I trust bees to be as sweet as honey… I still stroll the garden among them to hear the hum of secrets Sue Monk Kidd must have heard. By the time I finished reading her novel, The Secret Life of Bees, there was no doubt in my mind, we stand on the ground we are supposed to be unfolding. The wisdom in that novel pours like liquid gold. I respect the work of bees and suspect kissing flowers makes the honey sweet. The tone we hear in life is a given to receive and vice versa; forget the video games, get to know the labor productive love of bees.
The blessing of the ultimate flavor imbued with the scent anew in a mug of tea, is the free elixir in life to cover and uncover every insidious hurt. It is a secret nevermore. The choice is in picking the right hand waving and asking to be heard. The soul of the worker bee is pure. Her delicacy never spoils. It is an eternal nourishment to behold like a candle flaming its tender brush heaven ward.
Fennel grew wild on the hillside and after the dew whisked the sparkling blooms by noon time, the invitation opened its door. Pockets filled with thoughts spread like the wings of eagles here, and that is how anyone comes into the knowing. The bees no more wished to harm anyone than it would sting a breeze; the wind need not our arms and hands to fling about to create unseen waves and disturb the air that be. Bees must be respected that way. I think anyone needing to know a thing or two about these matters would do well to trust, as I did, and get the lessons. Respect is a willful act of patience to fully encompass the vista.