Bees

Sarah, Emily and I enjoyed a relaxing afternoon in the park, reading and sunning ourselves in a vain attempt to regain some of our post-Key West glow. The time for pleasure reading was much appreciated, as was the far-too-uncommon opportunity to soak in some vitamins from the sun instead of a dietary supplement. The sun meandered across the sky over the course of those few hours, which meant I had to periodically roll over – or even get up and move (gasp) – to remain in full sun.
At one point, I found myself and The Silmarillion very close to the edge of the grass, where the beautifully manicured flowers began. The ambient noise here was the busy, loud hum of bees – hundreds of them. There were little honey bees and big, black bumblers. For a moment, their preoccupied dance entranced me. I watched them closely, and found myself observing that I could not see the stingers on any of them.
Reflecting on this reality, I wondered if such a train of thought had caused my childish mind to disregard my mother’s warnings about bees. When I was very young, we had bushes in the backyard that were quite potent and attracted bees from far and wide. When the bushes were in full bloom, the whole backyard was quite abuzz. And being the inquisitive and at least somewhat active child I was, I was determined – once I had learned more about bees and what they are capable of – to learn exactly how bees made honey. Being far more scientifically motivated then than I am now, I determined the only way to answer this very pressing question was to catch a bee and compel it to tell me its secret.
Which leads me again to the warnings. My mother had told me on multiple occasions, as she saw me getting braver around the bushes, that bees would sting me if I disturbed them. And on multiple occasions, I proved her right. In case you never noticed, I have never been one to accept warning or learn vicariously. I don’t know how many beestings I got those early years, but suffice to say that through many tears, tweezers, and hydrogen peroxide, I quelled my parents’ fears that I may be allergic to beestings.
Lying on the grass yesterday, it occurred to me for the first time in my adult life why I thought on various independent occasions that the bees would not inflict me with their venom. (Mom, I hope you’re reading this so you know there was method to my madness.) I knew my intentions were pure in capturing the creature; I meant it no harm, I simply wanted to ask it a question and learn. Surely they could sense that, I pondered. And as much as the strings hurt, much of my frustration, though not expressed in words, was the fact that they didn’t understand – and I was getting no closer to the answers I sought. Bees are rational creatures, but I credited them with more intellect than they had. I thought they could determine motives, but all they cared about was that they were being trapped and needed to find a way out, and used their natural, God-given means to do so. It was hardly their fault, but it hurt to feel so devastatingly misunderstood.
Reclining near the bees yesterday, my childhood desire to understand how flirting from flower to flower somehow resulted in the creation of honey was rekindled. And something inside made me want to inquire of the bees their secret. But I have come to learn, slowly and after many stings, that reaching out to grasp something is not the best way to lay hold of it. Sometimes, all you can do is sit and watch and trust the answers will come in time.