The Flying B

My dad had a dream of being a cowboy. He got his start in cowboying raising bees when he was in high school in Denver. One summer, while working on a cattle ranch in Fraser he expanded his cowboy operation to include a few cattle. Fraser is up in God’s country at over 8,500 ft above sea level, more than 3,000 feet higher than the mile-high city itself, with long winters, and short, but heavenly summers. He quickly acquired a livestock brand for his new herd of three and registered it with the Colorado Brand Board. Even though it’s still impossible to brand bees, his brand was the Flying B, and it stood for a dream that would someday include a big spread with a herd of black Angus cattle, horses, and bees. For some reason, that brand always meant something to me. It was a link to his dream, an image burned in my mind. He had a few branding irons made up although I don't think they ever touched the hide of an animal, he just didn’t have the heart. 

Today, I live on the worn, paper-thin edges of that dream, on a beautiful farm in south-central Tennessee. The imprint of my dad’s boot prints has long since washed away. But he did leave behind a trail of crushed Old Milwaukee beer cans that peek out from under the dirt here and there to remind me that he was here, in the same place I am standing now. 

I even have a few beehives, thanks to my stepmom, whose curiosity and enthusiasm about beekeeping is contagious. It’s something to see, and if you would have told me I would be keeping bees a few years ago, I never would have believed you. Although I look like I should be walking on the moon in my white sting-proof suit, I’m standing in a lush meadow scooping up handfuls of bees off the fence post—feeling the energy and vibrations of their tiny bodies through my kidskin gloved hands and placing them in a beehive that I made just for some bees like them. Yes, I interfered with their plans of finding a new home, but after a few days, they settle in and decide the accommodations aren’t that bad.

It turns out, bees are fascinating creatures and have so much to teach me if I just observe—watch and learn. Through watching them — and reading a lot — I’ve learned they do a dance called a waggle, and it means something. It’s made up of steps, kind of like a line dance, which is not the free-for-all dance style I prefer. The steps of the bee waggle convey a message with directions to where the nectar is or the new home they found while hive-hunting.

Here are a few life lessons these tiny creatures are teaching me:

I don’t know what I’m doing. I know it, and the bees know it, but still I try. I fumble around in the hive, making noise, dropping things, messing up their combs while trying to figure it all out, and answer the questions of who’s who—the worker bees, the drones, and the queen. Or, which cells hold brood and which ones hold ripened honey. 

Permission to make mistakes. I’ve always said that the best way to learn the right way to do something is to do it the wrong way a few times. Although I get frustrated, I have to allow myself to make mistakes and more importantly to forgive myself when I do, resulting in harm or death to some of the bees.

Resilience. When things go wrong or some newbie beekeeper messes up the agenda, the bees get right back to work, fixing the damage, cleaning things up, and doing the work.

There’s no shame in starting over. When the work is done and they’ve filled the hive with baby bees and honey and there’s no more room, they move on and find a new home. Starting over is a continual process. New beginnings are part of everyday life, from the sunrise to the hatching of a baby bird. 

Tune in to the energy. Bees fly in harmony with the leylines and energy fields of the earth. There is innate wisdom available to me if I just take time to notice and feel.

Today, as I live on a thread of a dream I inherited, I am filled with gratitude for the chance to witness the incredible wisdom of Mother Earth and her tiny wise messengers.