Mild temperatures gave my husband and I an opportunity to check on our beehives. For the most part, we leave the bees be; only interrupting the hum of the hive when necessary. On this occasion, we wanted to remove mite medicine placed in the hive a week earlier. We felt fortunate that only two out of the four hives had mite counts high enough to warrant treatment.
As we approached the hive we could see the bees were very active and agitated. On closer inspection, it was obvious something had removed the entrance reducer, possibly a skunk or a raccoon. Wasps were trying to enter the hive and raid the hive’s winter stores of honey. Guard bees were protecting the entrance but the large opening was giving the wasps an advantage. Once we replaced the entrance reducer the bee’s demeanor quickly calmed. Our human help must have seemed like divine intervention to the bees.
As we watched the bees come and go, we noticed that some were bringing in pollen. I was astonished to see them collecting pollen in November but there it was! The robust yellow-orange bundles clinging to their hind legs was hard to miss. It felt as if a much greater hand was working with ours to help the bees help themselves survive the winter.
Helping…no matter who or what or how much…creates connection. We energetically weave another strand into the web of life, strengthening humanity. You know there is sacredness in the act of helping. You feel the intervention of divinity stir in your heart and spirit. We lend our hands to the Divine when we intervene on behalf of the helpless.
Note: In the featured photo you can see the pollen clinging to back leg of the bee in flight.
In the circle of seasons fall is a restless spirit. These deep months of autumn are one last raucous hurrah before the weather turns the somber corner towards winter’s reverent quiet. Radiant wild leaves that moments earlier burned the sky’s blue, float like embers from a forest aflame. The confetti-colored earth is a sign that winter’s wait is ending. Summer’s party is over.
Chilly north winds usher in a steady stream of grey clouds heavy with rain. For days the dampness soaks deep down into the bones of the land. An earthy scent lingers in the air like the perfumed smoke of incense. There is nothing like that smell to freshen ones state of mind. All it washes over is cleansed and purified for the coming journey inward to connect with self.
Seasonal transitions can be unsettling. They are raw elemental movement measurable in the mindfulness I keep on my mood. Nature is forcing us to face our feelings. In my way of thinking, her influence on our mind isn’t to bring our spirits down as much as it is for us to find ways to raise them up.
Each fall is unique. This year the rain has been persistent and significant. For the most part I’ve been able to keep a sunny disposition despite the seemingly endless string of gloomy grey days. Making monstrous kettles of homemade soup is a delicious way to shine a soul or two… or ten.
This fall taught me…
When you can’t hold the heaviness of dark clouds any longer let go of the rain.
Thank you gratitude
Reflection of kindnesses
Everything’s a gift
September 29th was the one year anniversary of this blog. I struggle with words to communicate the depth of my gratitude to all of you that have given a moment of your attention to view or like my posts. You can’t imagine the joy I feel from those small gestures of kindness.
In the future, the posts will be more spontaneous then scheduled. Fields, family and four-legged’s keep life full. Writing posts will be more in the flow with the work demands of living close to the land. What I’ve learned from my blog journey can be summed up in this beautiful Mary Oliver quote, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”
Summer is drowsy.
Fall wraps a colorful shawl over her shoulders.
apple fragrance perfumes the crisp air.
In the orchard, youth’s tang has mellowed.
Tart and hard surrender.
Wolf River. Prairie Spy. Lodi. Zestar.
Bashful pink blushes streak down each apple.
Voluptuous ornaments adorn the length of each and every limb.
Branches bow as gracefully as the necks of swans.
Sweet wood bares sweet fruit.
McIntosh. Cortland. Red Delicious. Granny Smith
Teeth crush down through flesh.
Taste the juicy ripeness of a season’s end.
Running sky blue clear.
Soul sweet deep.
Wipe your chin ready.
Gala. Sweet Tango. Empire. Honey Crisp
As a child I would steal away time from my farm chores to play among the white pines that grew wide and tall next to our land. They grew best in the coarse, sandy, well-drained soils on the top of small hills. On windy days the sway of the boughs motioned to me like the repeated curl of an index finger beckoning closer. This time of play among the peaceful pines strengthened my spirits gentleness. Many people wish for a heart of oak but I long for a heart of pine.
Nothing escapes pine’s restful rapture. In their company the spirit wanders free and easy. Whose soul isn’t soothed by the faintest tang of pine scent? Gazing at the whorl of branches rise and fall my consciousness slides effortlessly into the flow of creation. In the gentle whisper of the pine, listen for the silence. You will hear things.
Many people wish for a heart of oak but I long for a heart of pine.
Every year the school year begins with a new crop of little ones on my school bus—4Ker’s. They are four-year-old kindergartners filled with fear, excitement and every emotion in between. We are into the second week of school here in Wisconsin. I am beginning to see their individual personality’s blossom. There is nothing like a new clutch of four-year-olds to teach the virtues of a good sense of humor.
Usually I tell the little ones to call me, Ms. Angie or Angie. This year I have a sweet little 4K boy that insists on addressing me as, MrsbusdriverladyAngie. He is bursting with questions about the in’s and out’s of riding on a school bus. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to hear them because our conversations go something like this…
4K Boy: “Mrsbus…..driver…”
4K Boy: “Mrsbusdriver…”
4K Boy: “Mrsbusdriverlady?”
Me: “What do you need Hun?”
4K Boy: “I forgot your name.”
4K Boy: “MrsbusdriverladyAngie.”
4K Boy: “I forgot my question?”
Repeat conversation every 5-10 minutes until you reach the school.
I thought he would tire of the long winded introduction by now but he shows no signs of shortening the preface to my name. He is a bright colored blossom! It is with great honor and dignity that I have decided to accept the title of MrsbusdriverladyAngie bestowed upon me by a gusty four-year-old. Life is so much easier with a good sense of humor. When life tickles you don’t hold back the laugh.
“A sense of humor is just common sense dancing.” ~ William James
The cleanup crew has arrived! Easy access to a food source doesn’t go unnoticed for long by the honeybee. After the honey extraction is complete, all the equipment and empty honey supers are set out for the bees. I took delight in watching the bees collect every last hint of honey. I could hear and feel their joy vibrating through the air. Maybe they even felt some relief. Knowing they didn’t have to “make” all the honey that will sustain them through the cold dark days ahead.
As I sat mesmerized by ceremonial procession from frames to hive, it occurred to me that I was feeding on the bee’s joy. We have easy access to joy’s existence. It’s all around and in everything. We need only to allow the joy, imagined or real, of other beings to be ours.
Joy increases each time it’s shared. Share your sweetness. Grow joy in the world. Allow the joy of others to be yours.