It comes around every year. Drone Warfare. It’s ugly. The male bees, named drones, larger than their female counterparts have been raised for the sole purpose of mating the queens in the neighborhood. Their genetics are important, but their role is short lived.

If their number is not called up for the mating flight, ensuring immediate death, they become couch potatoes in the hive. Lolling around, they guzzle resources that the thrifty girls have been putting aside for weeks and months. They pillage and plunder the storehouses of honey and spread their girth across the honeycomb, taking up precious space for the nest of babies, soiling it with their waste. When the season for mating and swarming has passed, the girls can take no more. They begin a vicious assault, until the last one is gone. One can’t help but feel sympathy.

Mother Nature does have a cruel streak.

You nurture a hive through the winter, tending it like a baby. Then one day, due to such good care, the queen begins laying and laying and laying and laying…she lays so many eggs, evidently up to 2000 eggs a day, that soon the hive is packed with fuzzy little bee babies rolling around everywhere. The home begins to feel like Thanksgiving in a 600 square foot house with friends and family flooding in for the festivities. They then stay overnight, sleeping on floors and in corners and 3 to a bed.

With the weather turning warm, the girls get a wild hare. “Hey, why don’t we take half the household and go find a new place to live? Someplace that has more room and not so many bodies in the kitchen at one time?”  They plot and they plan, and before you, as the bewildered beehive keeper even notice—since you are still joyfully and quite blindly fawning over their multitudes, burgeoning exponentially since the meager winter—half the hive is suddenly gone.

So, this has happened to me twice already this year. I’m glad to give my bees away to good homes. Which is what happened to the hive in the North Valley, kindly hosted by my friends. When my bees split I was totally unaware. Annette texted about a mysterious swarm dangling in their fruit tree…only to disappear. A day later, it showed high up in their Cottonwood. Stephen called me this time and I told him to prepare the ladder and a saw. By the time I rushed down there they had absconded again….only to appear yet one more time in the very same fruit tree they had originally left 3 days before. This time we caught them. Gentle and disoriented, they clung to each other in a sweet little oblong shape. Stephen sawed off the branch and we hived those beauties in the hive where my friends had lost a a whole colony just that winter. They had also disappeared. Not unusual in the bee world today. Lots of confusing weather patterns, mites, radio waves…

Fortunately that swarm had a happy ending.

The last hive that swarmed on me hung out for a while on my neighbor’s lilac bush. When Phyllis saw it, she was worried. I received three panicked texts in a row. I admit, they do look intimidating to the average neighbor. All those bees clinging together, hanging like a basket in a tree. She wondered if they might take out after her watering her roses….or make a new home in her house. I assured her that the first worry was not so worrisome. Bees in a swarm state are generally gentle as lambs. The second worry was what sent me over to her yard as the twilight deepened that very night— scooping them into a hive to seal them off til morning. I would hate to be the cause of bees under the eaves.

The next morning I carted them off to the organic farm in the valley. It was a place that I would like to live if I were a bee—the flowering arugula is to die for. But they were unhappy with my choice of homes. That night, as the wind howled and rain began to pelt, the bees chose to dangle outside the home I had assigned. I raced down to the farm, exchanging texts with the farm owner. As the black night whipped around me and strange dogs snarled and barked, running along the fence row on the other side, I approached the hive. My bees were swarming …again. I plopped the bees in yet a different hive. The next morning they were gone. My sweet baby bees. Absconded. They had a mind of their own.

No need to shed too many tears. I had done my best. Now they were on their own.

Kinda like children. You do what you can. One day they will decide to head out into the storms of life after you’ve done all you could to shelter, love, nurture and protect them. What can you do?

Godspeed baby girls.

I trust you have everything you need.

The queen lives!   The colony will live on. The faltering hive, blended with a queen and her kin, is suddenly energized. She must be laying up a storm of eggs, for the girls are as busy as bees(excuse the trite expression) to bring in honey and pollen. Now they have a purpose in life. A direction.

