Meditation: Need, necessity, co-dependence, co-creation

My friend Jim Coe wrote in response to a brief Facebook post about bees that I was caretaking being dead:

“Sacrificial Species: Bees hatch, develop, work and die so that other life forms, plant and animal, may thrive. Help keep Gaia whole.”

It was beautiful and succinct. Thinking about writing this post and thinking of his comment, I wondered which was first: the bee or the flower. Did the flower see an opportunity in these winged vehicles? Or did the bee draw out the flower to produce more and more food? Need, necessity, co-dependence, co-creation. Now I wonder, did the bees need me or did I need the bees? Need, necessity, co-dependence, co-creation.

What desire or experience was I hoping for when I decided to become a beekeeper? Primary among them was to create a space for a community of creatures upon which so much depends but also to behold their mystery. Being romantic and poetical at heart, I liked the idea of being attached to the lineage of lore surrounding bees. Being practical and having a desire to be helpful, I liked the idea of providing a home and space for useful pollinators. Both sides of me were intrigued every time I visited the hive. I was thrilled and amazed to see them building comb, applying propolis to the hive, cleaning each other, guarding their entrance, fighting with intruders.

I took pictures of them. I listened to their hum in the hive. I sat beside the hive as the workers flew in and out. The color of their pollen sacs varied from yellow to a woody orange depending on what they were harvesting. At one point in the season, after they had been raided by another hive, each bee entering the hive was greeted by a guardian. The guardian would run up to the newly landed worker and crawl over it from front to back, antenna waving, before allowing it to pass. I watched them carry nuisance drones out to the edge of the platform and drop them off.

I had dreams of them. One night some of them flew into my mouth because it had honey in it. They buzzed but did not sting. Another night, near Imbolc or Groundhog’s Day, they were part of a dream of summer and gardens and harvests. Searching for the record of these dreams, I found that I have been dreaming of bees for at least five years.

Did the bees call to me or did I call to the bees?

So, my bees died. They starved and froze to death sometime between December 22, 2013, and February 22, 2014. This photo is from December 22. The last time I saw them. Temperatures were in the upper 50s and they were flying around the hive, searching for water and going to the bathroom. (They won’t eliminate in the hive, so somehow they hold it for as long as they need to.)

These are from February 22, 2014. Some look like they were dead longer than others. I haven’t done the research so I have no idea how that would work out. Some looked so close to being alive that I thought they weren’t dead. Even if they weren’t yet, they would soon be. There were not enough of them in the hive to keep themselves warm when the next cold spell hits.

I’m not devastated by their death, but sad. Thinking about their hive as I found it I began anthropomorphizing them and I cried about their cold, starving deaths. I cried for the lone bees being born and wandering out only to begin freezing. Their lives are different from that idea though. As Jim wrote, they are born, work and die. They fulfill their purpose or they don’t. I’m just processing the conflicting feelings of caring for something that really takes care of itself and is subject to the whims of nature. I’m dealing with the range of powerlessness, patience, allowing, witnessing, and joy in their complexity and beauty and mystery. I’m dealing with life.