I Love Honey, But I Have Never Wanted Bees

By Ted M.

As a child, I was fascinated by the secret cities of ants and bees.

My father brought me Maurice Maeterlinck’s books, and I read them long before I understood most of what they contained. What stayed with me was not the science. It was the feeling that entire worlds existed beneath our feet.

Cities without architects.

Workers without supervisors.

Order without instruction.

The city of the bees fascinated me.

It also unsettled me.

—

Many years later, as a gardener, I had my first close look inside a working hive.

A beekeeper friend opened one of his hives for me.

He cut a piece of fresh comb and handed it over. I stood in the garden chewing honey and wax while thousands of bees moved around us. The honey was warm and fragrant, carrying traces of flowers I could not identify.

As I chewed, an uncomfortable thought crossed my mind.

What if there was still an egg in there?

Or a larva?

I stopped chewing.

My friend laughed and pointed toward the brood chambers below. The queen, he explained, was confined to a separate section of the hive. The comb in my hand contained only honey.

I felt relieved.

Then he showed me the inner structure of the colony.

The brood chambers below.

The honey supers above.

The queen excluder between them.

Everything had its place.

Everything was organized.

Everything was managed.

The system was impressive.

Yet I left with the same feeling I had carried since childhood.

Admiration mixed with discomfort.

—

I love honey.

In fact, it is the only animal-derived food I regularly consume.

But I have never wanted to keep bees.

Many gardeners eventually become beekeepers. I never have.

Part of the reason is practical. A hive requires knowledge, attention, and responsibility. But that is not the whole story.

When I garden, I prefer creating conditions rather than controlling outcomes.

I prepare the soil.

I plant flowers.

I leave water.

I avoid unnecessary chemicals.

Then I wait.

—

Pollinators arrive on their own.

Some are honeybees. Many are not.

Bumblebees visit the tomatoes. Mason bees appear in spring. Solitary bees emerge from hollow stems, cracks in the soil, and forgotten corners of the garden.

None of them belong to me.

That is precisely what I like about them.

Perhaps I admire bees because they do not belong to me.

I have come to realize that I do not want to own them.

I only want them to visit.

If they nest nearby, I am pleased.

If they help pollinate the cucumbers, tomatoes, and berries, I benefit from their work every day.

I do not need more than that.

—

Perhaps that is why I still think about that afternoon beside the hive.

The beekeeper saw a healthy colony.

I saw that too.

But I also saw thousands of lives moving according to rules older than any gardener, older than any garden, and certainly older than me.

I admire beekeepers.

I admire bees even more.

I still enjoy honey.

But what I enjoy even more is watching bees arrive among the flowers, uninvited and entirely free.

Ted M. is a gardener in Vancouver, BC.