This is not about what you think. Instead of the metaphorical, “the birds and the bees,” I share here a reflection on what some backyard bees and birds taught me on a Sunday afternoon in July.
First, I confess one of my fears: Bees scare me. Ever since
that sting during a summer backyard picnic at grandma’s over thirty years ago,
I flinch whenever one buzzes too close. Today, though, I tried something new—I
remained still and watched. As my daughter played next to me in the inflatable
pool, I simply sipped my iced tea and watched them, being curious about what
the bees were up to. Even when my daughter began skipping on the grass with her hula hoop, I kept watching and noticing.
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the best seller, Eat, Pray,
Love, makes a distinction in her 2015 book between two ways of being; we can live in
fear, or we can be guided by curiosity. Having recently listened to her
interviewed in a podcast, this notion of curiosity came front and center while
facing the bees. I sat, a little tense, but then I reclined back a bit. I
watched, noticing how each flew from clover to clover. This noticing led to questions: “How many clovers does one bee visit in an hour? A day? How
long do they live? What about lawns treated with chemicals that destroy clover?
Where do the bees go then?”
Bringing up a fear of bees might seem too trivial in a time
when pervasive fears of “the other” lurk behind too many headlines. Out of fear
we demonize those who do not look like us. Out of fear we reach for a gun too
quickly. Out of fear, we feel we need access to such weapons in the first
place. Out of fear, some cling to religious beliefs steeped in fear—“Am I
saved?” rather than curiosity— “Who is my neighbor?”
Back to the bees. What happened to me when I watched them? I was
led to notice more, to ask more and actually to feel more at peace After sitting quietly watching them while
having conversation with my daughter in her pool, I then heard the backyard birds. Had
they been singing all along but I didn’t hear? Once I did hear them, I
mentioned their song to my daughter. Miriam instigated a kind of “call and
response” song with the birds, noting that the more she tweeted, the more the
birds responded. Or were they calling and she responding? No matter. They kept
at it, she and I counting 10 tweets, then 12, then 20, hoping we’d finally see
one come out of the tree in the neighboring yard. We never saw one, but we were
curious: “What were they saying? How many were calling? What kind of birds?”
(Time to get out my son’s battery operated birdcall book for that one)
Birds and Bees don’t seem like much (though we know their demise would have catastrophic consequences), but if we notice and
care for the earth around us, being curious about these seemingly small
creatures, will it not lead us to greater curiosity about one another? Would such curiosity lead us to dialogue rather than rash violence, to noticing
how privilege works in our society, to an awareness of what is most needful in
our time?
A truly miraculous thing happened as I began to transfer the
first paragraph of these thoughts from scrap paper to a Word document. As I sat in
the chair on the porch, Miriam had moved on to self-directed imaginary play in the pool, chattering about doctors, mermaids and I’m not sure what else (she firmly told
me not to watch or listen). But then, as I was typing, I overheard her sing these
words by songwriter John Bell: “Don’t be afraid. My love is stronger. My love
is stronger than your fear.” I think she was singing to her mermaid princess,
but her words rang true for me, and perhaps for you as well.
