Beekeeping: A moving meditation
honeycomb close up
The hives are sometimes a place of moving meditation, a miniature buzzing cathedral with stained glass windows of pollen and honey.
A shift has happened in the apiary. On June 20th the summer solstice marked the longest day of the year, the apex of sunlight and daytime activity. Within a few days of it the foragers noticed the daylight minutes lost. The queen is beginning to slow her egg laying. A mysterious switch has flipped. The current attitude of the hive is that winter is on the horizon.
Sometime after midsummer (isn't that a nice old word?) the bees' patterns and behaviors start to change. It's called photoperiod sensitivity. Bees are keenly attuned to the length of days and the spring spirit of expansion begins to wane and is replaced with a drive to conserve resources. Drones, generally useless to the workers and queen now, will be chased out of the hive and prevented by guard bees from returning. A beekeeper can only look on at the beauty and harshness that a hive contains.
As I work with sweat dripping off my eyelashes, which I cannot reach to wipe away because of my suit, I’m in awe at the cycle happening. Astronomy meets apiology. As I move frames and check for capped honey I think about the fact that we are walking around on an orb hurtling through space at about sixty-seven thousand miles per hour orbiting our sun. Our solar system as a whole is also moving through the galaxy at unimaginable speed, 448,000 mph. I know this because on the first warm day of spring I like to go out and lie in the grass and look up at the sky. Doing this makes me wonder about a lot of things that have to be looked up afterwards.
The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Psalm 19:1
I watch the bees go about their work and I marvel at the connections. I think about their response to celestial changes, the same constant changes that give us time. Even after all these years honeybees are still often bewildering and mysterious to me. I pry the gooey propolis away to detach a frame and shoo a bee away with my gloved finger.
How many are your works, o Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.
Psalm 104:24
God seems to whisper something above the hum of the hive. I think about the precision of our placement in the galaxy (what are the chances?) while I'm looking at the accuracy with which these tiny insects have built some fresh honeycomb from wax they secrete from their abdomens. Things too large and too small for me to comprehend.
A mystery. Not one to solve but to sit in amid wonder of all that I do not understand.
What is God whispering? Can I hear it? I remember that phrase, "deep unto deep." I try to recall the passage and context but cannot. (Psalm 42:7) It describes what I'm feeling. Not a spoken word or even a conscious thought. A resonance with God through creation. His fingerprints everywhere. I whisper a prayer of awe and gratitude. I say with the Psalmist, "Who am I, God, that you are mindful of me?"
So often we come to our prayer time with requests or questions. We can easily make that every spiritual encounter we have. But we can have something else, not an answer but a drink for our souls. In a beehive, on a beach, in a forest, watching a sunset from your porch we can find connection with our Creator as He speaks through His creation.
For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.
Rom. 1:20