Bees are magic made visible. From my first barefoot encounter in a clover patch, to the eye-level flybys among the ligustrum, to their temporary confines in a jelly jar, honeybees have graced my memories of childhood and summer like the sweetness of the nectar they collect.
I began keeping bees several years ago. As a beekeeper, my technique is not to be emulated. I tend to leave the bees alone as much as possible. Pampering didn’t work, and now it seems neither does benign neglect.
My bustling hive one week is a sad reminder the next that magic isn’t easily sustained. My bees did not survive the winter nor the failings of a novice beekeeper. Remnants of their engineering skills and artistry rest on my window sill, reminders that in life as with bees, we encounter some stings along the way to harvesting the honey.
What I was blogging about: