A landscape designer appreciates bees as they are co-workers of a sort. He designs and installs
As I developed a love of flower gardening, I realized I could not time my deadheading sessions for a "bee-free" period of the day as those did not exist. So, little by little I became comfortable with the occasional honey bee buzzing by my ear, or the big bumble bee brushing my hand as I reached for a spent bloom. I would regularly remind myself of James' words as I would venture into a tall butterfly bush, surrounded with bees enjoying my handiwork, and rest assured I need not fear. Once, I actually inadvertently cupped my hand around a bumblebee early one morning and he simply rolled off my palm and continued napping on the dewy grass.
A few weeks ago, while deadheading one warm morning, I was not paying attention as I reached into the bush and recoiled back surprised and confused. Were it not for the remnant of the honeybee sticking out of my finger I might not have figured it out as quickly. I dropped the garden shears and was muttering as I hurried into the house. "Seriously? You stung me? You killed yourself to sting someone who actually enjoys your presence??" That's what I was thinking but it probably sounded more like a few expletives to the untrained ear. A few hours later I noticed the butterfly bush was still marked by blooms past their prime so, with some hesitation, I picked up my shears and continued my work. I did notice I was a bit more careful, maybe even fearful, as I worked through the branches, but I convinced myself to soldier on and came out unscathed. I shared my story with James and we both came away from it saddened by the loss of the little honeybee; I actually felt a twinge of guilt and thought it my fault, in the end.
Days later while doing some quick snipping of the hosta stems, as I reached for a spent flower next to a blooming stalk, I caught sight of a bumble just as he started to sting my finger. I pulled back quickly enough to receive only a scratch across my knuckle, which still hurt like the dickens for a about 30 seconds. I decided the hostas looked fine for now and left my shears and headed indoors, content to work from the safety of my office that day.
Just a few mornings later, strolling through the garden with our pup, Brody, I lackadaisically reached for a long-spent butterfly bush bloom and wondered aloud at just how I could manage to be stung a third time when, in more years than I could remember (I ventured a guess at ten!) I had worked side-by-side with my previous nemesis. This time the little sucker managed to deliver a bit more venom than the scratching incident and, as I reached for a Benadryl, I began to rethink what has become a passion: perhaps the grateful deadheader should just be grateful she wasn't in anaphylactic shock! Yesterday, as I spent time in the garden, I reflected on these past few unfortunate weeks and realized
it all parallels life: we get stung by those we love, by those we thought appreciated us, appreciated our work, and we make choices. We can give up, we can make excuses for the offender, or we can simply continue on the same path, not forgetting, just storing the knowledge and using it in future decisions. I could certainly let the pain of those stings deter me, and while protecting myself, it would leave me unhappy and unfulfilled. I like being out there, and for the most part, I think my presence is appreciated by many I encounter. And I'll do my best to avoid those who are not in that group.
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