Moon of the Sea has Returned to Me

I felt the soft tickle on the back of my neck again. Those tiny hairs standing on end to signal the arrival of a lost but beloved spirit. I never knew when it was going to happen and despite its familiarity it always caught me off guard. I turned around, expectedly, like I was going to be greeting the visitor face to face, but I just laughed at myself because it never happens that way. It’s just a knowing that someone is there that hits me at the core of my being. Sometimes I wish I would spend more time developing my abilities to connect with the spirit world but the more I think about it the more I understand that this would require a lot more energy than I am willing to give. I continued my morning ritual of watering my potted plants outside before the heat of the summer day settled in like a heavy blanket. Gardening is another area in my life that could use some strong development but the fact that I could even keep the many potted trees alive meant that I was progressing. The feeling started to become more intense. What was at first a soft tickle was now full static electricity shooting down my back. I heard a faint ringing in my ears and before I could fully comprehend what was happening everything stopped. My body felt instantly calm, and I was surrounded by an unnatural silence. It’s almost as if I was suspended in another dimension. I looked around and now my mind was fully present in the moment. It had to be if I wanted to see what was calling for me. And that’s when I saw it. Right there on my favorite mimosa tree, covered with vibrant pink flowers, was a singular tiny honeybee.

My heart stopped for just a moment. Its little body moving methodically but gracefully from flower to flower. Collecting the tiny specs of pollen, it was fully committed to the job at hand, and I couldn’t help but get lost in the beauty of this. I stepped closer to the mimosa plant to admire the detail of this honeybee. Its delicate wings, its fuzzy torso, its big round eyes staring right back at me. I felt a harmony with this little honeybee and an overwhelming feeling of love and connection. Tears began to well up in my eyes and my heart ached as I knew that my moon of the sea had returned to me.

Luna Marrietta, meaning moon of the sea, is my youngest daughter and a very unexpected gift from the Universe. I became pregnant with her at an exceedingly difficult time in my life, and she was there with me in my most painful and vulnerable moments. I would sit quietly, hand on my belly taking in the pure love that is shared between a mother and growing child. She was a light in my dark moments. I would dream of her at night, her beautiful dimple laden smile charming me and her big kind brown eyes melting my heart. Sometimes those dreams felt so real, I’d wake up longing to hold her and wishing the dream didn’t have to end. But tragedy struck, once again, and at 4 months into my pregnancy, I learned that due to complications Luna would never have a chance at life outside my womb. I had to make the heartbreaking decision to deliver her early. It was the most painful labor out of all my children, and not because of the physical pain, but because I knew that she would be born forever sleeping. There was a profound moment during the laboring process when I felt a sudden surge of grief and tears began to stream down my face. I opened my eyes and witnessed the strangest phenomenon. Outside of the hospital window, 12 floors up was a swarm of honeybees. They settled in for a moment in front of the window in what appeared to be a choreographed dance and then flew away. It was at that very moment that I knew Luna’s spirit had gone, taken home by the swarm of honeybees. Her spirit animal would always be the honeybee.

I stayed in that moment for a long time. Watching that honeybee was like watching my grief being unpacked, slowly, tirelessly and relentlessly. But it reminded me that my grief has purpose, just like that honeybee. That little bee was there all alone, doing work that may appear to be fruitless, but when understood in the context of the earth’s life cycle and the cumulative impact of all the honeybees out there working, the work is significant. And so is Luna’s short time here on earth. I began working side by side with that honeybee cleaning up the tree by removing the dead flowers as it continued to collect pollen. It was as if this moment in my life was predestined. All those nights steeped in tears from my trauma, every moment I struggled with self-doubt and questioning my worth, and the years of heartbreak from the loss of my child were steppingstones in my journey to get me to this very moment. And my ability to understand the gravity of this moment, me and the honeybee, came from years of painful work.

That little honeybee returned the next day and the day after. Morning and evening, I would go outside to watch it work. And every time I did, I would get that same sense of love and connection I felt the first time I saw it. I knew that the seasons were going to be changing soon and that meant my bee friend would also be departing and it’s time on this earth coming to an end. I captured a picture of that bee working in my mimosa tree. I wanted to have a token to remind me of this brief moment in time in which the Universe sent me a gift. A gift to remind me of the value of love, not just of others but of myself. To represent the beauty in heartbreak and the joy of overcoming pain and trauma. And then the moment finally came. The warm dense air became thin and cool. The evening sun no longer greeted us until we laid our heads down at night. And the vibrant summer flowers dried up and fell to the ground. The bee went home and never came back, just like my moon of the sea.