Honeyed Wisdom: Meeting a Bee Grandmother

Meeting a Bee Grandmother

The past month has been intense. I’ve been working without pause—without what you’d call a true break. And while I absolutely love my work, even the most passionate heart and devoted hands need time to breathe.

For weeks, I’d felt a quiet but persistent calling—one I’ve come to know well. It was time for some ocean medicine. I longed for the salty breeze on my skin, the grounding touch of sand beneath bare feet. So, I finally listened and gifted myself a whole day off, setting course for somewhere I’d never been: West Wittering, to be precise. I’d heard the beach there was long and lovely, the perfect place to fill up on Vitamin SEA.

Not far from the coast, we zipped past a tiny car park beside the village post office. Just in time, I caught sight of a hand-painted sign that made my heart leap: RAW LOCAL HONEY. Anyone who knows me knows that I hold a deep, sacred love for the humble honey bee. In my shamanic path, bees are allies, messengers, and tutelary spirits. And let’s be honest: local honey makes me smile every time. It’s divine. Food of the gods, they say—and I believe them.

But the stall was empty. No honey in sight, no vendor present. It was before 9am, so I tucked away the hope that perhaps the bee guardian would return… after my ritual sea walk.

And what a walk it was. The sea gifted me gentle magic—crabs scuttling sideways with secrets, gulls calling out like witches cackling, and purple and green coloured seaweed waving like old friends. When I returned to the car park hours later, there she was.

A small, round woman with wild grey hair and rose-kissed cheeks stood beside the honey stall, unpacking jars of liquid gold from the boot of an old weathered car. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and knowing. A few stray bees swirled around her, dancing like kin. Something within me stirred—a familiar feeling. I had crossed paths with her before… perhaps not in this lifetime, but certainly, in spirit.

It didn’t surprise me. I’m in the thick of channelling the writing and artwork for The Grandmothers Oracle—a project that sings with the voices of ancestral spirit allies who have walked beside me on my souls path. So, when this woman looked up, and our eyes met, I knew in my bones: she was one of them. A grandmother in physical form. Here to greet me.

She invited me to try her honey. With a wide grin, she plunged a wooden spatula deep into the comb and pulled out a dripping chunk of waxy golden nectar. As I brought it to my mouth, a generous glob slid down the spatula and landed right on my blue linen shirt—leaving a sunlit, sticky streak of sweetness. I laughed, feeling truly blessed by the bees, anointed by their medicine.

Her accent was thick, melodic—Latvian. She told me she’d been keeping bees since childhood, learning from her family. It was in her blood. Or perhaps, I thought, she was a bee—otherworldly, radiant, both wise and delightfully mysterious.

She confessed that she had some bees with her—in the car. She’d been cutting comb from the frames that morning, and as usual, some of the bees had decided to tag along on the frames she had brought with her in the car. Sure enough, I turned to see them billowing softly from the back seat, buzzing calmly as though guarding and protecting their keeper and treasure. In that moment, the world shifted. Everything felt subtly enchanted, as if we had crossed into a hidden realm—one foot in the ordinary, one in the extraordinary.

This woman, this Lativian beekeeper-grandmother, embodied the very medicine we modern folk so often forget. She lived humbly, honestly, in harmony with the bees—her family, her allies. She reminded me that sacred work can be simple, and that simple work can be sacred.

Of course, I bought a jar of her honey and have been taking small spoonfuls since—each drop a return to the wisdom of the bees.

Before I left, I gave thanks to the bees.

Back home, I sat on my doorstep and looked out at my beloved overgrown garden. Green Alkanet—Pentaglottis sempervirens—had taken over, its starry blue flowers now buzzing with bees. Some might call it invasive, but I see it as an abundant offering. This untamed little space—with no pesticides or poisons—belongs to them: the bees, the butterflies, the beetles, the foxes and mice. It is a sanctuary. It is prayer in motion.`

Why do I share this?

Because every miracle we receive from the Earth carries a responsibility. We, as caretakers—especially those who walk the path of the sacred—must give back. In our own way. In our own rhythm. The bees give so generously. Let us be the ones who remember how to receive with gratitude, and to give in return. In Sacred Reciprocity.

In honour of this meeting, and of one of my earliest and most beloved spirit allies, I am sharing with you a painting I created some years ago. It is a tribute to the Bee Spirit who first guided me in my shamanic training—a teacher cloaked in gold with her Honey Bees spirits by her side, whose presence still hums within my heart.

This painting holds a place of honour in my studio, watching over each creative work as it comes into being. In many ways, my art is the honey—sweet, purposeful, and made in devotion. Today, I offer this piece to you, as a gift from the hive of my spirit, to nourish your soul and spark your own inspiration.

This shamanic medicine painting is for those who wish to bring a little more bee magic into their own sacred space.

With love and honeyed blessings,

Roberta ~ SoulBird

You can find her as a fine art print in my Etsy Shop.