At my great-grandparents’ house, a colony of beesonce nested under the eaves.
Rather than declare the bees a pest,my ancestors chose live and let live.The hive was over the kitchen window,the bees and humans could watch each other make food.
As the hive grew and mergedinto the wall of the house, honey flowedoh so slowly and made its waythrough the window frame and downthe inside of the pane of glass over the sink.
Each day there was enoughto scoop and scrape for a sweet treat,to add to toast or coffee or tea.
I wonder what that’s like.
Where’s that balance,that letting-go flowing pointwhere a problem of ours becomes insteadits own reward?