Loving the Land As It Is

California has always been hot and dry, but not this dry. There have always been fires, but not this many, not this big.

When I look at the land I feel parched. I feel an aversion to this field where my bees reside. I don’t want to be in it. There are too many stickers and burrs. I love this field in the winter and spring when it turns soft and green. In my mind, there’s a voice that thinks the soft green field is “right”, and the dry parched field is “wrong”.

Intellectually, I am aware that nothing in nature can be be broken down to such binary statements, but there is also an animal body in me, sniffing the air, and feeling the cracked earth beneath my shoes.
“Move away from it”, says the animal. Find shelter, water, shade. “You don’t know how to feel safe here.”

Psychology tells us to love the wounded parts of ourselves. Can we do the same with this earth? What does it feel like to extend love toward the brittle, dry field? How do we do this authentically, without falling into the trappings of “love and light” spiritual bypass. Can you love the rattlesnake while listening to its warning?

I am in love with this green earth, but often when imagining my love for nature I picture rich valleys, vernal springs, shaded woodlands. I don’t live near any of those environments. I live in dry dry dry California. How do we let ourselves love exactly where we are? It’s almost as hard as learning to love exactly WHO you are, scars and all.

What if, even knowing the imbalance this dry field represents, I gave it an offering of my love. Not a prayer to be different or verdant or “fixed”. To love it for everything it is in this time of profound environmental turbulence.

This is where to work is. Not just forest bathing trips, and meditations by a crystal spring, but a raw, uncomfortable commitment to place. Like a long marriage, with its pitfalls and its grace, can we choose again and again to love the land, even in our animal grief for what it’s become?

California, My Love

I was speaking with a friend today about the nature of range management and the restoration of California grasslands.  Thinking about what California used to be like when the land was stewarded by it's people.  Thinking about the effects of non-native grasses or the loss of habitatfor our wild creatures.  We got on the topic of the reintroduction of wolves in Yellowstone and how it helped to restore the land.  How much we have forgotten.  How much we have to learn again: the inherent wisdom of nature to create such an intricate system where apex predators are a necessary part of the ecology of a place.  He said the wolves are not a mistake.

This is a straight forward statement, but in the wake of this week’s wildfire devastation the feeling of it caught it my throat.  These fires may be natural, but the severity of them is most certainly a result of climate change and poor land management.  Sometimes, no matter how optimistic I am, I look around at what we’ve done as humans and feel the overwhelm of the pain and destruction our species perpetuates on itself and all other living systems.  If we are the dominant species on the planet how are we contributing to the ecology of place?  Not very well at the moment.  I’ve sat with this question all day of “Are we a mistake?”.  I don’t believe a single thing in nature is a mistake, but here I am, turning the knife inward and asking that question of the human animal.  What kind of salvation and duty lies in fully accepting that nothing in nature is a mistake including human kind? What then, is our role in the ecology of the planet?  I am not new in asking this question, and I am not new in my answer.  We are stewards.  It is possible to lovingly coax a wild, living thing to thrive at it’s fullest expression.  Ask any gardener who has that glint for the slightly untamed in their eye.  There is a way to help the forests renew themselves with fire in a manner that benefits the human and non-human species dependent on them.  Because we are dependent on them.  Don’t let yourself be fooled by concrete and convenience.  We need them more than they need us.  Or maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe we need each other equally.  Maybe this attitude that the world would be better off without humans is part of the problem.  Surely it’s time we move beyond such thoughts of manifest destiny, species privilege and the silly notion that the earth is ours for the taking.  But perhaps for us all to survive, we must also move past the idea that we are a parasite, that we only take, that the living planet doesn’t need us. 

 All week I have come back to the simple truth of the human animal. Since the fires broke out Sunday, I have watched the human animal respond to trauma, grief, and natural disaster. I have watched in my own self and other, our animal body's need for safety, stillness, movement, shelter, food, water and love.  I have never felt the grief for what we have done to our planet so acutely as watching human habitat and wild creature habitat burn to the ground.  California you were the Eden once.  Wildflowers for miles.  Birdsong symphony. Rivers like veins to the heart.  Help us remember how to take care of you.  We are not a mistake.  

We are guardians.  

We are stewards.  

We are animals.

Home Sweet Home Print by 3 Fish Studios. Click on photo for link to prints.

Wildfires and Honey Bees

 I woke up Monday morning to sirens, smoke and a litany of texts from concerned family and friends.  The first text I read was from my housemate telling me Santa Rosa, the city where I live, was on fire.  The city itself.  Within minutes I was dressed and throwing belonging into my car, searching the blackened skyline for flames, and trying to find out if I was in immediate danger.  All across Sonoma county people had been doing the same since the middle of the night, sometimes with only minutes of warning to flee.  The story is the same, grab your pets, grab you photos and get out.

