Urban Beekeeping

A Connection to the Eternal

February 28, 2021 by

close-up of bees
Bees cooling the hive.

I am looking for eggs. Not the hard-shelled ones you cook for breakfast; these are very small, half the size of a grain of rice. It would be great to meet the queen, but I am satisfied that she’s close – I see evidence of her in the focus that her subjects have, the calm that her presence brings. I look for baby food – not Gerber purees, but pollen packed into storage cells for the young to eat. And of course, I’m checking for honey. I have escaped the world and am inside a beehive. I’m an intruder here and must watch my step. A wrong or hasty move can set off an angry defense that I have learned to regret. But while things are going well I’m loving the temporary transformation into nature.

I imagine an astronaut begins his journey when he climbs into a spacesuit and has a partner screw on his helmet. Mine starts when I flip down my veil and secure the seams. My launch comes when I pry off the lid of the hive, the loud crack of the propolis (“bee glue”) breaking the seal standing in for the booming crack of booster engines.

It doesn’t matter where the beehive is located, the mini world I enter is always the same. Sometimes I’m in hives in lonely fields, surrounded by grass with wildlife hidden in nearby woods. At other times I ride elevators up sky scrapers, climb stairs, and walk through rooms full of whining machines, out onto the flat roofs above boardrooms where investment decisions are made by suit-wearing executives. The world famous buildings of New York City are now all around me, the Hudson River far below. Elsewhere, I step out of apartments into rooftop gardens where the streaks of racing bees point me toward the hive. But whether I pry off the lid next to the corporate offices of a beauty product company, a suburban mansion, or a barn, it’s always my entry point to a world of nature, harsh and beautiful.

The world I enter is not my world. Despite what the word “keeper” implies, I have no control here. I am an observer that might only be capable of small assistance for the needs I see, or compensating for the limitations of the man-made boundaries that I put them into. I bet I don’t understand half of what is going on here, and am often reminded of that. I can discover a problem only to find the bees are already on the way to fixing it themselves. I have seen a queenless hive, doomed to fail, and rushed out to buy a queen – only to find on my return that the bees were well on the way to making their own. In fact there have been times when the queen I bring is rejected and killed by the one they make. I’ve placed empty hives baited with ready-to-use comb and tempting honey right by a fleeing swarm, desperate to catch them, and seen it ignored. If ever I feel important to them, I soon remember that they don’t know me.

The concentration that watching them requires seems to free up other parts of my mind for creativity. Solutions to issues I didn’t know I was even thinking about, or inspirations and mini resolutions have suddenly presented themselves to my mind while I’m in a hive. Psychiatrists call this free association, but I’ll accept it as a tonic that puts the rest of my life in a new perspective. The balance of wonder and danger energizes my thoughts. Sometimes the humming cloud I work in seems friendly, like I am being welcomed as a temporary co-worker on their sixty-thousand member team. At other times the angry buzz of bees bouncing off my veil and gloves reminds me of the deadly power that I’ve intruded into. The ones that manage to penetrate my protective wear with stings punctuate the fact that they have enough power to kill me. I am glad for every square inch of protection.

A hive is a superorganism that makes singular decisions powered by tens of thousands of individuals. Each bee has a specific role – foragers work so hard collecting nectar and pollen from a three-to-five mile radius during the spring, summer, and fall that their life is shortened to less than a fifth of what it is in winter when they are not working (just over a month). There are nurse bees, cleaners, food processors, and guards who also take care of the hive’s temperature. When it overheats they go on fan duty at the entrance of the hive, planting their feet and revving their wings up to full flight thrust to push in fresh air. A few drones get to mate with the queen – and die immediately afterwards; the rest seem to wander around the hive all summer before being kicked out. Guard bees are ready to give their lives in a venomous sting to protect the others.

urban beekeepingThe author at one of the rooftop hives he tends.

But this high level of individualism in roles is also what constitutes the tight body made up of all the bees. A body that makes one decision, has one health, and makes a product that is happily replenished after we take what we decide is our share. Each hive seems to have a character, its own microcosmic zeitgeist. It can make a decision to turn on me suddenly, and then change in response to the smoke I puff at them and turn back. One hive can work hard at making honey when a hive right next to it, started on the same day, makes hardly any. A hive can be so friendly one day that I wonder if they even notice I am there, working alongside them. On another, especially after a wrong move that startles or threatens them, some signal seems to go out and they are all around, filling my head with their buzzing and following me away from the hive, waiting to sting after I take off the veil.

Phillip Britts – a writer, poet, pastor, and visionary observer of his natural surroundings – speaks of the soul-deepening value of being close to nature and even warns that the loss of connection to the simplicity and faith of rural life leads to the loss of “inner stability.” Recently, I delivered honey from a client’s hives to his home. When I was leaving he walked out with me. “Thanks again for the honey,” he said, tapping me on the shoulder for emphasis. “You don’t know what this means to us.” But I understood that this household in the middle of a large city had just connected with nature.

“You are a farmer!” I told him. He understood.

Britts wrote ten points that define a “Good Farmer.” Here’s the last one, which I find both humbling and deepening. A good farmer:

Realizes that he knows next to nothing of all that there is to know, that he is dealing with eternal laws which he did not make and cannot alter, and that the most brilliant achievements of human knowledge are simply the closest obedience to these laws.

I am thankful for any such connection to eternal laws. I also enjoy the taste of the rewards, and hope to be a part of bringing this to many more.


About the author

tim maendel

Tim Maendel

Tim Maendel lives at the Bruderhof house in Harlem, NY where he and his wife are house parents to a number of college...

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