In the Blue: Bee

The sun was bright, and the pool was cold—painted a light blue, almost white—reflecting the brightness and making it difficult to keep my young eyes open. I may have been naked. Wet and tired post-swim, I was wrapped in a towel (maybe by my mother?), propped up by the elastic vinyl straps running across the lounge chair, sucking my left thumb and using my right index finger to repeatedly push the folds of a pink cardigan between my thumb and middle finger.  I still do the motion today when I come upon the right material.

The sweater was made of wool, and I called it Mocky. I have no memory of wearing Mocky—just needing Mocky to suck my thumb. One could not exist without the other.

And there was a third part to my self-soothing ritual: I would hum—“mmmmmmmm,” take a breath, “mmmmmmmm,” take a breath, “mmmmmmmm”...  With this trifecta in place, all was right in my young world.

I remembered this trifecta twenty years later, when I learned a breathing technique called Bhramari Pranayama, or Bee Breath, which involves making a humming sound like a bee on the exhale. It was explained to me that the humming vibrations stimulate the vagus nerve—the longest cranial nerve in the body—and activate the parasympathetic nervous system, inducing the “rest and digest” response.

Although I didn’t stop sucking my thumb until fourth grade, when my mouth was introduced to the dreaded palate expander, I realized sooner that if I wanted to be invited to sleepovers, I needed to stop bee-humming and Mocky-holding.

In adulthood, I developed a new ritual for sleep: first with a heating pad, and more recently, an infrared one that emits negative ions.

Last night, Phoebe came to kiss me goodnight (yes, I’m at the point where I go to sleep before my children), and I started to trace my finger between their eyes—what yogis call the third eye. I expected softness, but instead I felt ridges, like I was tracing a vinyl record.

“Do you feel that?” I asked Phoebe.

“Feel what?” they replied.

Suddenly, I became aware of a tingling sensation in my right fingers. I lifted them to trace Phoebe’s ear, and they jumped back.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“So you felt that?” I asked again.

“I didn’t feel anything,” they exclaimed. “I heard it—it sounds like a bee buzzing.”

And so we did what we always do when we’re not sure what to make of something…

“Roo, can you come up here?” we yelled downstairs.

I held my buzzing fingers up to Roo's earlobe. He was perplexed—but only for a moment.

“It’s the heating pad,” his practical part declared to my more mystical part.

After some testing and research, we confirmed his theory: infrared creates heat by causing water molecules in the body to vibrate, and negative ions stimulate cell membranes, which can cause tingling sensations.

Forty years later, I’m still putting myself to sleep the same way—tapping into humming or tingling vibrations to calm and regulate my system.

What struck me most about this realization was the timing: I had written about my childhood thumb-sucking ritual just that morning, reflecting on the comfort I found in the hum, the texture of Mocky, and the rhythm of my breath. Then, that very night, my fingers buzzed unexpectedly as I lay on the heating pad—echoing a self-soothing pattern I hadn’t consciously recognized in decades. It was as if my body had remembered before I did.

And it’s not just while falling asleep that I return to these techniques. I’m constantly humming—while driving, cleaning, cooking, gardening... I hum without even realizing it.  Until Pip or Phoebe chime in with their beloved game: “Name the tune Mum is humming!”  It’s usually a little bit of Amazing Grace, a little bit of Itsy Bitsy Spider, and a little bit of Pop Goes the Weasel—all woven into a one-of-a-kind, wandering hum.

Regardless of my lack of talent for holding a tune, the humming brings lightness, calm, and joy to the moment. The effects are contagious, even on a dreary Monday morning drive to school. I have a hunch Pip and Phoebe will remember my humming fondly long after I'm gone.

A tradition I remember from my own childhood is the Ahhhhh hug—when the five of us—Mom, Dad, me, and my two younger brothers—would huddle together and hum, “Ahhhhh", nuzzling our heads to each other’s chests, arms wrapped around one another. A full-body group exhale.  I’m not sure where it came from. I can’t imagine my mother’s family doing it. Maybe my father and his parents? Regardless, it’s another example of how we instinctively soothe and connect through vibration.

One of my earliest memories is sitting in my mother’s lap, my head resting on her chest, my ear pressed against her blue lapis heart-shaped necklace. Listening to her voice vibrate as she talked and laughed in a room full of family and friends was another version of heaven. I had found again the calming soundscape of the womb—the one I had been trying to recreate through thumb-sucking, humming, and folding Mocky.

In yoga, we start and end each practice by chanting Om: Ah-oh-um. Ah-oh-um. Ah-oh-um.  The mantra represents the past, present, and future—the full cycle of life. It’s meant to help us connect to ourselves, to each other, and to our environment through vibration.  The vibrations ripple outward, like the concentric circles that follow a stone tossed into still water. Like humming “Ahhhhh” during a hug, or Amazing Grace while driving, or “mmmmm” as a child curled in a towel, chanting "Om" calms the nervous system, slows the breath, softens the body, and returns us home.   

What were some ways you self-soothed as a child?  How do you find calm today?  Can you trace any threads between the two?

As always,
thank you for reading (and sharing).