Every circus needs a ringleader, every hive, a queen.
Meet Allis

Many moons ago, a ringleader named Allis Folgli Caprèle retired from her circus, Cirque du Caprifoglio, named for the fragrant honeysuckle of her childhood. She had traveled the world, mastered every trick in the book, and written a few new ones. She was ready to trade her top hat for a farmer's hat. Is a garden really so different from a circus? Both demanded constant planning, rewarded patience, and reminded her that the harvest is always shorter than the planting.

Honeysuckle does not wander. It winds, climbs, and holds; it has held Allis together and encouraged her climb as long as she can remember. To transplant it without shock, you cut the roots back first. She had done all of this carefully, deliberately. It helped. It did not prevent the ache. She missed the performers, the center of the ring, and the glorious honeyed popcorn that had become the signature of every show. She took up beekeeping for the honey, and for the buzz of life and labor she had left behind.

To protect her bees from the elements, she built them a small platform modeled after the carousel she and her crew had always dreamt of. When she harvested honey, she sang a special tune and did a little dance for them. She was convinced, though she never said it aloud, that they danced back. The honey that followed was always a little sweeter for it.

In the quiet hours between visits, she crocheted. Tent by tent, stage by stage, she built a faithful replica of her circus. She wrote to her friends when she finished their tents, asking for details she had forgotten over the long years, the color of a costume or the particular flourish of a trick. Every detail was stitched with the patience of someone who had nothing left to prove and everything left to remember.

On one fateful night, after finishing her crochet circus, Allis made her coveted popcorn to celebrate. It was better than she remembered, but memory is often like walking by moonlight. She went to lay by the hive and listen to their comforting buzz, the stars twinkling overhead, and honeysuckle drifting on the breeze. Feeling more than a little silly, she began to talk to her bees. She told them her favorite tricks, carefully arranged the little circus on the platform, and sang a few more songs.

E benedetto il primo dolce affanno: bless the first, sweet sorrow, she whispered as her heartache eclipsed her carefully cultivated joy. The sun will banish it back to the depths of night soon. She left a few pieces of honeyed popcorn as a thanks, took one final look at the sky, and went inside.

The following morning, she awoke to buzzing — the kind that had once meant a tent going up, or a hive busy at work. Looking out the back window, she pinched herself to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. Her bees and their carousel had grown ten times their normal size, and beyond them, her little crochet circus had come alive! When she approached, the bees began buzzing the song she had sung so many times for them, circling like carousel animals. She clapped, delighted that they had been listening all along. Each bee took a small bow before guiding her through the gates. In every tent, the bees faithfully recreated the tricks and performers she had told them about and came up with a few new ones of their own. Above the entrance, they unveiled a new sign: Jardin du Cirque. The Circus Garden.

You can take the gal out of the circus, but it will never truly leave her.