*She Sent Me a Swarm*

Yesterday afternoon, I stepped into my garden and never expected to find a living, buzzing heart suspended from the branches of my apple tree. There, in a breathtaking display of nature, was a swarm of an estimated 20,000 bees, clustered together in the unmistakable shape of a heart. It was as if nature had sculpted this moment with intention. I stood still, not out of fear, but awe. The air vibrated with the low hum of life, and almost immediately, I thought of my mother.

She had passed away recently, and the grief was still very raw. But my mother loved bees. She would always point them out when we walked in parks or gardens together, telling me they symbolized resilience, community, and the sweetness of life. Seeing that heart-shaped swarm felt like she was right there, gently reminding me of her presence. It wasn’t just a coincidence – it was a message.

In the weeks leading up to it, I’d been noticing bees in odd places. On the windowpane while I was thinking of her. Buzzing near my coffee cup during a quiet morning. Each time, it stirred something deep inside. But this? This was different. This felt profound.

I had also been reading Laura Lynne Jackson’s book, “Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe.” The book explores how those we love may try to reach us after they’ve passed, not through grand gestures, but through everyday signs: a song, a feather, a number, a dream. Or a bee.

In Judaism, bees carry deep symbolic meaning. They are tied to wisdom, industriousness, and spiritual sweetness. “Devash,” the Hebrew word for honey, appears repeatedly in the Torah, often linked to the Promised Land, “a land flowing with milk and honey.” Bees represent productivity and divine order. And interestingly, finding a swarm of bees – especially one that arrives on its own – is traditionally considered a sign of blessing and abundance.

This was not a managed hive. There were no boxes or frames, no beekeeper in sight. This was nature, wild and unplanned, offering up something sacred in its simplicity. A neighbor later told me that swarms are rare in London – especially natural ones. The density of urban beekeeping and limited green spaces make wild colonies uncommon. That made the moment feel even more precious.

I spent the afternoon watching them. They were calm, not aggressive. Bees are remarkably peaceful when swarming; they have no home to defend. I kept thinking about how love, too, doesn’t always need a structure to be felt. Sometimes it’s just there, all around you, filling the space with a hum you can’t ignore.

What made the moment even more extraordinary was what happened next: my young children, without hesitation or fear, walked right up to the swarm. They stood beneath the buzzing heart, wide-eyed and smiling, as if they could feel the love pulsing in the air. Not one of them flinched. In fact, they seemed drawn to it—calm, connected, and completely at peace. It was as if they intuitively understood that this was something gentle, something sacred.

Later that evening, I contacted a local beekeeper to safely relocate the swarm. But I’ll never forget those hours, the sense of quiet magic that settled over the garden, and the feeling that my mother had found a way to reach me.

This all happened just days before my 45th birthday, only the second birthday I’ll celebrate since my mom died. Birthdays have felt different since she passed: quieter, heavier, lonelier. She was always the first to call, the first to sing, the first to make me feel celebrated. And yet, as I stood in the garden with my children, looking up at this heart-shaped miracle, I felt a kind of birthday blessing that words can’t fully capture. It was as if she had found her own way to reach me, to remind me that I am still loved.

That heart-shaped gathering of bees reminded me that love doesn’t end – it just changes form. It shows up in swarms, in sunlight, in silence. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it buzzes right into your backyard.