Letters to My Daughter: The First Ground Breaking

 

Dear Daughter,

We broke ground in spring.

The land had already been blessed—cornmeal scattered, prayers whispered, bees arriving mid-invocation as if to affirm our offering. But this was different. This was the first cut into the earth. The beginning of walls and water lines. The moment the dream became dust and rebar.

You and your father stood beside me as the machines arrived. I remember the sound—low, steady, almost reverent. Not violent, not rushed. Just the slow choreography of creation. The house began to rise behind us, one trench at a time.

But while the crew worked on the bones of the house, I turned my attention to the rear of the property.

To the bees.

The piece of land I had chosen to house the girls was made with intent. A quiet corner, tucked away from passing eyes. No more hurried inspections before the neighbors saw us. No more cramped space between a shed and a wall like the last bee yard. This place was different. It was wild. It was ready.

Old creosotes stood like sentinels. Massive cholla cactuses reached skyward. Lush mesquites and wild palo verdes lined the wash, tapping into hidden springs. And just beyond the property line—something unexpected. A forest. Half an acre of lush green, thirty-foot trees of every kind, flowering bushes spilling color, and a small, vibrant house tucked deep in the thicket. You couldn’t see it from the road. You could only feel it. It was special. And it was full of food for the bees, even during a dearth.

I knew I needed to meet the neighbors. To ask—not for permission, but for peace. On the morning I went to scout the permanent home for the colony, I heard flute music drifting from a radio. I smelled incense. And then I saw him—an older gentleman with gentle eyes. He smiled and introduced himself.

He loves bees.

He welcomed them with open arms.

I exhaled.

And then I was surprised. Both he and his Wife turned out to be naturalists. Not beekeepers, but people who understood the cycles of the desert and the language of the land. They spoke of bees the way I do—with reverence, with curiosity, with a lens shaped by rhythm and reciprocity. It felt like meeting kin.

Over time, they became remarkable neighbors—not just to us, but to the bees. They would come and sit quietly in the evenings, watching the girls return from forage, listening to the hum, enjoying the secret space I had made for them just as I did. They are welcome guests in my bee yard. They know how to enter with respect. They know how to listen.

Once again, the bees had guided me. They led me to a new relationship. They brought out the best in meeting my neighbors. And in doing so, they reminded me that sacred work is never done alone.

And then your father built me my first bee bench stands.

He made them from scrap wood—pieces salvaged from the orchard fence we had to tear down before selling the old house. That fence had once held in wildness: native plants, pollinator beds, a yard full of intention. Taking it down felt like erasing something sacred. But here, in this new place, the wood found a second life.

The pieces didn’t match. They were weathered, uneven, imperfect. But they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. They held memory. They held grief. And they held promise.

On those benches, I placed three new hives. I laid the bees in the perfect spot. And for the first time in a long time, I felt the rhythm return.

Lesson for you, my daughter: Beginnings are rarely clean.
They are made of scraps and memory. Let the imperfect things carry you. Let them hold the sacred. Let them hum.

Love, 

Your Mother 

The Desert Druid