In the garden I sit hiding. It rains and I don’t feel it. It’s cold and I am too numb to care. I want solitude. I need it.
Vulgar swearing was spewed at me by a transient today in my own front yard. The city hive, ever buzzing, ever moving, ever growing: it suffocates me, thick and pressed against my chest. I am crying. I can’t stop.
I snapped at the kids for asking for snacks for the hundredth time. Always asking, always wanting, always always another question. There are no answers left in me.
We fought. Beau and I, two different souls plunged into this life of Together. 20 says I do and 30 asks still? Yes I do. And what does it mean? I give. I give grace and food and touch and thoughts and stress and fear and it boils and climbs up out of my chest forming a torrent of more tears, this clustered hive decimating and devouring any bit of Alone.
A digger bee crawls on the ground next to me. Beau says I should write a story about a bee named Diggory the Digger Bee. I can’t smile.
Diggory the Digger Bee. Living in solitude , your own little den. No hive. No making honey for a family. No stinger.
I ponder this: No sting.
The children come running outside, barefoot in the rain. Harry plops his chubby self in my lap and says “I dodge you” (I love you). Finn tells me they’ve been looking for me. They couldn’t find me and they were scared. “were you playing with the digger bees?” Oliver asks.
Oliver was with me when the man swore and got angry with me for no reason. When it happened he asked, “Why did God make that man?” I told him “because God loves people.” His image bearers, his honey makers, his family of hives. He finds us in the garden and asks us why we’re hiding.
Would I take life without stings if it meant no honey? Would I trade sweetness to be alone?