Where the Wild Bees Swarm

The candles flicker, spitting flames into intricate patterns on the walls.

I love this time of night, when we snuggle deeper into our lives. Cozy in for a good story, touch toes under the feather tick.

I enjoy other people’s stories, other people’s windows (as you know). Have you ever gone walking at night, fascinated by the paintings created in the big glass windows of people’s living rooms? Admire a plant, the color of paint, the tone of light… Wondered about the conversation, the scents and textures…

I love to make up stories about these people.

J. and I were at dinner one evening and there was a table of three older women, one man. I leaned over and whispered, the fancily dressed one… she never married and is a town scandal. She had an affair with one of her professors at University at a time when women did not go on to post secondary education let alone have an affair with a man. She never married…

It’s easy to fool him if only a tiny bitty bit. It IS a small town, after all. He knew it was not true, but I love the act of making up the story. Try it the next time you are stuck in traffic, at the bus stop… where ever. Pick someone. Landscape their life.

I always wonder what story you would make up about me. I think too often we are fooled by the outer layer, too easily attracted by the flash and flicker of non-substance. We are a society of crows seeking out the precious glimmer.

Daydreaming. It’s just daydreaming. Remember how to do that? Or do you need the candlelight to tell your stories in, smoothing out the rough edges and the imperfections?

Remember, beauty is in the breakdown. The imperfections are what make us interesting.


G.