It’s very quiet outside my window. That’s because the bees are gone. There used to be a buzzing vortex of those (yes, very busy) honey-gatherers in animated waves going about their bzzzz-ness way up high on the fourth floor where we live. And now, because the guy four floors beneath them complained, once again the Homo sapien species takes precedent over the world of other-than-human types.
Of course I’m sorry the guy’s little dog got stung and that there were bees dropping down onto his deck below. I don’t want anyone to suffer in any way, but why do we have to go to such extremes of extermination? I begged the bee guy (a very sweet man who worked alongside his equally endearing son) to please just remove the bees and not kill them. He said the bees had built a huge hive that was imbedded into the walls of both my apartment and that of my next door neighbor. The honey and wax had built up so much that they would do damage to the walls and then there’s the apartment liability thing. Lawyers, corporations, blah-de-blah-de-blah, i.e. “son-of-a-b’s” who overrule honey bees.
I begged louder. I called a local beekeeper (not a bee exterminator) who had a big bee farm locally. And he said the same thing. Even if they could hire a cherry-picker –a tremendously expensive deal—to make it possible somehow for the bee guys to reach in and pull out the hive, the process alone would kill the bees. Plus, it would cause one hell of an angry swarm that would probably zap any and everyone around the apartment complex, and the beekeepers as well. The hive was way too far into the walls. A human inconvenience. The bees would have to be frozen instantly. The hive needed to be removed. I was told that they scream when the whole procedure happens. I won’t go into how intelligent and amazing these insects are and their tremendous importance to the human race. Just look it up and you’ll know what I now know about them.
As it turned out, tucked inside those walls, with the entrance right outside my window there were over 40,000 bees that had created a hive weighing over 100 pounds. How long had they worked so long to create such a honey of a creation? A year? Two or three? I had prayed no one would notice them and they would be left alone. I could continue to enjoy their tireless life’s purpose to feed their queen, pollinate flowers, and produce their sweet natural resource that is the very essence of what we humans depend on to survive.
I even contacted www.facebook.com/pages/Give-a-Shit-about-Bees for advice. Our messages exclamation pointed back and forth to each other trying to find a solution to save them from their cruel plight. In a last-ditch effort she told me to pray to the Patron Saint of Bees, St. Ambrose. I papered my windows next to their hive with images of the good Saint. Days went by and the bees continued their perpetual dance just inches beyond my computer adding a beauty and levity to my often solitary state of the independent writer. You sometimes wonder if you’re all alone in the world even though you know better. But with them racing from here to there, I always felt a sense of joy that gave impetus to whatever I was doing or thinking. No matter what, I could always count on them to bee there buzzing in the sunshine back and forth into and outside of their hidden hive. Birds would swoop into their midst trying to gobble a wayward few. The palm trees would sway in rhythm to it all. At night I could hear the soft ping-ping-ping against the windows as the bees were drawn to the lamplight on my desk. “Please, St. Ambrose, save them,” I prayed. I silently wished the bees would sense my concern and would just leave on their own. But to no avail.
The day arrived when I heard the hectic pounding signaling their final doom coming from my neighbor’s wall. The pictures in my office nearly fell down from all the hammering and thumping that ensued. I turned on the TV as loud as I could in the other room and cried.
And then all was deathly still. It was over. And with it this pervasive silence outside my window high above the fourth floor. I guess St. Ambrose is saving them in a different way. I picture all those golden beings now flying free in heavenly meadows thick with infinite fields of wild flowers and welcoming bee-hive-ready nooks and crannies completely out of harm’s way.
A Gift from St. Ambrose
And this is the amazing thing. Just a few days later I noticed something outside on my window just inches from what had been the bee’s home. It was a Praying Mantis busily cleaning its antennae, stretching its tiny arms, looking for all the world like some little alien creature with bulging eyes and heart-shaped face. I was transfixed. And so were the cats, Boo and Scout. I called to Pete to take its picture. We all stared at the little being who seemed quite content to peacefully stare back at us. It made me smile and then laugh.
Later I did some research on the Praying Mantis. The Bushmen believed it to be a God-like being. Many cultures consider it a good luck omen. And others say that it represents calmness, serenity, quiet, a sign for those whose path it crosses to go within; to meditate, to quell the storm of discontent. In other words, to stop white-knuckling what often is inevitable. I now believe that gentle little green being could very well have been a magical gift from St. Ambrose himself offering a comforting message. Let it Bee.
