One of our bees, at work on a sunflower. |
Wanting to see into the hive
without disturbing the hive, I get on the ground and stretch out flat on my
back with my head resting beneath the hive. I glance across the yard, hoping my
neighbor doesn’t see me, as she might be alarmed to see me prone on the ground
by my beehive. But an overgrowth of tomato plants and zinnias rise between us and I'm glad she can't see me and wonder about her strange neighbor.
Looking up from beneath the hive. |
I settle in, my legs
stretched out and ankles crossed. My awareness of the outside world shrinks to
just the space between my eyes and the hive, which is about a foot above my
gaze. I can see what looks like discarded larvae on the screen as housekeeping
bees occasionally pulled it toward the hive opening. Bees walk back and forth,
up into the frames, over the wax, and busily doing what bees do. From the
bottom, it still doesn’t look like they are building on the new frames, though could
be that I just can’t see their progress since they start at the top of a frame
and build comb down.
From my vantage point beneath
the hive, I feel a settling sense of peace. How strange to feel so relaxed and
peaceful with a large number of stinging insects suspended above me.
We are often separated from wildness in a way that lessens our lives as humans. In an interview with writer David Kupfer, poet Terry Tempest
Williams said of the often distanced relationship between humans and wildlife:
“We become disconnected, we lose our center point of gravity, that stillness that allows us to listen to life on a deeper level and to meet each other in a fully authentic and present way.”
And perhaps that is what I find there, beneath the bees—a center
point of gravity. I regain my footing in the hum of the bees. I’m an observer, and
these small winged beings encourage stillness in their presence.
I don’t spend as much time beneath the hive as I would like to.
I need to water the garden and check on the hens. Dinner is yet to be made, and
there is always work to be done. Reluctantly, I leave bee-viewing for the night,
but I do so feeling greater equilibrium, as if the hum of bees has calibrated the
balance in my bones.