Forty minutes later, I was drinking coffee in a sort of dazed stupor at Wildflower Bakery while evacuees streamed through, sharing stories of rescuing horses, moving goats, or what to do about the kids, the dog, and the cats currently stuffed into the suburban out front.  I didn’t have any pets to try and save.  I’m a beekeeper.  My little charges don’t move in a flash.  I can’t ask them to hop in the car with some treats and a leash.  

My hives are located in a safe area in southern Sonoma County, but I can think of a handful of hives that friends and clients have had to abandon, hoping that their home and their hives stay standing.  It’s still going on, as I write.  A friend just sent a text telling me how she spoke to her hive, telling them what was going on before being forced to evacuate her property.  It’s all we can do, really.  Tell our girls to hang in there.

Hives saved by firefighters at the property of Robert Coury (www.RobertCoury.com) in Napa County. His home and the bees were saved as of yesterday, but the fires continue and conditions remain unstable. To see more photo documentation visit his Instagram account: @spiritsearch.

Since the fires broke out I’ve been thinking a lot about the life forms, human and otherwise, that are left so helpless and exposed during this time.  Thinking about wild animals fleeing their already confined habitats, easily finding themselves in neighborhoods and backyards, no evacuation centers for them to rely on.  

I have been thinking about how hard it is to keep bees alive.  About the myriad of issues they face due to climate change and human impact: habitat loss, pesticides, cognitive issues from lack of diversity in food, reduced nectar flow from drought and heat, record breaking temperatures, disease and smoke.  This August, wildfire smoke from further north and a major heat blast forced many bees in the region to consume large amounts of their honey stores.  Now the fires are here, the smoke thick and the bees hunkering down to try and survive another major blow.

So what happens when forest fire becomes a reality for bees?  When the sky fills with smoke, bees fill their bellies with honey and vigorously fan their wings to try and push the toxic air out of the hive.  They stop flying and retreat inward.  Counter to popular belief they are not preparing to abscond. 

Since ancient times, beekeepers and honey hunters have used smoke to suppress colonies and “calm them down”.  Bees' response to smoke is to consume honey.  The consumption of honey is also an indication of swarming in the spring, and a correlation between honey consumption and swarming/absconding has been drawn without really understanding the nature of a hive.  Bees preparing to swarm in early spring must first prepare the queen for flight.  The queen is much larger and heavier than her sons and daughters.  When preparing to swarm, attendants put the queen on a diet for a few weeks to help her shape up for flight.  In a forest fire, the queen is too heavy to be able to fly (Tautz, "The Buzz About Bees") .  Without a queen, the colony dies.  

 A recent study in South Africa indicates that wild bees don't flee from forest fires, but instead, try to ride them out.  They do this by building a protective “fire-wall” of propolis over the opening to the hive, and retreat deep within.  While this study is specific to wild bees in Table Mountain National Park, South Africa, the findings point to inherent species-wide behaviors in response to fire.  To see photos click here.

“Once the fire has passed, the landscape is filled with powdery grey sand and the blackened skeletons of the larger shrubs. It is this devastation of their environment which the bees encounter after the fire has passed where neither nectar nor pollen is available to them. This is when the imbibed honey is essential to tide them over this dearth period which is about 2 to 3 weeks long before the fire-loving ephemerals sprout from underground bulbs or rhizomes and flower in profusion, having been relieved of competition from other plants.” (from The Natural Beekeeping Trust).

As backyard beekeepers, our hives are much more at risk to fire than the types of wild colonies described above.  For one, our man made hives do not offer the insulation and protection a thick tree or stony outcropping might provide. Second, years of breeding for “desirable” traits has led to a loss in semi-domestic bees’ ability to build sufficient propolis seals, let alone a true propolis fire-wall.  

A beautiful example of a well propolized entrance to a skep hive I visited in England.

What then, can we do to support our colonies in a time of raging fire, habitat loss and smoke damage?  

• If you can safely return to your property, offer your bees a clean water source, such as a bird bath. You may find many displaced birds visit your watering hole as well!

• Do not go into your hives while the smoke is still strong in the air

• Consider late fall feeding for bees that have or are in the midst of consuming large amounts of their winter honey stores.

• Offer your bees a healing and supportive tea to help boost and support their immune system. Try Gunther Hauk's recipe or this recipe from The Natural Beekeeping Trust.

