Telling the Bees

Part 5: Depression and the Upward Turn

Jan 11, 2025

This is part of a series where I examine spiritual deconstruction through the lens of grief. I’ll link the other installments here as they are released:

There’s an old European tradition that lives on in the Appalachian hills near where I live. It wasn’t ours first. Before my ancestors forced their way into these hills and the surrounding low country, this practice was recorded in Ireland, Wales, Germany, France, Switzerland, the Netherlands, and Czechia. Some believe it originated with the Aegeans of ancient Greece, meaning this tradition straddles oceans, mountain ranges, and thousands of years.

Now, when southern folks say we’re “tellin’ the bees,” it usually means we’re gossiping. But this was a literal practice and a crucial part of life, especially during grief. Once a loved one had passed away, it was important to “tell the bees” of their passing. Someone was sent to the hives. In some places, they would knock gently. In other places, they would bring the bees food from the wake or drape black ribbons on the hives to signify the bees’ mourning. But in all traditions, the messenger would softly break the news and implore them to stay, assuring the bees that they would survive this change.

Upon the recent passing of Queen Elizabeth II, Royal Beekeeper John Chapple told the bees, “The mistress is dead, but don't you go. Your master will be a good master to you.”

In Germany, it’s recorded that bee-speakers would say, "Little bee, our lord is dead. Leave me not in my distress."

Depression can seem to go on indefinitely during deconstruction.

For me, it was a station I revisited (and revisit) often. If I think of my deconstruction/reconstruction process as climbing a spiral staircase, depression isn’t one stair or even a group of stairs along the way. It’s a length-wise cross-section of the entire staircase. So, even as I move upwards and make progress in my journey, I still find myself looping back into that shadowed place.

It’s not without good reason. We can lose so much once we begin the process: relationships, rituals, community, certainty, intimacy with the Divine as well as with the people around us. These are the things that make a life full and vibrant and beautiful. Losing them can feel like you’re adrift in a wild, endless ocean without anything to hold on to.

In Religious Refugees by Mark Gregory Karris, he says:

“The greater you have loved, the greater the sadness. The greater the intimacy in the connections you lost, the more you gave your heart to a God you once knew, and the zeal with which you believed old religious doctrines, the exponentially greater your sense of loss. Remember this: Experiencing sadness is a sign that your heart is alive…It is proof that you have loved fully and opened your heart and mind deeply."

Experiencing depression during deconstruction is warranted and understandable. Take your time while at this station. Don’t rush it, and don’t feel frustrated if you, like me, find yourself visiting it again and again. Profound sadness comes after profound love, and neither dissolves quickly—not even under the abrasive flow of time.

My time in this station forced me to grapple with my great “un-knowing.” For so long, my spirituality was rooted firmly in “knowing” the right answers, swaths of memorized scripture, who is “in” and who is “out.” Realizing suddenly that I know oh-so-very little pushed me out of previous stations and into the station of Depression.

Another way to say it is that I was depressed by discovering my staggering lack of control. Knowing things gave me a false sense of security. If I knew it, I could predict it. Death isn’t scary when you “know” how you’ll fare afterward, in whatever comes next. Opposition or correction by people who think differently doesn’t matter when you “know” you’re the one with the right answers.

Once the certainty was taken away, the solid ground under my feet was suddenly gone.

But realizing I knew very little created lots of space to start listening and learning new things. And this was the surprise on the edge of Depression: that the “not knowing” and unlearning and relearning could feel like hope. I was surprised to find out that the Depression and Testing stations share borders, that sadness and hope can hold hands.

My “upward turn” was waiting to begin. I just needed to name my loss.

“Telling the bees” was meant to keep bee colonies from dying or abandoning their hives. The belief was that they took serious offense to being left out of the loop, so beekeepers did their best to keep the hives informed. But I don’t think superstition was the only reason it survived across the years and miles. Some traditions, myths, and lore survived because they met a need we now know to be psychological or emotional. Was “telling the bees” a roundabout way for generations to find the courage to name their loss?

Because healing from loss can’t begin until we are brave enough to name it.

This is the very first thing we test in the Testing station: the words on our tongue, the story through our lips, the tension of truth that builds in our throat as we take a breath and finally, finally name our loss.

"Little bee, our lord is dead…”

Naming it in a safe space with gentle listeners can make all the difference between progressing deeper into the Testing station and returning to the Depression station. I took several steps back into the Depression station after entrusting people (who I thought were safe) with the rawness of my still-fresh deconstruction losses, only for them to argue, or tell me to read my Bible more, or distance themselves from me.

“...Leave me not in my distress."

Should’ve tried talking to honeybees. A silence thickened by the drone of a hundred little wings would’ve been a much more healing response.

The most healing response, however, is when we finally find someone who says, “You’re not alone in this loss. I’ve walked this same road. This isn’t the end.”

My tentative shoot of courage was watered by camaraderie. It made me feel seen, understood. It gave me the courage to keep exploring the Testing station, to examine my other losses and, more importantly, to embrace newly discovered treasures of thought.

With the support of a sweet little hive of understanding listeners, I could test the ice of my new reality, one step at a time, with the tentative tap-tap-tap of my toe. And you want to hear something crazy? I have yet to meet most of the people that make up this hive in person. Thank God, literally, for the internet.

That’s why I decided to create this Substack space. I know what it’s like to walk so long in the fog of deconstruction/reconstruction and suddenly stumble upon a warm fire and safe people who see me. This is my little attempt to bring them all to one place.

Because healing happens in spaces where people feel safe, where they feel seen. Where they hear words like, “I understand,” and “Me too.” Where they feel love to be in abundance and judgement scarce. Where they can show up in their fullness, which includes their questions and anger and despair.

What was once a very lonely burden I was trying to survive became an intriguing mystery (alive, alluring, and adventurous) to be tested, shared, and shouldered by my team and me.

This is “the upward turn” — it’s the moment your trajectory stops feeling like a nose dive into oblivion. It might not feel exactly hopeful yet, certainly not sunshiney. But a shift happens, and hope starts to grow.