The…Lack of…Buzz from the Bee Yard #3

On a warm late February afternoon, my son and I arrived at the apiary. We hadn’t opened up the hives to inspect the colonies since Thanksgiving, which is normal winter protocol. We noticed fevered activity at the entrance of two of the hives…but the one on the end was eerily lacking any activity. I noticed this a few days ago, and have been going about life with a knot in my stomach since then, dreading having to open that hive. The days have felt a bit grayer…even though sunny outside. My sleep has been restless. I now know what I am experiencing. It is grief…that feeling that comes when the reality of loss begins to slowly soak into your soul, mind, and body…the kind of grief that comes when one you have walked closely with is now absent from your life.

I believe grief can be a gift from God. I don’t think God desires for any of us to ache or experience the pain of loss. This is not the God I have encountered. Yet, God created a universe where death and life are connected. I live ever aware that I only exist because of the death of stars where heavy elements like the iron in my blood are only able to be created. And, I only have to walk through my backyard to see how life emerges out of the compost…out of the humus of earth. Yes…life and death are forever connected.

We started by inspecting the first two colonies. They looked healthy. They were buzzing about as only one does when you are clear about your purpose in this world. Then we got to the third hive. It was like walking into a house that had been frozen in time. Rooms were there…and things were still in the rooms (like honey and pollen). Yet, no-one seemed to be home. As we continued the inspection, we found where the final huddle of bees died (the picture for this post.) During the winter, bees cluster into a ball around the queen and vibrate as one to maintain warmth during the cold months. Bees on the outside of the cluster rotate to the inside, so no one bee has to bear the extremes all the time. It’s like penguins who huddle and rotate as one mass to keep all alive.

Something happened to the colony. There was not obvious explanation we could identify.

My son and I quietly…reverently…disassembled the hive to take it home. These bees may have died, but the work they left behind…cap frames of honey…drawn out frames of comb…this legacy will be a sacred gift to the other colonies when I will split them in April from 2 to 4 colonies. I am grateful for the pollinating and life this colony made possible in the Hill Country of Texas in 2024, a reminder to me that in everyday imperceivable ways…they somehow touched and help connect us all together. If I have a life legacy, I hope it the same as these bees.

Later in the evening, my son could see in my face that the loss was still weighing on me. He said to me, “Dad, those bees did not die alone…they were together.” Wow. Deep wisdom and comfort from one I love and trust implicitly. His words invited me to remember that on this planet, we are never really alone. Brother air. Sister bee. Mother Earth. Father humus. All holding hands together…all living, dying, and breathing for the sake of the other…for the sake of YOU and me…for the sake of ALL.

What are you grieving these days…this season in your life? Give yourself space and time to ache and heal. Give yourself time and space to wonder, reconnect, and add a new verse to your song. Wherever you are this day, hear some good news…that as one who lives on planet Earth…as one who IS earth…you are never alone.

Peace, Harold