My 93-year-old friend called me this weekend to let me know she was thinking of me, that she loves me, that she doesn't expect me to call back. Of course I called back.
After catching up a bit she said she wanted to share a story with me, but it would take about 5-10 minutes--would I be willing to listen? Of course.
She said that she has started seeing tiny bantam chickens everywhere, just like the little chickens of her girlhood on the farm in North Carolina. She knows they aren't "real" as in something that others can see, but they are real to her. She only sees them when the sunlight is just right. Sometimes they are walking around outside, coming out from under bushes. Sometimes they are walking across the pond, four steps to get across, not dipping into the water like you might expect a bird like a duck to do, but walking across the surface of the water. They are brilliant vivid colors, and they bring her so much joy.
She made a point of telling her ophthalmologist about them, prefacing her story the same way, that it will take a few minutes for her to tell it, and don't dismiss her as crazy because she knows they aren't "real real" but they are real to her. And thank goodness that doctor just listened to her and explained that her brain was making sense of things, and there was nothing that she needed to do, no medication to take to make these visual hallucinations go away if they aren't upsetting her.
And so here I sit, crying, because I think my friend is preparing to transition to the coming after. On one of our last calls she asked if I would visit her, and I told her I didn't think that would be possible for a while. And I'm comforted that she is seeing these beings of light as a joyful reminder of her childhood.
This spring has been weird for me. A few weeks ago were the holidays of Easter and May Day, usually celebrations of the beginnings of life, bunnies and eggs, honeybees pollinating flowers so they become fruitful. But instead, I pulled out some Halloween decorations because I feel overwhelmed by the endings of life. It feels like a dying time of year, so I pulled out a plastic skeleton decoration and put it into a babydoll cradle. Nurturing death. Embracing the endings of lives, just at a different time of year.
I had installed a beehive this spring, and for the first time in my 15 years of beekeeping instead of it growing with activity, it died. There weren't enough spring flowers in April, and a cold snap meant this tiny ball of writhing insects went into survival mode, not able to forage for calories to keep them warm, and clinging around their last hope, the queen in the center of that blob, with the intent of keeping her alive long enough to lay eggs to start the cycle anew. They failed. I failed to keep them alive.
So here I sit, contemplating my favorite beings of light, metaphor of angels, the intermediaries between the worlds. There is a beekeeping custom of whispering to the bees news of deaths and births, and I have no idea what to whisper to the bees. There are many deaths this spring. I don't know all of the names. I want to whisper about new possibilities, new things being birthed by these transitions. Perhaps it's best to be still and listen deeply for now, and be grateful for dear friends who reach out to tell me they love me and banty spring chickens.
