Dear honeybees (all 50,000 or so of you),
Oh, how I love your presence in the garden. I love seeing you nuzzling in the yellow skirts of squash blossoms, or flying home with sacks of pollen affixed to your legs like messenger bags.
I like knowing that when the fruit trees bloom in spring—even the apricots which bloom so early it seems they’re playing chicken with winter—you’ll be there to pollinate them.
And, I love that you’re here, tipping the balance ever so slightly away from The Vanishing of The Bees, at least temporarily, in our microcosm of the planet.
But, sisters and brothers, you have got to stop stinging me.
~ this is called edema or marshmallow foot~
I mean, I like to think of us as friends. Really, we have a lot in common. We love to hang out in the same places. We’re nuts about echinacea flowers and the bright sunflower skyscrapers. We’re both like moony teenagers around the hollyhocks. And right now, we’re all pretty focused on harvesting.
And I’m not breaking up with you, honeybees, but I’m having some serious doubts about our relationship. 3 stings in 2 weeks is setting me back. Yesterday, I couldn’t even put a shoe on my foot it was so blown up. Also, I’m a little twitchy in the garden right now – eyes shifting around like a nervous rabbit.
Is there something you’re trying to tell me? (I stopped wearing the purple hat in the garden and never wear perfume). I know there’s an acupuncturist in town that believes bees sting you where you already have inflammation, to kick-start the healing process. Even the kind hippies who live downstairs think that’s bullshit.
Anyway, I’m into gentle communication.
Peace and Love,
ps: the epi pen is in the medicine cabinet.