So I could talk about the beauty of blending a hive.  Or the power of a good queen to pull a dying community back from the brink. Or the importance of life purpose. Or how differing cultures and religions might come peacefully together if they first sniff each other through newspaper until the scent of the “other” isn’t so scary…

But never mind that. What has been on my mind is that bees are sacred guardians of our land and food system just as indigenous people are and have been for a millenia. It came to me this morning as I read a front page story about the death, destruction and rape being visited upon indigenous people of Guatemala.  They refuse to leave their land that has been handed over for mining exploitation by massive multi-national Canadian mining company, Hudbay Minerals. http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/19516-the-end-of-impunity-indigenous-guatemalans-bring-canadian-mining-company-to-court

So what I really want to talk about is these sacred guardians who live close to the heartbeat of the land. They show us what is of infinite worth. Life and love itself. I want to speak to all they stand for—that which is life affirming, rather than death dealing and greed driven. Bees and Indigenous peoples act on behalf of a healthy future for our children. They show us the violent tentacles that are destroying our planet. They are on the front lines.

Let us be with them in our actions and Spirit.

So I did something daring today. I took a ridiculously successful, laying queen from one hive, and put her and some of her nursery babysitter bees into a hive that I deemed queen-less.

I didn’t actually know this hive was queen-less, initially. I had been watching them for weeks as the weather warmed. They started out busily gathering pollen, but as the temperatures soared they disappeared into the dark dungeon of their hive. I wondered what on earth the girls were doing. I rarely saw them leave the hive. They had stopped gathering food. When I put my ear up to the hive, I heard an amiable low hum— as though they were having a quiet backyard garden party. Since I rarely open up the baby bee brood nest when the weather is still cranky and could turn cold, I continued to check on them occasionally by pulling a few bars way at the back of the hive just to make certain they were still alive and crawling about. They were. I closed the hive back up.

But as this strange pattern continued, I decided to crash their little party on the first warmish March day. The temperatures had climbed above 55 degrees. The evil, crazy making winds had waned this particular day. The tumbleweeds had stopped rolling across the road for a moment. I was going in there.

What I found was troubling. No sign of a queen. No queen cells—which would indicate a possible queen in the future. Lots of bees and combs full of honey. Some pollen stores— protein for the hive. But there was nary a bee egg to be found or any sign of infant life. In other words, no babies, no nursery. This meant certain doom for the future. A population crash.

There wasn’t even “worker brood”, a beekeepers nightmare. This is when a lady worker bee decides to become uppity and begin laying eggs, acting as the queen in residence. It’s gnarly to try to oust one of these imposters, with her gang of thugs surrounding her. A laying worker is usually bursting with a sense of self appointed, exaggerated importance. But her unfertilized eggs are worthless.

This hive would die within 30 days if I didn’t give them a queen.

After consulting with my best beefriends on the beesfordummiesutubes—I decided to check the hive across the yard. If they had a good queen, I would kidnap her and put her in this crippled, queenless hive (with the paper trick of course— a paper shield between them so they could sniff each other before chewing through the paper and uniting as one big happy, blended family). This was always a bit worrisome and highly risky.  If I had missed a little secret virgin queen hidden away or out mating in the queen-less hive, trouble would ensue.  There would be blood between the rival queens and courts. There would be a day of reckoning.

But at this dire intersection—the sure death of this hive—all I could do was trust my 6th sense and what my eyes told me. It was the best I could do.

When I opened the queened hive, I was stunned by the multitude of eggs and babybrood. This queen was unbelievably prolific. And there she was, in the midst of the bustling brood, almost languid and lackadaisical from the unbelievable amount of eggs she’d been laying since January. It was ridiculous. There was a whole bar of drone brood, meaning, there were going to be lots of dudes breaking out of their cells soon. Ready to mate. Likely this hive was on it’s way to swarming and leaving for a new zipcode.

I had just broken into a rock concert and the queen was the rock star.

I hurried the queen and a few bars of her entourage to the queen-less hive, sealing them in. The girls from the hive where I had just stolen their royalty would be building their own queen, as soon as they noticed her disappearance. Likely within 24 hours. The hope was for a new queen to emerge within a month ready to go to work.

