It is a beautiful morning here, as summer is chomping at the bit to be made official. I stepped outside in the early morning light, as the critters are starting on with their daily work. I checked underneath the lid of our toll storage bin, where yesterday I had covered and removed two hornet’s nests, and as I suspected, there was another. I will remove it soon, and move it to a more out of the way spot, even if less gently than I might if not wanting to get away from the angry critters as soon as possible. But, I give them a chance.
I am grateful that they eat bugs and worms that can destroy gardens, appreciative of their pollinating abilities, and, am even fond of their beauty and grace. They have not bothered us, and even then I would be loath to kill them. Why? Is it not a gift of consciousness that we can look at these creatures, menacing in the pain they can cause us, and still see enterprising and amazing living things, who build elaborate homes from dirt and debris, and collectively feed and nature their young, and who elegantly move from flower to flower in a weave with wind and light? I feel more connected to live and love since I have stopped the casual or unconscious killing of anything.
As I turned around from the hornet’s nest, I saw, and certainly heard, a few or more fat black bumblebees, with small golden vests, working a tall and lovely flowering plant behind the house. My eyes immediately went to their legs, and sure enough, each had boots of bright red/vermillion pollen. I recalled a time, years ago when I was working as a beekeeper, seeing a bee with a parfait of violet and red pollen on its legs, and thinking it one of the most beautiful things I was lucky enough to have seen. They were a sight from a fantasy, theses buzzing and bouncing black bumblebee buddies, going about their business in a suit of black yellow and red.
Then, one of them removed itself from its labors on the flowers and flew towards me, buzzing threateningly back and forth in front of me for a moment and then returning to the flowers. It had all the menace of a playful kitten, and I was happy it took the time to notice me, though I became self-conscious of how my presence would affect their business, which I had no interest in disrupting. While I did get closer to some of the unoccupied flowers at one point, I was more alert about not disturbing them. Then, two flew past me in more or less a straight line and I realized I might be in their flight pattern home, so I moved away.
While looking at the legs of the bees, however, I had taken time to really admire the little white flowers that the critters were romping upon. I acknowledged that it was the bees that brought my attention to these flowers, and that I had not yet really taken the time to look at and appreciate them. Surrounded by small, arced white petals was a magenta center, almost fluffy and hair like. The color bold and magnificent against the white. Sprouting up from the dancing purple center were 6 or so bright orange/red/ fire-like stamen, again a contrast to the petals and the center. I marveled at these little color-verses, with small bits of bright green accenting further the harmony of contrasts. I am grateful to the bees for leading my mind and eyes to the flowers, even in my awareness that I did not think earlier to admire them.
All the while, birds are singing in the sun and letting the morning sound off fill the air. I was scarcely aware of it accept for that it filled my, and my awareness, with a natural comfort. At times, I marked out to the bird song, sort of waking up to it through my other reflections. There are many birds around our house, goldfinches and robins and crows, jays, sparkling starlings, chickadees, and more. Knowing that the bigger birds will terrorize and even eat the smaller birds does sadden the tune of the song, and sometimes make me wonder if in their cacophony are melodies of loss.
So many living things waking up and loving the sun. A squirrel rattled the fence as he hopped along the top of it. Mason bees, shiny yet unassuming, jaggedly flitting about the flora, countless little things whisping about. It wasn’t until I heard the clinging of dishware and then a sweeping broom that the other sounds of the morning slipped into my conscious perception of the natural symphony. I then heard cars from the nearby throughway, horn, though scant, and other sounds of machine and man. The colors did not fade any, the flowers did not fade and the insects did not droop away, but nonetheless I stirred, and came inside.
I have trouble with mornings sometimes, being inclined to the muses of night’s serenity. But this was a vibrant reminder that there is great inspiration in the early risings of nature even in the groggy eyes of a natural night owl. And again I am grateful for the morning, the day, and the beauty of Life.
Edit – I just moved the third hornet’s nest from under the lid of the storage bin. I think one of them may have been injured or worse in the transition. In the act, the critter seemed to get caught between the container and the cardboard I used to do the job. It happened very fast and I seemed unable to be able to prevent it. I am very sorry that I did any damage to the individual hornet or the collective. Is it so wrong that they have a quiet dark place to exist such as the storage bin? And yet, life. It has death in it, unavoidably. I nonetheless feel that if we do take time to acknowledge it, even in the cruder forms of life, and not be so dismissive and callous towards other things, it may open avenues of both spirit and imagination that could greater connect human life to the rest of life on this planet and even elsewhere…