Hibernaculum
Our collective emergence out of quarantine, the art of the pandemic & the confounding charm of carpenter bees
Vol. 1, Issue 1
Spring comes early but erratically to central Alabama, and my Midwestern-raised body is still adapting to the seasonal rhythms of the Deep South. The last weekend of February, I was so excited by a round of sunshine and warmth that I prematurely pulled out some woodworking tools and attacked my hard-weathered balcony. I stripped paint and splinters, crumbled away rot spots, filled a few holes, and sanded aggressively at several odd yellow patches I assumed were some sort of fungus.
But my work began too soon, and wild thunderstorms and cold snaps slowed down what should have been a weekend re-staining project into almost a month of fitful progress. Just as I was ready to finally lay down the final coat, a massive bee rose like a war drone from the railing and hovered above me, buzzing, as I tried to work. I swatted him, but he didn’t budge. When I turned my back to him, he whizzed past my ear again and again until I screamed and abandoned my work, ceding the balcony back to him.
In the coming days, the bees proliferated in the backyard. I hadn’t seen such big bees during my Wisconsin childhood, and the hairs on my neck stood up every time one of them got too close to me, or worse, to my toddler. I took to Google to identify this new army of winged enemies: carpenter bees. Wood-burrowing and highly territorial, they make for cantankerous if not truly dangerous neighbors. They’d spent the winter burrowed in the bad wood of my balcony, and now they’d emerged to noisily pollinate the flowers of our neighborhood.
The arrival of the bees signals the true start of spring here. And like the bees, we too are coming out of a long winter of another kind. Though there will be, of course, no official date or ceremony to mark the end of the pandemic and the beginning of its after, it is clear now that the season of this terrible time has, thankfully, begun to change.
Some of us are drone bees, the first out of hiding to investigate the world and report back to those who must linger awhile longer inside the safety of the hiburnaculum. But our collective emergence is coming, and this process of unfurling, of coming back into the light and warmth of the outdoors, feels exciting and frightening and creatively stimulating. (I have so much guilt about hanging bee traps to try to reduce the numbers around my balcony that I’ve begun writing a new story about an exterminator who secretly sabotages her own work in order to help as many insects survive in her clients homes as possible.)
I am vaccinated and healthy, and my family’s vaccinations are in progress. I’ve hibernated through the hardest of these times, and this spring I am emerging. I’m grateful for all that is blooming, and yet I’m grieving, too, for all we lost in the cold. Maybe you’re wrestling with similar contradictory feelings. If so, I invite you to engage with those contradictions in your work this week.
Whether we’re ready for them or not, the bees are here.
Listen
As you read today’s issue, I suggest this as your soundtrack:
Alternatively, if you’re looking for pandemic-inspired music with a sense of humor, try this:
Read
How do plague stories end? via The New Yorker: “In the literature of contagion, when society is finally free of disease, it’s up to humanity to decide how to begin again.”
The COVID art museum on Instagram: “The world’s first museum for art born during COVID-19 crisis.”
Consider
It didn’t take long for 2020 calendars and planners to devolve into little more than meme fodder, and for those who enjoy the ritual of maintaining daily/weekly/annual to-do lists, 2021 still feels somewhat precarious in terms of re-adopting traditional planning tools.
I happen to be married to one of these lovers of to-do lists, and I recently gifted him a unique planner that emphasizes being over doing and gratitude over guilt.
Called the Monk Manual, it’s a beautiful book with a mission to help the planners of this world better navigate an unpredictable time.
A note on the Consider section: at this time, I’m not paid for product promotions, but I’ll be transparent if that changes.
Last/first words
Whenever you find your way to your work this week, I encourage you to think about your own hibernaculum, your winter residence of the pandemic. Perhaps you’re ready to reflect a bit on where you’ve spent this past year. Or perhaps you’re more interested in emergence, in taking flight, in rushing headlong into whatever is coming next.
If you’re the sort of writer who likes a prompt, then consider yourself prompted. And as you leave this page and make your way (hopefully) to your own, here’s a parting gift:
Bees by Rae Armantrout
If not being (something)
is the same as being,
then I will live forever.
•
Round shadow inside
the sunflower’s
corona.
•
If I lived forever
would the present’s noose
be looser?
•
Moon shadow
made of angry bees,
confined. Come in.
Connect
You can find Sandra on Twitter, Instagram, and at sandrabarnidge.com. As always, thank you for being here.