Held By Grace: The Morning I Became a Death Doula for a Honeybee

Jun 5
4 min read

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This week, while we were in Napa celebrating our anniversary, I experienced one of those magical mornings that change you forever.

It began with cooing doves and red-winged blackbirds singing me into the sunrise, as I soaked in a rose petal bubble bath, nestled in a white clawfoot tub beneath the open sky. The air was soft and golden… with a slight chill in the air from the morning fog. The tub was surrounded by rosemary, lavender, and tea roses, with a pomegranate tree standing watch… her branches bowed with blossoms and baby fruit, as if offering her own quiet blessing.

And then… the true magic arrived.

It literally fell from the sky and into my lap.

A honeybee, golden, gentle, and sacred, landed softly on my robe.

Then, she crawled onto my finger.

She didn’t buzz or flit or try to flee.

She chose me.

Somehow, in that moment, I knew she chose my lap, my hand, and my stillness as her final resting place.

We sat together, soul to soul.

I sang to her as I toured her around our backyard spaces.

We pulled cards* together.

I pet her sweet little body as she tickled my hand.

I found her a flower, a place to rest... and still, she stayed.

In Hebrew, my name means bee.

And in that moment, the connection struck me with sacred clarity.

The bee is a messenger.

A medicine bearer.

A reminder of how brief and beautiful life can be.

She is ancient and sacred across cultures, a symbol of divine connection, soul purpose, and sacred service.

Bees are not alone by nature. They remind us that we are not meant to live this life in isolation. We are each part of a larger hive… connected, interwoven, interdependent. Our joy, our work, and even our grief ripple outward.

Bees carry life from bloom to bloom. They cross-pollinate dreams, ideas, and ecosystems. Spiritually, this is the work of expansion… of being a conduit for growth and beauty wherever we land.

I named her Grace.

It felt so fitting.

She gave me exactly 1 hour and 11 minutes of her precious time on Earth.

And then… she ascended.

Softly. Silently.

Her tiny body, still against the bloom.

Her spirit rising.

I wept a deep, cleansing cry I didn’t know I needed.

Grief and grace braided through me.

I sang Akaal to her through my salty tears. This sacred Sikh mantra for the soul’s passing has comforted me as I have held sacred space for many creatures over the years…

My voice cracked open like a pomegranate, spilling seeds of sorrow and reverence. I wasn’t just saying goodbye to Grace, I was remembering how to let go with my heart open.

She was gone, and the air still shimmered with her.

Before we left for brunch, I gently placed her, still nestled in her rose, onto a fragrant rosemary bush, bursting with purple blooms. It felt like a sacred resting place… watched over by the garden and sky.

And when we returned, she was gone.

No trace of her tiny body.

Only the soft hum of possibility.

Did she come simply for a sacred nap, a moment of stillness before a busy day?

Did a songbird find her, a gift from the earth, returned to the sky?

Or did her sisters come, as bees sometimes do, to carry her home?

We will never know.

And somehow… that feels exactly right.

Because not all sacred stories need an ending.

Some are meant to stay open, a mystery to rest our hearts in.

Since our time together, I’ve felt the quiet hum of interconnectedness.

I still feel her tiny feet on my skin.