Telling the bees

and what the bees teach us

~ Artist Lea Bradovich

Recently I entered into the world of the bees. A podcaster suggested that in times of challenge, it’s a viable and lovely idea to go and speak with the bees, to share our troubles, and why not? They listen with the compassion of nature herself. Imagine that somebody cries alone in a field with the bees, he mused, surely the bees must know in a certain way. I felt charmed hearing these words, a bodily affinity that made perfect sense to me. Speaking to the bees was something I wanted to do, something I deeply knew to do. What I didn’t know was that within a few hours I would be standing in front of a beehive at home, speaking to the bees.

Just after the podcast, as I stepped into the lounge, still resonating with the bees, I noticed a tiny square card lying beside the lamp. Absently, I picked it up and discarded it, when Dev intervened. “Did you see the picture?” he asked. I hadn’t. He then retrieved the card from the bin. It was a little bee! A fragment from a Burt’s Bees lip balm box that my sister had brought me from New Zealand. Dev hadn’t heard the podcast and the special part about the bees, but his timing was uncanny. “I thought you’d like it,” he said. I did, and more than that, I could sense that the bees were drawing near.

I placed the bee picture on my altar. A vague memory surfaced that we had some bees on the property, somewhere near the electrical box outside, though the details were hazy. I recalled a story of them being relocated. I didn’t really know. In the space of a few hours, from the podcast to the bee image, a short beeline, I found myself standing in front of the sweet little wooden hive, only a minute’s walk away from the front door. With a tea light, incense and bare feet, I approached the hive and said, “Hello! I’m happy you live here. Sorry I overlooked you. Do you mind if I tell you a few things that are bewildering, and not in my hands.” It was liberating speaking to the bees. I got the feeling that telling the bees is like asking for help from a compassionate and sophisticated species of galactic intelligence.

“Telling the bees” was an old European tradition, where bees were informed of significant life events like births, deaths and marriages. If you didn’t, it could cause the bees to leave, stop producing honey or even die.

Reflecting on my connection with bees, memories began to surface. As a child I was allergic to bee stings, but one random, lighthearted incident stood out. I was about 19 years old and had stayed up most of the night with friends at a party. There was much wine. The next day, we were quite under the weather. Fish and chips were the answer. It was a sleepy Sunday and walking to the local takeaway shop, my friend saw a bee fly by and thought, in her foggy state, “What are you doing working on a Sunday?” When she told me, we found this hilariously absurd. In the 1980’s in New Zealand everything was shut on a Sunday.

Bee longing

Twice in my life, a swarm of bees visited my home, signalling imminent change.

The first encounter was unforgettable. I was preparing to leave the house with my four-year-old son Ben. As I closed the lounge door, I noticed that there were a few bees inside. I didn’t think much about it, and anyway there wasn’t the time, so I shut the door and we headed out. A few hours later, when we returned home, the double glass doors were teeming with bees. It was arresting. I’d never seen anything like it. I contacted a local beekeeper and he came over immediately. What stayed with me was his love of bees. He explained that the disoriented scout bees had entered through the chimney, looking for a new home, and the hive had followed. This unexpected event proved to be prophetic. Shortly after, my son’s father and I separated. I found myself, much like the bees, disoriented and looking for a new home.

When a swarm of bees came to my home some twelve years later, I immediately saw an augury of significant life change.

I was chatting to my friend Cathryn on the phone. Even though she lived close by, we would quite often speak on the phone. Back then, phone calls were a staple of friendship. Today it feels more like a nostalgic luxury. As we were speaking, I heard a humming sound, intriguing and lovely. And close. I couldn’t see anything, and we kept talking, until I noticed one of the side windows morphing into a tapestry of bees, and the blue sky swarming with shadows. I quickly said goodbye and ran around the two-story house, shutting every window. It was exhilarating and wild. The bees had completely enveloped one side of the house, covering every window.

This time I knew why they were there. I just didn’t know when. Sure enough, it wasn’t so long after that, that I woke up at midnight with the clear thought: “Sell the house and go to India.” The idea had already taken root in another dimension and was awaiting its manifestation. I followed that thought to Arunachala. The bees moved on from the side of the house to their new home. And so did I.

A honey bee’s heart

Were the bees taking a personal interest in my life’s unfolding? Not at all. Bees do seem to understand though, the inevitability of change, of death and it’s absolute nature.

Bees are said to come from Venus, embodying Love’s frequency. The Queen Bee is the heart of the hive and represents love. The bees work selflessly together to serve the Queen. To serve love. To serve the highest ideal, the shared vision of the perfect collective potential, the hive living in harmony.

I sense that what the bees are behind their form, their galactic hum, what they serve, and the unity of their shared vision, is aware and not indifferent to our human plight, especially in this moment for our species. We are being called to emulate their selfless service to and for the Queen, individuals serving the whole, serving life, serving love and our emergent collective vision.

Bee’s knees

Another life change is afoot. I don’t need to see a swarm of bees to know this. My body knows. The bees are close. Bees are the winged messengers between worlds. In folklore, if a parent dies, the oldest son will move the beehive a little bit to the right, a signal to the bees that the universe has changed ever so slightly. I’m not the oldest son and my parents are still living, but I sense that I may be moving the beehive ever so slightly to the right when my little world changes, as I know it soon will, with a crossing over of a kind that can only happen in unexpected and unforeseen ways.

The bee’s knees means that something is exceptional. I’m feeling this version of the bee’s knees as being something closer to kneeling. When we’re brought to our knees, we pray, in surrender and in service to the Queen -- to love herself.

One day soon, I’ll walk over to the little wooden beehive where the bees live and ask to speak to the Queen, and although this sounds a little grandiose, that’s what I’ll do, to ask her if I can be her servant.

I’ll be on my way looking for flowers . . .

✨ 🐝 ✨

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