The Beekeepers Garden - A Sleep Story Read by Matt Walker

Matt Walker (0:03)

Good evening, it's Matt here. Before we begin, longstanding partner of today's podcast is Element, spelled L-M-N-T. Element is a sugar-free electrolyte drink mix. And for me, it was the sugar-free part that made me start using it. And again, I buy my own supply just to stay objective. Beyond having the electrolytes in the right balance. The other reason I'm a fan of Element is that it's scientific. If you look up the people who created the company, you'll find some pretty heavy-hitting physiology, biochemistry, and pharmacology knowledge baked into the product. And again, all of that comes without any sugar. Now, here's the update. Element's Lemonade Salt flavor, which used to be seasonal, was so popular that it's now permanent. You can get it year-round. Happily, I badgered them, and they have agreed to give you fine folks a free eight-count sample pack with any purchase of Element. If you use the link drinklmnt.com/mattwalker. So for free product with your purchase, just visit drinklmnt.com/mattwalker. And as I said, you'll get some free product. Let's settle in together. Take a slow breath in through your nose, letting your chest expand fully. Hold it gently and release slowly through your mouth. Let's do that once more. Breathe in, hold, and out. Tonight, I want to take you somewhere unhurried. Somewhere the world moves at the pace of wings and petals. This is the story of Eleanor and her beekeepers garden. Eleanor's garden sits at the end of a winding lane. Tucked behind a low stone wall that's been there longer than anyone can remember. The wall is soft with moss now. Its edges rounded by decades of rain and wind. And it marks the boundary between the ordinary world and something quieter. She discovered this place years ago, when she needed somewhere to simply be. The cottage came with the land, a small thing with a slate roof, and windows that rattle pleasantly when the wind picks up. But it was the garden that called to her. And most of all, it was the bees. Eleanor keeps three hives at the far end of the garden, painted in faded colors. One the blue of a winter sky, one the yellow of late summer hay, one the soft green of new leaves. The bees have been here longer than Eleanor. They know this land in ways she's still learning. This evening, as the sun begins its slow descent, Eleanor walks the garden paths. The flagstones beneath her feet are warm from the day's heat. And she can feel that warmth rising through the thin soles of her canvas shoes. Each step is unhurried. There's nowhere else to be. The lavender is in full bloom now. Great purple waves of it, lining the central path. Eleanor runs her fingers through the flowers as she passes, releasing their scent into the air. The smell is clean and ancient, all at once. Like something your grandmother might have kept in a linen drawer, pressed between handkerchiefs that were never meant to be used. A honey bee lands on her wrist. Eleanor pauses, watching it. The bee's legs are dusted with pollen. Tiny golden saddlebags, packed with the stuff. It's movements, delicate and purposeful, and lifts off again, rising into the amber light. She follows its path with her eyes as it rejoins the others. Hundreds of bees move through the garden now, each one tracing invisible lines between flowers. Their flight paths crisscross, like threads on a loom, weaving something you can't quite see, but can somehow feel. Eleanor settles onto the old wooden bench beneath the apple tree. The bench has a slight lean to it. Not enough to be uncomfortable, just enough to remind you that it's been here through many seasons, many gardeners, many quiet evenings exactly like this one. The hum of the bees is everywhere now. It's not a single sound, but a chorus rising and falling like breath, like the garden itself is breathing. Scientists have measured this sound, you know. The frequency of a healthy hive hovers around 250 hertz, the same range as a cat's purr, the same frequencies that have been shown to promote healing in bone and tissue. Perhaps the bees knew something. We're only beginning to understand. Eleanor closes her eyes. The warmth of the fading sun touches her face. Like a gentle hand behind her eyelids, the world becomes simple. Just sound and sensation, temperature and texture. The breeze moves through the garden, stirring the leaves of the apple tree above her. The sound is soft, like pages turning in a book. No one is rushing to finish. She thinks about the bees and their quiet industry. Each one lives for just a few weeks in summer. Yet in that brief time, a single worker bee will visit thousands of flowers. It will fly hundreds of miles. And at the end of its life, it will have contributed perhaps one twelfth of a teaspoon of honey to the hive. That's all, one twelfth of a teaspoon. But here's what Eleanor finds, beautiful.