It’s scary. Some days downright ridiculously risky.  I would hate to lose any of these girls that I have nurtured through the winter. But, beekeeping is often a huge Russian Roulette game. It is a combination of the wild mystery of bees,  external variables(think weather, pests and chemicals), and the beekeeper’s next move.

Stay tuned next week to find out if the combining of two families of bees resulted in a feud or loving reunion. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, and a direct line to heaven open….it’s Easter after all. Season of resurrection.

I have made a conscious decision to keep politics out of my bee blog. I have succeeded. Mostly. But when I saw the story about Ted Cruz banning the musical tri-tone  (http://www.snopes.com/false-ted-cruz-tritone/) I lost my resolve. I changed my mind. In other words, I flipped out. I had a whole rant at the ready for you this week.

Fortunately, it was a satirical article.  But like the fictitious deceptions that U.S. political candidates are spinning these days (Obama is a Muslim from Kenya, has been busted for male prostitution…Toto, there is no such thing as climate change, etc.), it incites people to riot and  as a singer and lover of music, my ire was certainly kindled

These days, I prefer to stick with bees. No ideology to debate or ugly rhetoric. Only the hands on, real time of happiness that overcomes me when the hive lid is off, the soft thrumming of 10’s of thousands of bees at work. I begin to remove the bars and smell that warm sweetness of honey arise like warm bread. Only a clear duty in front of me— check for real time mites, diseases or problems, work on fixing them if possible. If nothing needs fixing,  just savor the goodness in front of me. Give thanks for all that is going…well, right.

These days, I prefer to keep the news media at bay. There is so much fear mongering and ranting going on. Today I read a beautiful prayer. It offered me something nourishing in a time that has become fraught with these dangerous political potholes— leading only to frenzied rumors about important things like tri-tones.

Here’s a prayer by His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama. For the bees, Ted Cruz and all living beings who suffer. Bzzz.

Please pacify the uninterrupted miseries and unbearable fears,

such as famines and sicknesses,

that torment powerless beings

completely oppressed by inexhaustible and violent evils.

And henceforth lead us from suffering states

and place us in the ocean of happiness and joy.

Those who, maddened by the demons of delusion,

commit violent negative actions

that destroy both themselves and others,

should be the objects of our compassion.

May the hosts of undisciplined beings

fully gain the eye that knows

what to abandon and practice,

and be granted a wealth

of loving kindness and friendliness.

Through force of dependent-arising,

which by nature is profound

and empty of appearances,

the force of the Words of Truth,

the power of the kindness of the Three Jewels

and the true power of non-deceptive actions

and their effects;

may my prayer of truth

be accomplished quickly and without hindrance.

(Prayers for Healing, ed. by Maggie Oman, Berkeley, CA; Conari Press, 1977)

My Mennonite ancestors taught me to plunge my hands in the good earth. It was that body memory of farming the land and animal husbandry that eventually led me full circle to honeybees. As I hear the news of yet another mass shooting, this time in the tiny town of my alma mater, Hesston Kansas, I need the peace of wild things (thank you, Wendell Berry) to help clear my head. The madness of gun violence continues unabated, while the insane conversation of politicians suck up all the airspace. We are plagued by denial and partisan narcissism. There seems to be no national will to heal our humanity. We are soulsick as a nation.We do not reflect on our collective lives and the dis-ease of violence that afflicts our society.

An historical novel, Acalan, by Anthony Conforti (Putun Press) takes the reader back to the ancient and complex indigenous cultures that gave rise in the 14th and 15th centuries.

In one exchange between a Mayan priestess, Ixchel, and the Priestly Scribe, her mentor, she says:

My Lord, once I read in a book that creating a garden is the highest form of peacemaking. The scribe smiled at Ixchel, constantly amazed at her depth of learning and understanding.” Yes! I think the act of creating a garden out of nature, the desire to heal fellow human beings, and the ability to write down ones thoughts are the highest virtues of civilization.”

