“...even the insects in my path are not loafers, but have their special errands”. Henry David Thoreau, American writer
Bumblebees sleep in our garden.
It’s true. I often find them early in the morning, still tucked into bed in the depths of a gladiolus like this one or sprawled on top of a zinnia. They’re not exactly morning folks, often staying in such a torpor until the sun is climbing that they can actually be petted a bit.
Bumblebees don’t get the press that honeybees do. They’re not as busy — drifting from flower to flower in what looks like leisure rather than working like little demons. As a result, they produce enough honey for themselves, but not enough to stock the shelves of big-box stores. Thus no one “keeps” them. They roam free.
But, they simply cannot jet about in that freedom. If you look at one closely, it’s a marvel they can even fly. Yet, they do.
They fly, they sleep on silken petals and, sometimes, they roll around in what looks like pleasure. I’ve seen them do this in rose of sharon blooms until they’re so coated with golden pollen they can barely achieve lift off.
I like them.
I like them a lot.
They remind me that life is not a race, that life is more than work, that life is more than, well, accumulating. They do what is needed. Nothing less. But, most delightfully, nothing more.