10 foot tall stinging nettles sway in slow widdershins circles as the breeze whispers between them of the coming rain. Bursts of pollen rise in breathy puffs from them, like smoke signals relaying messages to their nettle kin and the Red Admiral butterflies, who swoop and flutter to their host plant in response. And the bees. The bees fly in and out among the puffing, towering plants, toward me in 3D, as I sit alongside the stand of Urtica dioica, next to my house.
And then the rain came, that night and all the next morning. The drum beat against the window, tapping fast then slow, chorus and verse, keeping the rhythm of a song that was melancholy, but building to the promise of something more. The cadence hastens, like the thrumming of wings in a beehive, moving at 11,000 beats per second, my own heart playing along as its beat quickens, pounding inside its hive made of rib bone and spine. Rising, a crescendo, becoming a thunderous hum, the song of my heart, the song of the bees; the song of the rain, that moves in and cools the heat of a summer day; that melts away the thick honey of humidity, and sweetens the already saccharine tea of a rain shower.
Dark, rainy mornings. What does it say about me that I seem to like them best? In them I am lingering in the space between sleep and awake, between dreamtime and this other reality. The house, so quiet, aside from rain and wind. Moving slow, through liquid time, suspended. Incense swirling up, up, calling in the Ascended for guidance. Cards and stones. I ask for a clear sign, a clear message, and draw the Bee. I am reminded of my role in this colony of all living things. I am reminded to do my work. What joy there is in moving from flower head to flower head, from bee balm to coneflower, from potential to purpose, collecting the nectar and pollen gifts that sustain me, there. I turn to my counsel of stones. I seek the help of Citrine, both the dark amber of propolis and the liquid gold of raw honey, to reach deep into the solar plexus and unlock my soul's purpose. I hold a large chunk of glowing Orange Calcite, the color of the sun, as she magnetizes the energy around me, drawing high vibrations, activating my psychic sight. And I smile at a small piece of Bumblebee Jasper, the stone of Goddess Awakening, who shares with me her zest for life. I close my eyes in meditation. I could drift back or rise forward. Either is possible. Or, I could linger here, longer, in this liminal space inside the rain.
The tempo of the raindrops slows, fades, and I decide to enter the rain while I can. I stand on the steps next to the tall, green plants, last drops falling on me, and dream of nettle medicine and honey mead. I see Bumblebee, under an umbrella leaf, waiting out the last little sprinkles, and I tell her the story of widdershins circling nettles, raindrops drumming on windowpanes, and the rest, while we are suspended, together, in the slow drip of time. Time, like wildflower honey's slow transformation into sparkling crystalline sugar. Life is that sweet.