This is a provocative idea.

It occurs to me that patience and care of a garden plot full of humble plants, birds and bugs prepares me to care for others. Certainly it nourishes my soul, leading me to self reflection and hopefully, right relationship with all living beings.

Today was a warm Spring day. The bee yard, aka my backyard, was filled with my golden girls taking flight. I could see the top of the apple tree next door unveiling her pink blossoms. The nectar flow was beginning. I opened one of the hives, exposing the industrious and complex society of the honeybees inside. Amazingly they were filling up the empty combs with honey. It was a collaborative hubbub. They didn’t pay any attention to me as I pried open the bars to gaze inside. I was soothed by the pungent smell of honey, the low hum of many busy bees and warmth emanating from the hive. It was the peaceable kingdom—or queendom, as it were. A virtuous civilization.

Perhaps it is time to get down on our collective hands and knees in the good soil and begin to clear and sow that Spring garden. Or keep bees.

I light a candle tonight for you, Hesston Kansas. I am with you.

Last weekend was the New Mexico Organics Conference. Celebrating 25 years, they noted that the market has ballooned to millions of $$$$ in sales, increasing at least 400% since it’s inception. The place was thronging with all ages. The attire ranged from heels and fancy clothes, coveralls, pointy toed cowboy boots/ hats to t-shirts and tattoos. There was the white haired veteran farmers with ruddy complexions and the hat tan-line on their forehead. There were the diminutive women with weathered brown skin who worked the land. I decided on New Mexico casual with hiking boots and my Patagonia jacket, hair tied back as I hosted a table for Bee City USA (http://beecityusa.org/)and signups to match organic farmers with beekeepers, with my friend Sarah. But particularly noticeable were the young people. The younger generation  surrounded us like a river of enthusiasm (which my husband tells me comes from the Greek “to be filled with God”) bearing us all along and inspiring us with their curiosity and incredible creativity.

The weekend was full of fascinating booths for aspiring farmer wannabes and those who were actually making farming work. Food samples and pollinator hotels for sale. Alternatives to insecticides and herbicides. Catalogues of Beneficials filled with Green Lacewings, Ladybugs and Praying Mantis’.  A lions share of soil health workshops, including Bovine Soil Builders ( evidently a booming field ). There was compost tea, seed saving, winter greens, aquaponics, biodynamics, Goats, chickens, bees, funghi and how to grow your business plan. I would say it was heady stuff, except that it was all grounded in the humble dirt. It felt like coming home, being a farmer’s daughter.

Recently our Universe of New Mexico Astronomy department was notably part of an international team that found new galaxies in the Universe. Hidden away behind layers of dust and stars, drawing our Milky Way galaxy towards unimaginable new worlds were these superclusters of heretofore unseen galaxies.

http://news.unm.edu/news/scientists-discover-hidden-galaxies-behind-milky-way

How rarely do I have the chance to pull my nose out of what is right in front of my face. And yet, the universe we live within is beyond comprehension. There are these brilliant galaxies composed of stars and dust….and then there are tiny bees. And humans. Both  composed of stars and dust.

My friend Lorenzo Candelaria, the South Valley organic farmer reminded me of this just today. I went down to visit him and see the early Spring progress as he and his workers prepared new starts in the hoophouses and roto-tilled row upon row of dark rich humus. Lorenzo, his usual cheerful 4’7″ diminutive self, clothed in coveralls and his trademark straw hat and neck bandanna, pulled a rolled cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep drag.

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye as I inhaled deeply of the fragrant warm moist air of the hoophouse—tobacco smoke curling around us. There was a long row of Russian Kale, my favorite. Arugula, baby greens, spinach, lettuces of all types.  This was Lorenzo’s religion. “This is our mother earth. Like an umbilical cord,  we are connected to her for life…without her, we die. We humans are made of the same stuff as this earth but also of stardust. The whole Universe is right here inside us as humans! It is here in this soil! Such potential.”

