There is Love

The Wedding---oh, the wedding! T’was beautiful, all of it: the bride, the groom, the dress, the flowers, the cake, and especially the friends and family that came to share it all with us. And---special bonus feature of the venue we used—NO ELK. Anywhere.

Weddings are a beautiful time, just in general. A gathering of beloved people, coming together to celebrate Love and Life and Ever After. I look around at all the faces that smile back at me, noting the faces of those whose wedding I attended not that long ago, those who have now been married months, a year, two years, eight years, longer. I see brand new babies, still with that “new baby smell” as Shane would say, “That’s a fresh one.” There are toddlers and kids and a Mona Lisa smile that tells me more love will soon be made tangible in this world and my heart is so full it leaks out of my eyes.

We celebrate in all the usual ways, with ceremony and dancing, with food and drink and-- in addition to cake--- there are lemon tarts that the mother of the Bride made with such love they melt in your mouth.

At dusk the lights hung in the orchard trees wink on and the candles in the floral centerpieces are lit and all is magic. I know that work is Love, made visible. I know the love that went into the planning, and the creation of all of this, how a village of loved ones came together to make this happen.

Late in the evening, I take a moment to myself, under the stars, my face lifted to the heavens, not quite in prayer, not quite NOT; not really weeping although there are some tears. I am somewhere in between, standing under the sheltering sky, broken open.  Open, but not empty, my heart says what words cannot. And I stay there, until I can again dance.

There is a time, near the end, where my son wraps his arms around me in thanks, and in that moment, begins to weep. Other arms wrap around us, another son, then the third. Then the Bride and the other Beloveds, all of us Sumes, bereft of our Origin, we weep.

I am thankful for these tears; thankful my son can weep openly. His friends make a receiving line of open arms for him and they hold him fiercely. And long. And one after the other, until his tears are exhausted.

We weep as we rejoice, we weep as we mourn. We weep as we heal, and eventually, we dance.

The Wedding Draws Ever Nigh, Second Son Edition

You might have noticed that I’m very mellow regarding the upcoming nuptials of my Second Son and his Beloved. Not my first rodeo, true, but that’s not the reason. The reason I’m so calm is that the event is NOT being held in my backyard this time. Although, it’s not like I don’t have PLENTY of room for the 200+ guests---especially since the elk have come in and clear-cut my flowers!

I’m not even kidding.

My flowers? Are. GONE.

Missed one.

Last week I met with the “Wildlife Conflict Specialist” and showed her the damage the elk had been doing to my gardens DESPITE the Stinky Spray and the motion triggered sprinklers. She was suitably distressed on my behalf---which was comforting---but had little to offer in the way of conflict resolution. Perhaps, in the spring, some assistance in fence construction advice?

SIGH

Apparently “KILL ALL THE ELK” was not the State’s idea of resolution. I admit that, perhaps, I was comforting myself with thoughts of retribution, but it seems to me that zero elk would equal zero problems.

I mean, except for slugs. And moles. And too much or too little rain. And renegade chickens. And hail or a plague of locusts, or----well. Anyway. I suppose it’s always something.

So, that is the state of my garden: clear cut. The good news is that Costco carries TONS of flowers and has zero elk problems---I should probably ask them their secret.

I’m looking forward to spending the next couple of days, surrounded by gorgeous flowers, loyal friends with helping hands and lots of talent. There will be love and laughter, and on Saturday we will all celebrate Happily Ever After with nary an elk in sight.

To Bee or Not

I am Pro Bee.

 I’m very active in the Bee Community, I support Bee Causes, I live a Bee Friendly--mostly insecticide-free-- Lifestyle. I even wrote away for my free packet of wildflower seeds from the lovely people at HoneyNut Cheerios. I am a Bee Ally.

"You never can tell, with Bees..."

All my fine activism was called into question a week or so ago when I was stung by a bee. On my toe. If we were playing “this lil piggy went to market,” the toe in question would have rather stayed home. There I was, minding my own bizzzzness, dragging 200 feet of garden house through clover infested grass while wearing flip-flops...what could go wrong? As the philosopher Pooh once famously said, “You never can tell, with bees.”

True, flip-flops are not ideal garden footwear, but it was hot, and I wasn’t planning on staying outside for long, and---STOP BLAMING THE VICTIM!! Why is it every time there is a bee sting incident it usually comes down to blaming the victim? “What were you wearing? Did you eat too much honey? Did you tease the bees in any way?” (Flip-flops, no honey, and of course not. Now can we get back to talking about HOW MUCH my toe hurts?)

So, there I was, hose, flip-flops, clover, dragging. I was also apparently dragging my feet because at some point I scooped up a bee in my shoe, felt something crawling on my toe and looked down in time to see the little bugger giving his all for his cause. Couldn’t he tell I was a Bee Ally?

I’d forgotten just how MUCH a bee sting HURTS.

There was yelping, and hopping, and perhaps some colorful and creative use of language—be glad you’re not my neighbor. I dropped the hose and made a beeline for the house where I mixed up my mother’s bee sting cure: baking soda and water. As I sat there, with my foot elevated, my toe slathered in the drippy, gritty paste, my lower lip only slightly atremble---now I remember why as a child I used to cry when I stepped on a bee—I realized that my elixir was missing the magic ingredient: a mother’s kiss.

To make a long story only slightly shorter I will say that my bee stung toe itched for three days. Right up until I jammed my “this little piggy cried wee-wee-wee, all the way home” toe into an immovable object in the middle of the night and (possibly) broke it.

 I don’t recommend the cure.