• Rebuild for the bee as you help rebuild your community and your home. Plant for pollinators.

• Do not take honey. Period.

• Talk to them. People have been doing it for centuries. Tell them what happened. Tell them about the land, the community, your experience. They may not understand our words, but they understand our mood, intentions and above all, our love.

Honey bees are an indicator species.  They are the barometer for the ever-increasing volatility of our climate.  They are the clarion call toward a massive restructuring of how we steward, respond, and relate to our planet.  In the wake of this week’s devastation, they remind me that I am a human animal.  I am not above or separate from the many animals struggling to survive in a compromised ecosystem.  We are living creatures with sensitive nervous systems, responsible for the delicate balance of life we so often forget we are a part of.  

Be safe. Be kind. Be aware. Take action. 

Silver Spring

England is full of natural springs.  Every time I come here, I seek them out.  There is nothing like drinking pure water, straight from the depths of the earth.  Almost all of the springs and wells in England are dedicated in one for or another to the sacred.  As if often the case, most sacred springs were regarded as such by pre-Christian peoples who lived closer to the land and revered the spirit of place.  Locations like mountain peaks, caves or a fresh water springs all had associations with a particular spirit, or the Great Mother goddess of the land herself.  Over time many of these spirits became associated with specific Celtic gods and goddesses such as Sul, goddess of the thermal springs in Bath, or Brigid, goddess of healing, music, poetry and smith-craft.  As Christianity moved across the land, most of these sites were appropriated by the Church, renaming the springs after the Virgin Mary or Christian Saints.

In Cerne Abbas, Dorset, there is a beautiful spring known as the Silver Spring, or officially as St. Augustine’s Well.  It is located in a small tucked-away corner of the Cerne Abbas Abbey, and is shaded by over-hanging trees.  On the hill beyond the well there is The Giant of Cerne Abbas: a huge image of a man with a giant phallus carved out of the chalk hillside.  He is the main tourist attraction for Cerne, and the villagers regard him with both playful and serious respect.  The Silver Well acts as the energetic balance point of the feminine, offering quietude, healing and solace to those who visit.

The bench next to the well has the words "Whoever Believes in Me" carved along it's side. Prayer tree/bush is just behind bench.

The spring’s most current patron saint was established by monks from the abbey in the 11th century.  St. Augustine of Canterbury (d. 604 AD), said to be responsible for converting England to Christianity, supposedly struck the ground with his staff, thus producing water.  No patriarchal symbolism there, eh? 

On a plaque in the abbey grounds, another legend suggests St. Edwold came to the spring after dreaming of a silver well.  While out walking the land, he happened upon a shepherd.  He gave the shepherd silver coins in exchange for bread and water.  In return, the shepherd showed St. Edwold the spring, which he recognized as the spring from his vision.   

The Silver Spring in mid-winter flow, 2014. The water bubbles up from the back of the deeper pool.

The Silver well was associated with the feminine long before legends of patron saints and continues to hold folkloric traditions.  This is made clear by the spring’s association with fertility and love. Women who wish to become pregnant drink from the well to cure infertility.  Young women looking to find a husband used to the well as an oracular site or drank from the well while praying to St. Catherine.  

Above the well, a rose bush stretches toward the water.  Tied to it’s branches, are colorful ribbons and small rolled-up pieces of paper with prayers written inside.  This is not an uncommon sight at holy springs in Britain.  You find a similar tree on Wearyall hill and another over the Chalice Well, both in Glastonbury, Somerset.  For me, these prayer trees symbolize a harmonious way humans interact with the sacred landscape, without needing to build a church on top of it to mark it as holy.  I love the multi-colored prayers, ribbons fading in vibrancy as sun and weather do their part.  A small exchange between human and spirit of place, an offering perhaps, a wish.  

Prayers on the rose bush next to the Silver Spring, Cerne Abbas, Dorset.

To this I offer my own: a prayer for the water to return to California.  I live in Northern California.  Beautiful, wild, river and pine California, which is currently suffering from a horrendous drought.  The week I left for Europe, two massive fires broke out, consuming vast amounts of land, homes and our beloved Harbin Hot Springs.  Ultimately, my prayer is for people to initiate change.  A change in our commercial agriculture system, that so bleeds the land of her water, draining California’s central valley aquifer and demanding a kind of production from the land that is unsustainable, to put it kindly.  May we each do our part to find new and old ways to nurture our relationship to food, pollination and consumption. 

The thorn tree on Wearyall Hill, Glastonbury, England.

Holy thorn before it was vandalized, 2010.

Maggie Daly in Connemara, Ireland, 2009.