This period of social isolation is, I’ve told my child, an act of love for others. We are, whether we want to admit it or not, part of a herd.
Being left behind is not a disadvantage. It is an opportunity to grow and an opportunity to live life on my own terms.
I was single for the first time in eighteen years. I felt unmoored. For the first time in eighteen years, everything was new, including me.
By farming, I connect back to my own culture. To, pun intended, my roots. To what it means to be a child of immigrants and help things grow.
Bees do not attack—just as trauma survivors do not attack, but rather defend. She will not sting you unless she believes the colony’s life depends on her defense. Because when she stings you, she dies.
The thing my mom told me to do—“Save twenty percent for yourself. Never give one hundred percent to anyone.”—was not selfish after all. Not when thinking about my own survival.
It is no wonder that I am so in love with my bees. They fight for their lives.