It is a day in February and fifteen minutes shy of noon. The honey bees dodge each other amongst the thistles. They land on each flower ‘testing’ it for a second or two before moving to the next. Once the nectar is found their flapping wings stop and they drink. They bend the fragile flower to their will but never break it from the stem.
The liquid is extracted. At the moment of takeoff the buzzing ignites.
One just chased another from the flower or did he just bump into him? The thistle honey is a delight and the bees dance all the way back to their hives alerting the others.
The oak leaves fall with each slight breeze. The green male catkins bide their time while the female flowers produce their seed.
And like the honeybee buzzing around landing on opportunity, missing some but always moving and like the oak leaves falling but not concerned in whose arms they will be caught….
I, too, buzz around looking for the opportunity to land safely and securely where the nectar lies. Unlike the oak leaf, I sometimes fall unconsciously into the wrong hands. If I would remain awake, I would not be ‘held’ where my heart or my intuition would not have me go.
The bee has perfected its knowing and the leaf lays still assured of its future.
When I fall by the wayside I, also, should lie still. I then can awake to my knowing, my unstoppable force.
Feeling weak and afraid I prayed for courage, mostly courage. A quotation came to mind from a Monroe Institute recording spoken from our Source.
“LIVE IN ME AND I WILL EXPRESS YOU”
And then a baby inchworm tickled my leg and I positioned a leaf under him next to my skin. He extended his body out to investigate and slid onto the oak leaf.
I placed him on the large coral rock and watched him explore and wander, so small, so brave and curious.
My heart swelled.
And the honeybees strummed the thistle still. Every few moments, the sun warmed my face through the tree as the clouds passed swiftly across the sky.
The wind rained leaves down on my head and all around my circle of light…
I turned and watched the great white heron parade through the meadow of trees and field as if he were a king ruling this land.
As the circles carry us round and round we only need to say stop to be aground.
A cloud mist is rolling above filtering the remaining sunlight and dimming the blue sky.
The salt is fresh in the air and the breeze turns cooler.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The bright green spring leaves of the tall tree standing beyond the pond are vivid against the stormy grey sky.
The rain falls and the salty aroma of the air is pushed down to the ground and replaced with the pungent earthy smell of dirt.
