It is hard to admit to myself when I am operating in a limited mindset. You know the one. I am imagining life, art, and what I do in terms of what others are doing. And if they are doing more, I must not be able to do more too. Only so much to go around.
I had an especially hard time with this idea in relation to keeping bees this past year.
The act of apiculture, or keeping bees, for me is much more than a job or hobby. The bees are sincerely so very pivotal to my emotional wellbeing. Visiting with them is like going to therapy or meditation. There is something so peaceful and relaxing about it. Despite the amount of work it is on the body, I am allowed into a sort of sacred circle. More and more people are considering honeybees to be a thing similar to raising cows, domesticated creatures that we breed and use for our benefit. But I disagree with this idea entirely. Honey bees first and foremost, are not Domestic. We may 'keep' them. But humans have no control over what they do. We attempt to predict. We try to coerce. Force, at times, in cases like removing queens and disrupting their natural flows and rhythms. But unlike cows or horses, we cannot 'break' bees. There is no controlling them. They do what they wish. They do not act because of our interventions, but perhaps in response to them at times.
In this way, spending time with bees is like witnessing nature, in its wild state, and being part of it. Observing and learning from wild animals who have no intention of controlling me. They are content, at times, for me to witness them. Other times they would prefer I go somewhere else. But they are wild spirits, fully invested in their own experiences. The natural cycle of the earth is seen when spending time with them. In a single visit I can see tiny eggs, watch a bee hatch out of her cell as a new fuzzy adult, I can see weary foragers at the entrance with tattered wings walking away from the hive, their own death march. And I can see the formation of new comb, pollen being pushed into cakes, nectar being stored to slowly dehydrate into honey. Bees cleaning, dancing, guarding, watching me with an equal appearance of fascination.
But for a year now, I have not spent time with them. As a part of our uprooting, I decided not to keep bees in 2023 and I have felt the impact on my mental state. Like being away from a soul friend. I was able to do a check with my friend Michael in September and it was like balm on my weathered heart. How much have I missed their sounds, low and rumbly. How much I have missed the smell of wax and bee bread and smoke and earth.
I spent two years tending the land surrounding my apiary, the second location after our move back north. First I used a sillage tarp over the large space, moving the 50x100-foot piece of thick plastic every few months to kill off the alfalfa. This method mulches the ground simultaneously with the dead organic matter. I planted rounds of native prairie wildflowers and grasses, hand seeding and raking it in on the eve of a day when rain would water it in. Some plantings in the fall, some in the spring. What resulted was a beautifully diverse foodscape for the bees and countless other pollinators, birds, amphibians and reptiles. There was never a day when I wouldn't see a snake or frog or bird bound into or out of this haven. Burrowing moles to feed the circling hawks. But this past spring I handed the space over to someone else. I had to let go of this spot that I had been caring for to another beekeeper. This keeper is certainly keeping in his own way, and I have no idea what his methods are or if he is putting attention into the wildscape.
But I do know he is selling his honey at the local Co-op.
Selling at the Co-op was something I always wanted to do but never worked up the courage to ask about. At the time I started keeping in this area there were so many other honeys being sold. Lots of keepers selling. I didn't think there was space for me. I didn't try to find out. I assumed the pie was gone. It was a fateful afternoon in late summer when I noticed the tiny jars by the cheese case with a pang of jealousy. Those should be mine. I worked so hard to create that space he was now benefiting from.
Of course, when I started keeping on this half farmland half homestead, there were many beautiful native pollinating plants already established, curated carefully by the previous owner. Those natives were thriving for my bees to enjoy - tall compass flowers, quirky rattlesnake master, sprawling echinacea. I would often walk the trails just to see how many of my ladies were foraging here. There were a few apple trees and a towering Linden that became a friend. Each nourished so many. Despite all my negative thoughts of injustice, I benefitted just as much from this land so cared for by someone else. I was helping continue a vision of a woman now deceased, by adding to what she had done, but my bees were reaping from her years of hard work.
And now with a new season on the horizon, I will start over. But, as with most things, I cannot consider it truly starting over, just starting again. Orchards and fields are full of forage for my bees no matter where I put them. Nature continues its symbiotic dance of flower and bee. And someone else’s success doesn’t mean that I cannot also hold space for these insects once more, watch them thrive somewhere else.
And who knows what adventures lie beyond the limited scope of honey production?
Your honesty is beautiful. Thank you for sharing part of your soul with us 🖤 💛