My beekeeper friend Ryan came by yesterday with bad news.

The hive in our yard is not thriving, it is infested with parasites. And the old queen has become ineffective – she is aging, and not producing new brood.

We were optimistic earlier this year – the box looked beautiful – it was teeming with the perfect ratio of larvae, brood and honey.

And then something changed. And really, its anyone’s guess what went wrong.

But it strikes me how something can look so active and robust and at the same time be quietly rotting from within.

Everything seemed healthy, we pulled the frames out and saw the brown, ravaged comb.

In contrast, last summer it had the perfect thin, white casings over the amber globes – all of it glowing like a gold treasure. The puffy pregnant pockets bulged and dripped with the sweet honey.

The healthy wooden frame was like a progress report showing us how well we had cared for these little bees, how attentive we were to what threatened to kill them off.

Alas, this year tells a different story.

It tells of a season of neglect (maybe we didn’t treat the mites early enough).

Or too much rainfall at the wrong time. Or an old queen who refused to secede the throne. Or maybe some rogue drones who flew off in search of better things.

Of course, it is a folly.
It is such a small thing.
But such a small ache in my heart.

Of course, it is a folly. It is such a small thing. But such a small ache in my heart.

I used to believe that our years were like these hives – the rewards and failures could be measured one season to the next. Learning would cancel out any possibility for error. Our success would be linear.

And the failure was just that, a failure.

And I still look at things that way, sort of. But I also have to acknowledge the unpredictabilty of the entire venture.

And I imagine my brain as a honeybee comb.

The way it has these connections and also these unpredictable synapses. And it buzzes along, happy and productive most days, but dormant on other days – dark and inert.

And all of that sweet, golden potential within – stored and ready, but sometimes painfully difficult to extract.

Human and bee – with crenellated corpuscles that link to one another in a system that is ever-changing and alive. Channels of energy metabolized like sunshine to honey. Electric currents controlled by who knows what.

For the bee, each hexagon of the comb is where an egg will be laid (and who knows why it chooses that place?) and then larvae and then food will be produced to service the entire organism.

And all of it works together in a symphony

And it works so often. Unless it doesn’t.

The little honeybee – so perfectly programmed, like a robotic drone with a singular destination with no deviation in flight map.

And yet. To see the hive in the shank of summer, it is a glorious riot of chaos.

A drunken house party with bee bodies bumping against one another, crackling and popping in the heat.

Chaos and order. Random insect movements, and an orchestrated dance of pure joy.

So today, I raise my glass to last year’s crop (how did we ever take you for granted?) And I quietly watch the erratic and clumsy parade of bees.

It’s a little like Times Square on New Year’s Eve for bees, the desperation. But really more like a death watch.

But if the honeybee hive mind is anything like my own, I’ll hope for the repairs to come swiftly and with as little cost to the whole comb as possible.

And the sweetness?

It will come (I hope).

Or not.