THE BEES KNOW

I wrote this a year ago in the midst of the Corona pandemic and our issues in the Sandboxes immediately after a good Spring rain.

Here, it just rained and we are faced with a whole new set of issues to process.?In the midst of it all, we should look around and see how life goes on, disregarding our relatively petty issues. What was then, is now and forever will be.

The year is different, the scene the same.

The Bees know..........?

THE BEES SHOW THE WAY

Today, I took a clandestine shopping trip. Practicing social distancing at the store, noting the furtive anxious eyes around me, I saw the continuous sense of fear, anxiety and doubt that this invisible thing had brought to our world. The discussions were furtive as done between the old film noir spies under the Ferris wheel. In time, I was granted entrance, made my way down the aisles, retrieved that which was available, checked out and left.

On a whim, I decided to take a back road. It wound through the vast agricultural fields on the plain between twin mountain ranges. It was a small two-lane road, absent advertising signs or the normal amenities of the more urban courses. The lemon trees nearly over lapped the pavement. Hung with dense yellow fruit, they were moments from harvest and reflected the just passed rain and now emerging sunlight. Agricultural trucks passed in both directions, laden with picking crews, fertilizers and implements. It was a transport back to my youth-which quickly emerged as the point of the drive and the most satisfying aspect.

Further on, the avocado trees, newly harvested, reflected sunlight off the recently wetted leaves. To my front, there was a semi-truck and trailer loaded with the rich green harvest bound for guacamole, tacos and produce stands throughout the Nation.

Interspersed between the orchards, were the farm houses and barns of the original families. Wooden Victorian structures with gingerbread fretting, wide pillared porches and well developed rose gardens and stone fruit trees. Behind, were red and white large barns with the sharp peaked roofs of a design that went West with the builders. It was an image and moment in time that was every bit as efficacious as the pills and solutions of today’s ills. The people that built, maintained and passed on these structures and developed land, lived through the 1918 Influenza, the Great Depression, WWII, the Polio Scare and the Cold War. Through it, the trees were irrigated, new grafts created better yields and our tables were well supplied. Nothing has changed.

The storm, perhaps the last of the season, had just passed, leaving a moist blanket on the surrounding hills. The sun cut through with irregular constantly changing beams, spotlighting a cascade of visionary rewards. The grasses, a fresh deep green, lay lush in the light. The mustard weed, scattered over generations to provide cover from the routine fires, glowed against the green. The constantly arrhythmic light danced from yellows, to greens to the deep hidden ridges shadowing the terrain. It was a transit of transcendent beauty, visually and emotionally.

Closer to home, I descended into the large verdant citrus centric valley that is my home. Close by all the roads, the orange trees created the corridors through which I moved. Some orchards were of the large well-developed trees planted by our grandfathers. Others were open fields with just planted or juvenile trees, the spawn of our future and the continuity of our life.

Here, the blossoms are in full array. Millions of white blooms against the dark Valencia and Navel leaves brighten the shapes. The Navels, now restless for picking, display the deep orange fruit and the white blossoms of next year’s fruit, glistening in the sun stabs.

Over this all, is the intensely rich essence of the blossoms. It is indescribably deep and sensory. The rain left low misty wisp’s that concentrated the aroma and held it, distilled to its rich essence, to the ground. A perfume that no amount of ambergris could improve.

As I get out of my car, I am less than 20 feet from my trees. I see the clear blossom pattern against the leaf and note the small droplets of water on the edges. Darting from blossom to blossom and imparting a quiet and steady buzz of earnest labor, are the bees. They descend on each flower, burrow within, emerge and move to the next. It is a continuous class in rhythm, motion and purpose. It was here a millennia before us and will be here long after us. The bees understand life and they make us so much better in so many different ways.

Take heart through this. The bees know.