Isador was small and dark, prone to wander wide,
but not too far,
from her family farm.
The adults, all too busy with the hard work that broke their backs,
tore their nails and left them so tired they never allowed themselves to notice
the way the sun shone softly, touched the surface of each leaf, casting shadows underneath,
like fishbones when dinner was done.
Magic!
The toil of feeding their hungry animals or people,
of the long hard days in the fields, left them no time
to gaze at the infinite and constant parade of tiny insects marching
in neat little rows between each tower of bladed grass, like sequoias or redwoods.
Isador loved to gaze and puzzle over these magnificent feats of the world
going on in secret, yet side by side. If only one would notice.
Her mother often came upon her after calling for hours
to come and lend her hands to the work, but often looked too long and had to call too loudly
that when she finally found the girl
the exasperation in her face and on her tongue came tumbling out as harsh
and sharp as a whip across the child's hand.
It went on like this until, one day.
After a particularly grueling season of harvest,
a magnificent storm, and the constant herding of lost loose sheep,
Isador's mother searching and calling for help for such a very long time and so very loudly
came upon her at a stream, fingers, and toes immersed in water.
The sounds of her delight at being nibbled and tickled by tiny fish,
like the happy sound of rushing water, was too much for her to bear.
Her mother, seeing the total abandon for the simple pleasures of living,
rose like a great wind and lashed out
words of such frustration & jealousy (for why must we have to toil so hard)
and pulled her back to the farm.
Isador was allowed to wander or gaze, nevermore.
She was not allowed to talk to fish or follow ants
or even to rest in the sweet shadow of the Mother Tree when the sun's scorch became unbearable.
This made the small girl cry,
and hunger,
and long,
and yearn.
In the evenings, Isador would steal away out of the tent and pray to the Moon, beseech the Stars for
freedom. This ritual went on for a very long time.
Seasons seemed to pass. Her dress grew short, and her hair grew long.
Her hunger almost starved her.
One night, a giant star grazed the sky, and Isador, catching its tail with the most soulful plea yet,
begged for freedom and a return to wonder.
In the morning, her mother, finding her bed empty ran outside in search.
She searched and searched and called and called.
Finally, coming upon the small forbidden stream, she found a pile of clothes left behind
and above them,
a swarm of honey bees circled upward.
Her Isador was nowhere to be found. Evermore.
The following years' harvest grew more abundant and as time passed, the farm, its people and its
animals more fertile.
The grasses teamed with flowers, the soil rich and abundant.
The swarm of bees grew larger and pollinated the fields, farther and farther.
The hive saw the queen grow from maiden to mother to crone.
Upon her death, she handed the crown to the next generation: a legacy of the transformative power of a
young girl's hunger for the sweetness of wonder and the power that comes from reclaiming her
sovereignty (which means freedom).
Without them, our harvests will surely grow scarce and our legacies become unsustainable, like the
scorch of the sun burning and the great wind that will blow us away. Evermore.
Isador having become the swarm of bees, a form her mother could no longer recognize, became
MORE. She became herself.
