When we are threatened,
we sting.
Not always because we want to hurt, but because something inside us knows how to survive.
Like the honeybee,
when we choose with the ancient wisdom of instinct,
that rises in us.
We move toward the danger and leave the venom where fear has made a place for it.
We defend.
We tighten.
We hold on.
And sometimes, in the struggle to protect ourselves,
we leave parts of ourselves behind.
What the honeybee teaches is to turn, clockwise, slowly, and in reverse, as though following some invisible circle of time, back to self.
She gathers what is still hers.
She loosens what has become stuck.
She does not remain forever inside the moment of defense.
When we no longer fear what might come, we can begin to embrace.
Slowly and steady
We can loosen what has been clenched. We can gather ourselves back together.
Perhaps healing is not becoming someone new.
Perhaps it is simply finding enough safety to return to who we were before we had to defend ourselves.
And in the stillness, we breathe.
We grow quiet.
We recover our insights, and little by little, we remember how to be.
Perhaps survival is not only knowing how to defend ourselves. Perhaps survival is also knowing when the danger has passed and having the courage to unwind.
Note: I was inspired to write this after watching a post on Instagram:
Ser de miel
Cuando estamos amenazadas,
picamos.
No siempre porque queramos herir, sino porque algo antiguo en nosotras sabe cómo sobrevivir.
Como la abeja,
elegimos con el instinto,
esa sabiduría vieja que surge sin pedir permiso.
Nos movemos hacia el peligro y dejamos el veneno donde el miedo ha hecho espacio para él.
Nos defendemos.
Nos tensamos.
Nos aferramos.
Y a veces, en la lucha por protegernos,
dejamos partes de nosotras atrás.
Pero la abeja enseña algo más:
girar, en sentido de las agujas del reloj, lento, en reversa;
como siguiendo un círculo invisible del tiempo
de regreso a nosotras mismas.
Ella recoge lo que aún es suyo.
Afloja lo que se ha quedado atorado.
No permanece para siempre dentro del momento de defensa.
Cuando ya no tememos lo que podría venir, podemos empezar a abrazar.
Lento y constante,
podemos soltar lo que estuvo apretado.
Podemos reunirnos de nuevo.
Quizá sanar no sea convertirnos en alguien nuevo.
Quizá sea simplemente encontrar suficiente seguridad para recuperarnos
antes de tener que defendernos.
Y en la quietud, respiramos.
Nos volvemos silenciosas.
Regresamos a la claridad.
Poco a poco,
recordamos cómo ser.
Quizá sobrevivir no sea solo saber defendernos.
Quizá también sea reconocer cuándo el peligro ha pasado
y tener el valor y la constancia de desenredarnos.
Pat Lezama 