Lorenzo is my earth mystic friend. He is absolutely delighted by all of it, 20 years after marrying himself to the land. And like any good marriage, time has only enriched the soil of his love. When I come to this little 4 acre plot, I also feel that all is right with the world. How can I explain it?  It’s like a tiny piece of the Garden of Eden. Shalom. The peace of the soil as it harmonizes with the molecules of plants, sipping water and air to make something that we can eat. No chemicals used. Such beauty and goodness and health.

“Look! Some bees have moved into an abandoned hive. Let me show you!” Lorenzo beckoned me.

We walked over to the topbar hive, cobwebbed and dirty.  Sure enough, bees were flying in and out of the slit of a doorway. When I pried off the topbars, the bees flew out. I stood stock still, since I was silly enough not to don my veil and smoker for this event. What I saw was amazing. The hive was chock full of comb and an old colony, their small bodies huddled together, noses buried in the comb, butts in the air—like a picture from the death scene of those who had imbibed the poison of Jim Jones’ Guyana. They were lifeless and still. Likely they had starved or frozen to death.

Yet, swirling around this scene of death was a new hive of bees, longing for a place to call home. Busy tidying up, sweeping the floors, hauling debris, clearing out the macabre scene of death in lieu of resurrection.

Wow. I didn’t know what else to say.

Lorenzo smiled. Mother Nature knows what she needs. The universe has brought the bees here—gratis. They are right on time for the Spring bloom. They come ready to pollinate. Life bearers.

Galaxies that we have never seen, do exist. Bees and humans, trees and flowers, dolphins and topsoil are merely a microcosm of those far off places. That which is light years away is also here.

Bees are the ultimate life affirming of critters. Their buzzy, busy ways, communication patterns and how they work together to collaborate is a testament to the ideal of community. They show us how human communities can become life giving places for all, rather than profiting just a few. Their common labor is for the survival and thriving of the whole—the common good. Bees work for free, offering gifts for us as humans.  All the elements—honey, pollen, propolis, royal jelly, even stings—are therapeutic and healing.

This past weekend I attended our Annual New Mexico Beekeeping Association meeting. Our keynote speaker, Dr. Mark Winston, of Vancouver, B.C., biologist and professor at Simon Fraser University, reminded me again of what bees teach us as humans.

Honeybees are stellar communicators. Their main goal is to pass information, not to judge. They do it in a full bodied way—by dancing for one another, by various buzzing sounds, by swapping spit, by rubbing up against each other, sending pheromones, by going nose to nose. They are not averse to being engaged full throttle— employing all 5 senses. Then, as a colony, they use the information to make decisions that are best for the common good of the hive. They teach us how to listen deeply and be endlessly curious about our surroundings.

Winston reminded us that our political system is broken here in the U.S. It is a mean time of obstructionist, partisan politics. Politicians seem to relish polarizing language and beating the war drums domestically and abroad. Curiosity about another’s different idea or perspective is anachronistic. We view the “other” as someone to be silenced, deported, shouted down, disappeared. Civil discourse across divisions seems impossible.

But I noticed one positive thing at our bee meeting. Bees brought us together across all our differences. People who care about bees cut across all political, cultural and religious spectrums. We all came together from across the state to our meeting last weekend, learning how to care for bees and their habitat. The wonder, mystery and life- affirming magic of bees drew us all in for the common good.

Aganetha  Dyck, a Mennonite visual artist from Canada became enchanted with bees early on. She creates art by taking objects and putting them into the hive and seeing how the bees create something amazing. Dyck understands the magic of bees. She represents their life affirming presence in her art. A honeycombed house, a bridalcomb dress…

She talks about how opening the hive makes the world stand still for a moment in time. One moves into a contemplative, liminal space. All the senses come alive with the warmth, sound and ambrosia scent of honey.

That’s where I want to be when the world is unkind and ugly— my nose in in my hive. Soon, as the weather warms, the bees will begin to fly again…

The Plexiglass House {2008}

Commissioned by North Dakota Museum of Art

Photo credit: Peter Dyck

The Extended Wedding Party

Photo credit: Peter Dyck & The W.A.G.