Worker Bees

“Trusting yourself means living out what you already know to be true.” – Cheryl Strayed

             Trusting yourself is a hard pill to swallow because it takes such a leap of faith - a leap based entirely on your own gut instinct. There are two truths in my life that I currently perceive as unequivocally as I do the sun or the moon: 1.) second only to my children, family and interpersonal relationships, nothing brings me more pleasure than reading and writing and, 2.) my life has once again become imbalanced. This last bit is self-inflicted.

            I’m 46. Notice I didn’t say 46 years old. I left the ‘old’ bit out because I am choosing not to think of myself as middle-aged, as halfway through my journey. That scares the bejesus out of me because there remains so much uncertainty in my life. I am single – some might call that being unmoored or untethered. A luxury or a tragedy? Jury’s still out on that one for me. I no longer own a home and am throwing out hard-won money paying for a tiny rental that barely contains my children and me. I am making a living and supporting myself and that is exactly as it should be, but I have allowed my job to become my primary purpose. I am driven by such a Protestant work ethic that I put my job in front of absolutely everything else (children excepted, but work trumps my sleep, my reading, my writing, my meditating – basically, everything that is self-preserving). I remain, as my good friend pointed out, in service to everyone but myself. Just like I was in my marriage. Repeating old patterns, only in a new house and with a different title.

            The operative motivation in leaving my marital home and taking a job of my own was to break old patterns. To reinvest in myself. And yet I am once again run ragged. Perhaps that is just life. Perhaps the majority of us feel exactly the same, regardless if we are married homeowners or single renters. Work is work, and almost everyone has to do it. So perhaps I am being nothing other than a weak-kneed and self-pitying pain in the ass.

            But is that it? Is that our only meaning? To be worker bees from the day we leave the parental nest until the day we either retire or drop dead from exhaustion? Of course not. Or, God, I certainly hope not! We live our lives during the in-between moments. In the early mornings before work and the evenings after work. On the weekends. During vacations and holidays. Good enough, right?

            But what if it’s work that doesn’t infuse you with passion? If it’s just ‘good enough?’ What then? Assuming we have one life to live, is it wise to spend two thirds of it enlisted in the services of something that brings small joy or significance? Such minor service feels short-sighted to me.

What if your passion is in the arts but the arts, as we all know, most often lead to a meagre existence? Small compensation, little chance at making it big. And you have three kids to support and put through college, and a retirement to plan, and bills to pay. Then you get the day job (as I have done) and squeeze your passion into the scrappiest allotments of time (as I have done). Satisfying? Meaningful? Perhaps, perhaps not. I suppose that depends on your perspective.

            So, back to the opening quote. What do I know to be my truth? I know that I am happiest interacting with loved ones and with words. I know that my job has me listing, heeling at such a dangerous angle that I might start to take on water. So I suppose I begin to scale it back. Continue to perform, to get the job done, but allow myself to be less maniacal. I can settle for a B grade, I don’t have to get the A. Reclaim more time for writing, for reading, for feeding my craft. And slowly, slowly, move away from the crazed worker bee mode into one that permits greater expression and a bit more calibration.

            I find it deeply ironic that I was stung by a bee this past Friday morning. A little worker bee from the nest inside the giant oak in my back yard – the same giant oak that keeps dropping limbs and that I referred to in a previous blog as a metaphor for my life. Limb dropping. Dismemberment.

Anyway, it was 5:00am and dark as pitch. I flicked on the overhead light, opened the kitchen door so that the cats could wander in and out and logged into work. A little worker bee myself. Pencils sharpened, sleeves rolled up. Marching off to produce at an ungodly hour. Correction: godly hour, for that is when I get my best writing done.

And, zap! A bee stung me on my ankle. Apparently I am now allergic to bee stings because my ankle has been so swollen that I can barely hobble around. Cankle, right? My ankle is no longer discernible from my calf and my foot is no longer discernible from my ankle.

Was this bee sting meant to deliver a message? Perhaps that message was a direct illustration of what happens to you when you live your life as a mere worker bee. For there - curled, twitching and dying on the floor by my swelling foot - was the bee that stung me. I lifted it by its papery wing and carried it out to the potted plant just outside the kitchen door. Better that it die there among the leaves and flowers than on the dirty linoleum. And then I went back inside and made myself a baking soda paste to treat the sting. That did nothing. My leg swelled up to a tree trunk anyway. So now, 48 hours later, I am still hobbling around like a gimpy babushka (I am the limbless tree trunk…ha!). Dragging about constant and, admittedly, surprising pain. Every step is a constant, shrieking reminder: worker bee, worker bee, beware the short-lived life of a maniacal worker bee!

            Ah! Such loveliness in a worker bee. We all profit immeasurably from their efforts. Honey ain’t so bad, and neither are the apples, almonds, blueberries, cucumbers, pumpkins, strawberries and avocados that they pollinate. In fact, a reputed 84% of the crops grown for human consumption are reliant upon bee pollination. If you like to eat, which the majority of us do, then we should protect those honey bees with our most sophisticated defenses.

            But I realize today that I don’t have papery wings, a proboscis, mandibles or a fuzzy belly (thank you, God, for not giving me a fuzzy belly). I might have a pollen basket but I don’t disclose such things online. Regardless, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a worker bee, so perhaps I had better redirect the one that so often resides in me toward a new kind of hive. One that permits an additional purpose, that lets you scale up or down and, as a matter of course, is in the perpetual habit of redistributing weight. Can’t be too much listing because the ship’s gotta sail straight. I realize I’m mixing metaphors here (worker bees and fully rigged sailing vessels…not sure if I reside in a hive or a schooner). But you get the point.

            Life, love, work, family, creative expression. It’s a constantly shifting act, and the worker bee simply can’t shift.