A Day With The Bees

The hum, oh how it found me.

I was nervous before I even arrived, imagining the sting of a thousand tiny warnings. The new bee suit sat folded in the passenger seat beside me like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep. Even from the road, the hives looked alive - soft white boxes humming with their own kind of order.

Rene, the beekeeper, met us with that calm, sun-weathered ease of someone who's learned how to move slowly in the company of wings. He spoke while we suited up, explaining that bees sense intention more than fear, that they read movements like language. I nodded, pretending bravery.

My friend Susan had no fear. She jumped right in, standing close, her veil brushing the edge of the first hive as she leaned forward to peer inside. I, on the other hand, hung back at first, watching the air shimmer with movement, unsure if I belonged in that buzzing congregation. But curiosity is its own kind of courage. Little by little, I edged closer - first a few feet, then just an arm's reach away - until I could see the bees clearly, their small bodies glinting with sunlight and purpose.

Then came the sound - at first a single note, then a vibration that filled the air and my chest at once. Thousands of bees, their hum not menacing but steady, ancient, purposeful. I felt it more than I heard it. The fear began to dissolve. Every bee had a task, each carrying pollen or guarding or fanning the hive with small miraculous wings. The whole colony pulsed like a living organ of the earth.

Rene lifted a frame heavy with honeycomb, golden light dripping between the cells. He told us about the queen's slow procession, about how each worker's life was brief yet essential. I thought of how everything good - honey, light, trust - is built from small acts repeated again and again.

By the time we stepped away, the sun had tilted and my heart had quieted. The bees went on working, indifferent to our awe. My friend and I shared a glance that needed no words. We both knew we'd been changed, even slightly.

When we finally stepped away, we lingered in Rene's driveway, talking about everything and nothing - the way you do after something unexpectedly meaningful. The air still smelled faintly of pine smoke and honey.

Just look at that face. Pure gentleness, wool and wonder!

Eventually, we drove to Susan's, where the sheep waited like a gentle punctuation to the day. Their fleeces are fuller now, soft as clouds against the autumn light. The lambs, those harlequin, spotted little treasures - came close, curious and unafraid. I sat on the ground and they surrounded me, warm noses pressed to my hands, the smallest one staring straight into me with a kind of knowing that words can't touch. There, in that quiet moment, I felt the same hum as before - not from bees this time, but from life itself.