On the Subject of Honeybees

I have no hive of my own, but the bees know me.
They know the thyme in the raised beds.
They know where the mint tumbles out of its pot.
They know which corner of the lemon balm stays warm the longest.

They arrive each morning as naturally as breathing.

A few things that are true about honeybees:

They visit thousands of blossoms in a single day.
They speak by dancing.
They can recognize faces: yours, mine, and the bloom of a sunflower they met once and still remember.

Each bee spends most of its short life gathering sweetness.
Then it returns home to feed everyone else.

The hum of bees is not a sound of laziness. It is the sound of precise, efficient motion. Every beat of their wings cools the hive. Every tiny flight maps a memory.

Inside the hive, they divide the labor with elegance.
There are nurse bees, foragers, cleaners, and guards.
The queen does not rule. She lays.
The hive decides everything together, not with words but with vibration.

And yet, despite their purpose, bees are not machines.

They make extra.
They build their combs a little crooked sometimes.
They get distracted by herbs not on their list.
They take detours. They nap on petals.

Sometimes a bee will sleep inside a flower, legs curled gently under her body, covered in pollen, and not quite ready to be anything else.

I watch them.

Not to study. Just to remember.

That it is possible to carry something golden from one place to another.
That it is enough, some days, to gather what is good and leave it behind for someone else.
That you do not have to see the whole field to believe the bloom is worth it.

The bees do not ask for much.

Just open blossoms.
Just a little quiet.
Just enough trust in the morning to try again.

And so, I plant what I can.
I do not keep bees.
But they keep me, a little.

Lady Bergamot

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