said. I asked him for a veil to cover my head. “Oh, you won’t need that, just don’t be afraid.”
The sensation of fear that accompanied my ascent of the ladder was horrific. Within seconds, sweat had soaked my T-shirt. The saw was shaking in my hands. The branch was creaking from the weight of the bees and the weight of the ladder. Thousands of bees, three feet from my face, buzzed around and landed on my arms. Their hum was all I could hear, as if I were in the center of a hive. “Just relax,” came the voice below. “Let go, let go of that fear and relax.” Minutes later, the swarm had been tucked into their new home, a hive built long ago by my grandfather. I had not been stung, not even once. I had started to learn to let go of my fear and to be at peace with the bees.
“They’ll follow the way you feel,” he’d tell me. “Take off your gloves.” He never wore gloves. They gave him a sense of overconfidence. If you know the bees can sting you, then you’ll be forced to relax and they won’t feel compelled to strike out at you. The bees will never fear you when you don’t fear them. “Take off your gloves and take a deep breath.” And so I did, and winced as I took two stingers in my flesh. But I tried it again the next time and was only stung once. Now, I have not been stung in years. The bees and I, we understand each other, no one is afraid anymore. When I held those frames, buzzing with life, in my bare hands, I could feel my grandfather’s strength and his control. The bees could feel it, too.
Learning to control my fear was the first lesson in letting go. But now I faced another. I had to burn the hives. I had to let go of something sentimental and hold on, only, to what was precious. I would be left with nothing but what I had learned. I thought about that as I dug into the earth to create a fire pit.
Beehives burn ferociously. Wax melts over wood and sets a flame that seems too great for its kindling. Pollen sizzles and honey boils. Years’ and years’ worth of thick-walled comb smokes and bubbles and melts away. The fire lasted for hours. It smoldered through the night and still smoked, faintly, in the next morning’s dew. It had been a difficult match to light, but somehow, that morning, as I tamped damp dirt over coals, I felt better. When I had approached the empty hives, I had felt the shame and guilt you feel when you’ve misplaced something precious that’s been entrusted to you by someone you love. Now that sense of loss was gone. I had been able to let go of it in the smoke of the burning honeycombs.
I immediately ordered two new colonies, new frames and hives and wax. I built the bees’ new homes and painted them white. I knew how to treat the colonies when they arrived. I did not need to consult a book or a beekeeper. I did not need to take a class. I have knowledge that I can hold on to. Something real I can keep. There is just one more thing now that I need to learn to let go of: a man who is dying.
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