It’s hard to accept the end of summer, especially when you have the time to watch it unfurl, flower, and begin the slow senescence that comes with time.
I was sad to watch this– the impending Nordic winter that I’ve heard stories about feels like a slow-motion car crash: the devastating darkness, the unrelenting wind.
But the bees, the bees. . . the bees are in their last frenzy. They are drunk with pollen that dusts their wings and that weighs heavy on their bodies. The changing photoperiod cues their behavior: they too know of the season’s end. Yet, instead of dread, they come out in larger numbers and they spend every ounce of sunlight flying through the verdant matrix of their surroundings.
I want to be like the bees: to revel in what I have, to be lush and unending in my love and enjoyment of my surroundings. To be thankful and ready, but mostly light with the very moment that fuels me.