Plan Bee

Goal Oriented Hard Working Gal! 

Dressing For Success

As part of my lifelong quest to be more like a honeybee, it was finally time to acquire a colony of bees and place a hive in our backyard.  The stack of bee books next to my reading lamp grew tall as I took a deep dive into the mysteries of bees.  There was much to learn with big choices to make; type of hive, strain of bees (Italian, Russian, Carniolan….), where to place them and which plants to grow for the most nectar.  There was bee anatomy, the inner working of the hive, and much to know about the Queen, the workers, drones, guard bees, nurse bees, …  

Beekeeping is no instant gratification hobby and figuratively speaking, beekeepers are a dying breed.  There are fewer and fewer of them, and you may wonder that anyone would want a hobby involving stinging insects.  Why now you ask? 

Though I have been sweet on bees for a long time, I listened to practical advice from friends and family who advised that bees are too difficult, thankless and expensive to keep,with all the pesticides and colony collapse disorder and …. Despite all that, and more, I woke up one day knowing that this is my time for bees.  After reading bee books, watching bee films and attending a bee lecture, I felt ready to order bees and a hive for our backyard. 

Honey, Pollen, Baby Bees....  Incredibly Productive

Here is the problem.  We live at 7,000 feet elevation, surrounded by forest.  Forest where bears wake up from hibernation in early Spring, ravenous and looking to eat the protein rich baby bee grubs in hives, with honey for dessert.  Spring is also the most critical time for bees.  A new hive must be started in Spring to give the hard-working bees time to gather enough nectar to get them through winter, with a little extra for the bee keeper.  For some reason the bears went crazy this year, marauding through our area on a regular basis, destroying a neighbor’s bee hive, killing friends’ chickens (goodbye fresh eggs), tearing open locked garbage containers, and getting progressively bolder looking for food and water.  During the three most important bee months, it was commonplace for the dogs of the neighborhood to wake us up at night with a howling chorus when they smelled bear and heard them raiding around gardens and trash cans.   

A succession of bears showed up after the last frost of April and didn’t retreat to the recesses of the forest until the first rains of mid-July; too late to get a hive started.  But, like my bee role models, I can be single-minded in my pursuit of a goal and know when to rely on hive-type collective wisdom. Figuring that bears will always be a factor, Glen researched how to protect hives and built a sturdy  electrified apiary enclosure that will make a hungry bear think twice. 

All this underscores that even the best-laid plans are faint suggestions where nature and insects are involved.  My Big Plan would have to wait for Spring.  Keen to the point of obsession, I came up with Plan Bee. The time between now and next Spring can be put to good use as a bee keepers apprentice to learn the hands-on art of beekeeping.  Until next Spring, I am suiting up when called by my mentor and word is out for anyone with a swarm at their house,  to call so that I can foster, if you will, before becoming a true Bee Momma.  Sweet! 

Gals Doing Their Thing 

Accidental Music

A ski accident had brought me to this place.  My left arm and shoulder were immobilized and for the next couple of months I could only move my left hand – the rest of my arm had to stay in place to heal.  Forget skiing - I could no longer practice yoga, write my book, use a keyboard ….  My new wardrobe consisted of baggy button-down shirts.  It was a time of deep distress for me until I saw that my left arm – slung in a perpetually raised position - looked like I should be holding the neck of a guitar. 

I have wanted to play the guitar for a very long time; to be that person who was making the music instead of listening with admiration and singing along as my brother strummed with abandon and friends played Crosby Stills songs around the fireplace.   Many years had passed and I never followed through on my desire.  My inner dialogue went something like this… Only certain people have musical talent, and I am not one of them.  The other side of me said…  I should turn this accident around and learn to play the guitar.   I hesitated, full of self-doubt, …  Will I be able to do this? I don’t even know how to read music.  Yet, after the initial idea, my mind kept coming back to it strongly enough to make the three-and-a-half-hour trip to a guitar store in Phoenix and spend the money.

At the music store I turned myself over to the guitar sage, who sized up my arm situation and led me to a rack of ¾ sized Martin guitars.  Lifting down the one with the prettiest wood pattern, I saw that guitars have only six strings, which I took as a good sign for someone with no musical training.  How hard could it be to learn six strings, I asked myself.  Playing a musical instrument would be totally new for me, but the expert at the store assured me that I did not have to know how to read music, “Here is a music book with chords – you’ll be playing songs within days.” 

I resolved my doubts by telling myself, with so many people on this earth playing the guitar, how hard can it really be? 

It was so hard it nearly broke my brain.  But I kept at it every day, torturing Glen in the winter and the animals in our yard when it got warm enough to play in the sunshine. Soon, three chord songs like “Sloop John B” did not satisfy - I wanted more.  The songs I wanted to sing were more complex and required individual music notes as well as chords.  I needed to learn to read music, a new language for me.  Learning that language is arguably harder for guitarists because any given note on the guitar can be played on different strings of the instrument. I also needed to know the most efficient way to play the note and then transition fast enough to the next note so that it sounded like real music.  During those wobbly first months my fingertips bled, and I despaired more about my music than my lack of arm function. 

At the beginning the challenge of learning to play the guitar seemed too much; there were daily low-lows, occasional middle-middles and rare high-highs.  Oh the elation when I could play a decent Southern Cross.  I have been playing guitar for over a year now, and it is still hard.  On my worse days, when I finger the wrong string or forget to play the sharp, I console myself that a year ago, I couldn't have done this.  On my best days, I close my eyes and sing along with so much heart that nothing else matters but those three and a half minutes of flowing music.