A Bigoted Beekeeper

In early April we had nights of solid freezing and daytime highs in the 40's with persistent cloud cover and pesky winds. The radishes, peas, kohlrabi, and spinach managed to sprout but were stifled by the cold and paused for better days. We covered them with blankets at night to keep their spirits up.

On April 5th we drove to Lafayette to join a protest. It was one of more than a thousand held across the country attracting 5.2 million participants. The intent was to send a message to Washington that we weren't going to sit idly by during a constitutional crisis or be silent while our democracy slips away.

I met a gal my age who was part of the march and struggling to walk. She said she should’ve brought her cane but she was self conscious about using it in public. In 71 years she’d never been to a protest. She preferred to stick to herself, try to get along with the neighbors even when she disagreed with them politically. “Things are different now,” she said, choking up. “I can’t just sit at home any longer thinking everything will be alright.”  

There's power in a public gathering, when a diverse demographic comes together and you realize you’re not alone in your convictions. There’s comfort when a thousand people, almost twice what organizers expected, show up in a red town like Lafayette, Indiana, and the PA system proves inadequate so rather than listen to speakers we just kept marching. Passing cars honked in support, and there were chants and songs and camaraderie among perfect strangers. At one point I felt a little lump rise in my throat.

Last November there were more people who voted against Donald J Trump than for him, which is to say those who opposed him were, and still are, the majority. It may not seem so, as unpopular executive orders fly from the Oval Office like so many bats; as the greatest democracy in history teeters on survival; as the world looks on in disbelief. 

I’m not the best beekeeper but I like to keep a colony or two. I was watching them fly in and out of the hive the other day, returning with pollen sacs loaded and bellies full of nectar, and I realized a similarity between the bees and the majority of Americans. 

Bees live in a community where they work cooperatively for the benefit of the whole. It’s a lively, busy place, where societal duties are understood and communications are solid. They focus on their roles and one another and are highly productive and efficient. 

Enter the beekeeper. On a pleasant, sunny day he makes a house call, opening and disassembling the hive. The occupants, accustomed to total darkness, are showered with vivid sunlight as individual frames are removed so brood and honey stores and overall health can be assessed. For some remarkable reason, the bees tolerate it, even though they outnumber the beekeeper by tens of thousands.

In exchange for the bees' hard earned honey and wax and pollination services, a good keeper will provide emergency food, administer medicines as necessary, and ensure housing is adequate. He watches over and cares for his bees, intent on their needs and his responsibility to them. 

But let the day be cloudy and blustery, let the beekeeper be too rambunctious in his actions, let him use too much or too little smoke in an attempt to disrupt communications, or spend too much time inspecting a colony, and he’ll incite a riot. The bees will turn on him and force a reckoning. 

Over 5 million bees took to the streets on April 5th. Their homes and communities, their rights and livelihoods and freedoms, are being threatened by an inept administration blowing too much smoke and causing worldwide turbulence. At the helm is a man elected by a minority of voters. He has stirred the hive. 

But Then There’s Annie

In March the first real warmth of the year swept through the Midwest and the dormant grass greened up before our eyes. The daffodils already in bloom were suddenly shouting for attention, and the crocus and Scilla appeared where moments earlier there were none. In the marsh, spring peepers felt the warmth and raised their voices to a fevered pitch. The first of the tree swallows appeared overhead and joined the orchestra of redwings and thrashers and phoebes already assembled. In another moment the maple flowers flung open and bees came to collect the sweetness and dapple pollen on receptive stigmas. On the woodland floor the wild garlic sprouted, and a fragrance rose from the duff and drifted in the warm air, and it was the smell of richness and an impending explosion of life. 

With spring comes a sensory overload and nowhere is it better observed than in wildness. Last week I ran across a couple maps comparing the landscape of Indiana in 1820 with 2001. In 1820 the state was 88% forested, 9% wetland, and 3% dry prairie. A mere 181 years later, about 75% of forests and wetlands had been converted to agriculture and urban development. It’s an incredible shift in land use, especially considering that bulldozers weren’t around until the 1920’s. It speaks to the fortitude and determination of our predecessors, their drive to carve out a life in a land of limitless resources and opportunity. And here we are today, occupying a dramatically different landscape, wrapped in comforts, conveniences, and gadgetries far beyond anyone living in 1820 could have dreamed. And here we are, at a point where natural resources once viewed limitless are clearly limited, yet we hold fast to an economic equation that consumes more resources each year than the earth can replenish. Every day we harvest and mine and process new raw materials, manufacture goods, and generate megatons of waste to satisfy a throw-away society while atmospheric carbon continues to climb. 

For the moment, if we overlook endless wars, a divided electorate, a governmental coup, a shameful distribution of wealth, a constitutional crisis, an attack on civil rights and personal privacy, a broken tax code and other societal grievances, humanity still faces a dire future. The ecological services that allow our existence are under imminent threat. We’re in a world of hurt, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and hopeless. But then there’s Annie. 

She’s forty-something, an entrepreneur, a doctor, a mother, a wife, a lover of music and art and animals, looking at the world with open eyes and with a smile as broad and reliable as the Mississippi. She knows what to expect, and it includes inevitable discomfort and hardship. She’s preparing, by connecting to like minds, by living simply, learning and practicing self sufficiency, by being poised for a time when bartering and resource sharing will again be commonplace. She doesn’t see a doomed future but a coming opportunity, where outdated and unsustainable practices and systems are retooled for the 21st century and beyond; a world that embraces a circular economy with near-zero waste, clean energy, and an emphasis on local production. Growth and prosperity are not lost in such a world, but nothing is manufactured or built that can’t be recycled or readily repaired or repurposed. 

The transition won’t be quick or smooth but Annie knows she’s not alone. Her views are shared by a groundswell of others, many who are actively preparing by developing skills, living minimally, and reevaluating long held norms. “It’s liberating,” the practitioners say, “good for the psyche and good for the soul.” 

Not everyone agrees with Annie, but everyone, knowingly or unknowingly, plays a role in how humanity will respond to the threat of ecological collapse. And everyone falls into one or more camps: 

Concerned, but trusting technology to come to the rescue. 

Apathetic, with more important things to think about. 

Complicit, for refusing to get involved and demand change. 

Skeptical, and not convinced the threat is real. 

Paranoid and paralyzed by a sense of helplessness. 

Destitute, and feeling unable to contribute in a meaningful way. 

Financially fit, and enjoying the comforts of money too much to change a thing. 

Old, and content to pass the problem onto the next generation. 

Young, and ill informed. 

Spiritually faithful, and willing to accept man’s destruction of earth as part of a divine plan. 

Indignant, and blaming the republicans. 

Indignant, and blaming the democrats. 

Indignant, and ready to defend personal stockpiles. 

There’s magic in the first warm days of spring, and it offers another chance to get things right. The plants and pollinators and songbirds have perfected their routines, while the most advanced animal on the planet lumbers on towards self destruction. We’re all contributing to a collective destiny and most of us are wearing blinders. Annie has a plan. It’s idealistic and faces formidable challenges but it’s viable and offers a genuine window of hope. 

You go, Annie. Lead the way.