Captivated by daydreams of luscious golden honey, a few years ago I explored the hobby of beekeeping.
Aware of the potential pitfalls of this “buzzing” endeavor and wanting to avoid rookie mistakes, I sought guidance from the local beekeeping community before establishing a hive of my own.
Monthly meetings, where valuable insights were freely shared, became my newest classroom. There, I eagerly absorbed the secrets of these remarkable creatures. Engaging in live demonstrations, I learned the do’s and don’ts of beekeeping, soaking up lessons on hive care and bee behavior, including how to check for mites and identify the elusive Queen bee herself.
The beekeeping crowd, clad in minimal protective gear, reassured me that these insects only struck if they perceived a threat. Nevertheless, I teetered between fascination and apprehension, as one bee felt threatened by my presence each meeting I attended. The sharp burn in my upper arm became a familiar phenomenon, a symbol of their protest to my presence. As I removed each stinger, I couldn’t help but wonder what mysterious threat I posed to warrant the inevitable demise of yet another sacrificial bee.
On one particular gathering, a beekeeper brought his granddaughter. She was a formidable soul of about 7. Round cheeks flushed red, fearless and friendly. She had the air of someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work or getting dirty. She had the brash confidence only a child taught to think for herself could exude; one who didn’t live in the confines of defined rules.
It was during this meeting, in the throes of my latest encounter with a stinging messenger, that the young girl posed a question that would forever alter my perspective.
With genuine curiosity, she asked “Does it hurt?”
Annoyed by my misfortune, my immediate response was “Of course,” but curious about why she asked such an obvious question, I added “Have you been stung before?”
She nodded, as I anticipated, and I inquired further, “Did it hurt when you got stung?”
Expecting her response to be another simple ‘yes’, she surprised me by spending a few moments thinking about her answer – furrowing her brows and bringing her hand to her face in serious contemplation (unlike my quick, heedless response to her). Finally, she said, “It hurts the more I think about it.”
It hurts the more I think about it.
Momentarily stunned by the profundity of her words, I, a seasoned practitioner of mindfulness, found myself humbled by the wisdom emanating from this young soul. Her insight resonated deeply, serving as a poignant reminder that where we place our attention shapes our experience, and potentially our lives.
What other things – thoughts, emotions, bodily sensations – hurt more, the more I think about them?
How often does my mind inflict more harm than good?
I no longer attend these meetings and my beekeeping aspirations are currently on hold, yet the memory of my wise young friend continues to linger, a testament to the transformative power of mindful awareness. Gratitude fills my heart for the unexpected lesson gifted to me by a formidable seven-year-old, proving that sometimes, the most profound wisdom comes from the unlikeliest sources.
Arrive Kind 