bees for life

There’s been much ado about bees lately. They’re not doing so well. Colonies in their entirety have been disappearing. An article in the New York Times a couple weeks ago (Bees Vanish; Scientists Race for Reasons) describes a scenario called "colony collapse disorder" in which bees become disoriented and are unable to find their way back home. Historically, this is not the first time we’ve seen this type of behavior, but it’s the first time it’s reached such a massive scale, and on a global level too.

I’m sad for the bees. Can you imagine getting lost on your way home from the grocery store and never finding your way back -- your family waiting for their dinner, but never getting it?

But it’s not just the bees that are affected. We all love their Zen-like presence in the summer months. And I can’t imagine living without my Vermont honey. But these are mild, aesthetic pleasures. No, the big problem with bees disappearing is that human life as we know it could not exist without them. That’s because the majority of our crops rely on bees for pollination. No bees, no food for us. They’re miracle life workers, those bees!

So why are they disappearing?

Sophie, my beekeeper friend in Provence, once told me that pesticides are the cause, that it’s the chemicals that are causing the bees to lose their orientation. The Times articles states many theories -- viruses, mites, disease, pesticides, stress, poor diet -- but scientists don’t know for sure and are hesitant to single out just one cause at this point. It could be a combination of many factors.

The Department of Agriculture has concluded that we rely too heavily on bees as a primary pollinator. I can just imagine that in the near future, we’ll have found new methods of pollination (robots?). Bees won’t be in the picture any more. But that doesn’t mean we can forget about them or lose sight of their value in our world.

The term “beekeeper” should not be taken lightly. Yet, a good number of the possible reasons for the bees’ current demise are directly related to human interference. Is there a way that we as consumers can make a difference this late in the game? I’m not so sure. Awareness is a start. Maybe we could try only buying local, organic food and avoid supporting large-scale farms and crops that require mass transportation of bee hives for pollination. Maybe we could all use a little less honey.

What’s apparent to me is that bees rely on humans just as much as we rely on them. We need to give back a little of what we take -- food, serenity, life.

For now, I’m sending out some good vibes. I hope our bee friends find their way home.

sunday, sunday

Oh, Lazy Sunday, how I love you!

We've been blessed with beautiful weather over the past few days. Everyone's dying to don their shorts and sandals, but this is Vermont and the chilly, spring breeze lingers on. The closest thing to poolside that we've found in early May is the skate ramp behind Burton--it's like a giant s-shaped swimming pool, without the water. And super chill.

Today, after a delicious brunch with Col and Chipster at the Blue Star Cafe (I had a crepe with plum, fig compote, and ricotta cheese), we headed over there and met up with Taylor and his friendly old dog Sadie. It was so nice to just lay there, soak up some rays, and be around good people.

On the way home, we stopped by the market and bought some more seeds for my window box and some peas for the trellis. Maybe I'll plant them later. Maybe not. I think now we'll watch a movie.

cyclorama

I added a new painting to my Web site. Well, new to the Web site -- not new to me. I created it a few years ago during a prolific moment. It's one of my favorites that I've done. This painting, called Cyclorama, was actually at one point shaped like a true cyclorama, with the two short ends fastened together. The landscape was on the inside, and on the outside (the other side of the paper) was painted a purple dusk sky with inky black clouds. Approaching the wavering paper cylinder, you would first see the somber sky, and then you would notice -- because the paper was unevenly cut on the edge -- a lively, glowing scene rolling in and out of view. If you got close enough to look over the rolly polly hills of sky and down into the circular scene, you'd see acrobats diving though the air. Palm trees waving their tippy tops in the warm breeze. Flying elephants. Bright lights and bugs buzzing around in them. My professor at the time called the piece nostalgic. A self-defining moment, I should say. It was a happy place, with movement and dreams.

Sadly, the cyclorama kept getting smushed in my small apartment. There was no good place to display it properly. So, I had to take it a part and lay it flat in a frame in order to preserve its quality. At that point, I had to decide: which side faces up? Which side do I show and which side do I hide? Which side is more important? Dark, stormy sky or summer evening fantasy? I chose the people side. Make sense? I couldn't imagine stifling their dance behind a black matte.

I'm glad I chose that side, too. It still has plenty of movement, despite the shape-change, and is now hanging in my living room. All the little people dancing out at me every day.

my mind wanders

What happens to the mind? Where does it go? I wonder this on a particularly absent-minded afternoon.

On my way home from work today, I made a detour to the bank so that I could deposit a check. When I got to the ATM, I reached inside my purse and realized I hadn't signed the check. Not to worry, I always have at least five pens in there. So I reached in again. Nothing. Not a single pen. The only writing utensil I had in there was a stubby pencil attached to my little red notebook (for emergency brain-dumping and what-not!). I'm pretty sure it's not legally sound to sign a check in pencil. The bank was closed. Great. Now what? I guess I could've walked in to any establishment downtown and borrow a pen, but I just felt so stupid, I turned around and walked home. 20 minutes out of my way for nothing. How does it get to this point?

This is not the first time this has happened in recent weeks. About a month ago, I went to the grocery store and filled my cart with fresh produce, milk, frozen vegetables. When I got to the register, I realized I did not have my wallet. In my mind, I could picture it right where I left it on the kitchen counter back at home. It was one of those classic fears--coming to life before my eyes. The guy at the register felt badly for me. But he had laryngitis, so all he could do was shrug, which made things even more awkward. And then there were people waiting behind me in line. So pathetic. I had to put all of my items back and then walk home empty-handed.

There have been other instances too: losing cards, misplacing keys and sunglasses, forgetting to pay bills (I never forget to pay bills).

This might not sound like such a big deal, except: I never used to be like this. I was always so pulled together. I lived by my photographic memory. I remembered phone numbers, faces, important dates, to-do lists--all by heart. Whenever I would leave the house, I'd check to make sure I had my keys and wallet. I'd ALWAYS have a pen in my purse. And lip balm. I was always prepared for everything.

Now my mind is, as my mother would say, like a sieve. Sure, I know these lapses in memory and poise are perfectly normal as you get older (I like to think I'm just making room for the more important, genius information). So I've learned to adapt. I write lists so that I can easily keep track of what my mind has trouble holding onto. But how do you write lists for things like "pull yourself together" and "don't forget to check your list"? (What good is that little red notebook doing in my purse gathering dust?)

Let's be honest though. I'm not even so sure that mild senility is that much of a threat to my well-being at this point. At the worst it makes for a more interesting day. But geez, I'm a little curious about what I'm going to forget next.

the lake last night

Holy cow -- this is what we saw from our porch last night. Beautiful Lake Champlain, I love you.