Perspiration streams down my back. The air is ash-laden; another day of
record-breaking high temperatures smothers and oppresses. Is this what an apocalypse feels like? An
apocalypse of global warming.
In my garden I watch honey and bumble bees
darting about, alighting on the lacey fragrant flowers of my ilán-ilán tree, their favorite right
now. I wonder if this heavy air interferes with their orientation and sensitive
sense of smell.
The televised scenes of forests and
fields, farm animals and homes being devoured by raging flames feel unreal,
more like a Hollywood disaster movie – pine trees converted into flaming
torches, unidentifiable carcasses littered on the ground. A farmwoman laments
her losses. “Everything,” she cries. “Everything.” Behind her, a scorched
washing machine perches atop a pile of rubble. Veterinarians treat the wounds of
a horse with a singed forelock. Beekeepers point to their blackened hives and
scorched fields.
Firemen, forest rangers, soldiers and townspeople work together to control the flames with
hoses, shovels, rakes and chain saws. Those without tools attempt to smother
flames with leafy tree branches.
Relief is on the way. The 747Global
Super tanker, thanks to a single donor’s generosity, roars low over the heads
of cheering country people, releasing its cargo of water and repellant onto the
flaming forest. It’s the star of each
night’s newscasts. To my surprise I notice painted on its fuselage the words Spirit of John Muir, the naturalist responsible
for the naming of California’s Yosemite as the first U.S. National Park.
I feel a renewed faith in humankind watching
scenes of hundreds of cars and trucks lining up to take aid to the people of
Santa Olga, a town left in ashes. Television and newspaper advertisements
provide information for making monetary donations. Beekeepers beg for bags of
sugar to make a solution that can keep the bees from starving while their
owners search for safe areas.
I know that my garden bees, like all
of their species, are well-experienced in cooperation, each performing its
assigned task in benefit of the whole hive. Those foragers pollinating our apricot
and avocado tree blossoms guarantee our summer harvest. They will return to
their hives with their pollen-laden baskets, dance their waggle dance or wave
their antennae to inform the others where to find the sweet pollen. I wonder
where they’ve established their hives in this city neighborhood. I’m amazed to learn
that in winter they instinctively know to crowd together tightly, each bee
rotating through the cluster from outside to inside so no bee gets too cold. In
hot weather, they fan their wings. Such efficiency. No carbon footprint.
Yet, against wind-whipped wildfires,
bees have little defense. They depend upon our care, which we must recognize as
a mutually beneficial arrangement. Chilean beekeepers look to move their
healthy hives to new lands temporarily, and I wonder how long it will take for the
native foliage to recover. One year? Two? Ten? Already a winter of little rain
is predicted.
Danger exists that complacency will
set in now that the crisis is past. It is easy to forget lessons learned as
television and newspaper headlines devote more space to political frauds and the
day’s robberies. Yet, the homeless are still homeless; the farmers have no
suitable land to farm, and the bees no fields and trees to visit. When will
they return to their buzzing, bumbling, pollinating and dancing the waggle as only
honey bees know how to do?
This morning I look up to the wonder of an almost true blue firmament. Lightness
fills me after the weeks of a grey, smoke-filled sky. I observe the bees’
velvet touch on the delicate blooms, their patient precision, and feel pleased
they find nourishment in my garden.
