A ‘Secret’ Serendipity

"Never underestimate the power of a dismissed dream.
I think there must be a place inside of us where dreams go and wait their turn." - Sue Monk Kidd

The wind walloped hard against the shutters, leaving sloughed leaves strewn pell-mell across the pavement. Drops of rain fell as would an uninvited guest, chattering slightly, and then making its presence known with the rising crescendo; the brim overflowed and the crevasses cracked, enveloping the streets in a deluge. The chill in the air brought about a simultaneous wave of fear and nostalgia. It was in this harshest of weathers that I have rediscovered a familiar haunt -- in the company of a beloved book.

If we were to backtrack to the formative childhood years, three novels stood out among my pantheon of the greats: The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, which opened my eyes to modern literature that was ingenious in both content and foul language usage; and Silas Marner by George Eliot, who behind that mannish name lay the psyche of Mary Ann Evans, drawing upon the reader a sentimental landscape, the romanticism of the old English countryside melting the cold heart of a weary old man, and of my soul.

And then what I would consider my favorite novel of all time, until further notice: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. This was what inspired me to view humanity like the esteemed patriarch Atticus, to be dependable like Jem, to be spontaneous like Dill. To understand the complexities of people like Boo Radley. To step inside Calpurnia's and Tom Robinson's feet standing firmly on the ground and being hopeful in the face of injustice, and bristle at why there still are inscrutable Ewells. The Pulitzer-prize winning book heartened me to find my own voice like the heroine Scout Finch. That perchance, my observations would find their place and be able to move somebody -- to aspire to be an agent of change, in the process of expressing and knowing myself. This led me to write nonfiction narratives: starting with the anecdote about a terror teacher, and the journals I had chronicling with much panache my life in higher elementary, to the brief phase of laboring on make-believe newspapers on early Sunday mornings, airing nonsensical opinions and slyly suggesting what the weekend warriors' agenda should be. The more materials I read, the more I wanted to write. This was interrelated to the fascination over vocabulary, spelling and grammar -- therefore, Webster is my eternally steadfast companion. Advancing to high school further amplified it, through the countless theme writings in English that I blissfully engaged in, and staffing in the school paper validated my resolve.

I prided myself in being able to articulate in words what my introvert self was shy to say. In them I felt I grew. But in the midst of college ruckus, newfangled technology and plain laziness, I fell into a rut. I lapsed in that habit of patient comprehension -- it was as if short attention span has ailed me to the point of reducing my daily fill into a short paragraph -- the McTwitterization of it all. I would churn out an essay every now and then, but the sense of accomplishment it once held was not there. The chain of intertwining events both in word and world have left me desolate and dispassionate.

In between one afternoon lull and a haphazard preparation for my next class, I happened to amble around the library, perusing the fiction catalog. One book garnered enough interest that I picked it up and borrowed it immediately -- The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. It was quite short and seemed to be a light read. I turned to the first page and never wanted to let go.

The Secret Life of Bees is a beautiful, touching and inspiring story set in South Carolina, circa 1964 about a young teenaged white girl whose whole existence revolved around a single event when she was 4 -- that she might have accidentally killed her own mother. Lily Owens, our protagonist, is a bright, sensitive but lonely kid, rendered miserable by the only relative she has, her father T. Ray, who maltreats her at home and employs her thanklessly at their peach orchard business. Otherwise he is a very reserved individual, refusing to talk anything about Lily's mother, their past, or whatever events and ambitions Lily have, even birthdays and gifts. Lily finds a confidante, sister and second mom in Rosaleen, her black househelp and nanny. One of the few things Lily possessed that belonged to her mother was a small, wooden carving pasted with a picture of the Black Madonna, "Tiburon, S.C." written on the back. This keepsake has always aroused curiosity in the young girl, who wanted to know everything about her mother, find out the truth, and fill the gaps and voids in her life. In a fortunate sequence of events, Lily and Rosaleen manage to escape the sleepy town of Sylvan, out from the clutches of T. Ray, the police, and the racist hooligans who threatened Rosaleen's life on the verge of the Civil Rights Act. Where else will they go except to that myth of a place called Tiburon, where they came to settle at the Carribean Pink-tinted house of the Boatwrights, three black sisters involved in the beekeeping profession, with the label of their honey products striking oddly similar to the picture Lily has -- although of course, she fashions out a tale of being lost and penniless just to be able to stay longer and investigate the missing link. August, the eldest Boatwright and the master beekeeper, openly welcomes the two runaways; May, the girlish culinary enthusiast smiles obligingly but retreats to her complicated world; and June the funereal cellist eyes them with a mix of doubt and disdain. Lily's wit and warmth endears her slowly but surely to her new surroundings, to the family, and to the other characters -- the devout group Daughters of Mary, and Zach Taylor, her first sweetheart.

In this home Lily finds the love she craved and needed, and discovers that the truth is found here, more than what she had bargained for -- undergoing a phase of guilt, anger, shame and acceptance. She also learns about the intricacies of beekeeping which is very fundamental to the novel, its lessons applying to both procuring honey and procuring the most out of life. Kidd lusciously starts every chapter with an excerpt about the Queen Bee and her subjects' natures. And consider "The Bee Yard Etiquette" August deduces, saying "The world was really one big bee yard, and the same rules worked fine in both places":

Don't be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don't be an idiot; wear long sleeves and long pants.

Don't swat. Don't even think about swatting.

If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates, while whistling melts a bee's temper.

Act like you know what you're doing, even if you don't.

Send the bees love. Every little thing wants to be loved.

Eventually there will be a comparison between The Secret Life of Bees and To Kill a Mockingbird: Both in the style of Bildungsroman (a coming-of-age tale), both about smart young girls, both set in a time where judgment of character was still based on the color of the skin. I guess stories like these work for me, instilling a sense of idealism and principle -- the admirable humanness of its heroes, the lushness of the prose, and the life lessons. Beyond political correctness and imperfections, they are remarkable in their respective ways and I appreciate them both.

I marvel at how Sue Monk Kidd conveys to Lily the most beautiful lines. Come to think of it, the audacious lady nurtures to be a writer. Some quotable quotes:

"I realized it for the first time in my life: there is nothing but mystery in the world, how it hides behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days, shining brightly, and we don't even know it."

"People, in general, would rather die than forgive. It's that hard. If God said in plain language, "I'm giving you a choice, forgive or die," a lot of people would go ahead and order their coffin."

"Drifting off to sleep, I thought about her. How nobody is perfect. How you just have to close your eyes and breathe out and let the puzzle of the human heart be what it is."

Kidd writes with a quaint elegance and an immense affection to her characters -- she even humanizes the despicable T. Ray. She can manage to make even the most resolute of non-believers surrender to the power of the divine feminine, the Universal Mother who is at the core of the story. Finishing the novel, I felt as if I have joined Lily in the catharsis, knowing that I can surmount through my shortcomings and better myself, following "the only purpose grand enough for a human life. Not just to love -- but to persist in love."

I wish I could tap into my conscious dreamscapes and conjure something as compelling and heartwarming as that of Lily and the bees. God knows when, but I wake up to wonder every day.