One day the gardener called me over and explained that he wasn't able to work on a certain area of the garden because of the bees.  He pointed out a small hole in the outer wall of the house and sure enough, there was a handful of bees coming and going.  Apparently, they objected to the presence of the gardeners and buzzed them whenever they came near.

I had recently learned that in the last few years about 95% of the wild honeybees in the United States have died and the domesticated honeybee is dying out too, creating a serious problem for farmers who rely on the bees to pollinate crops. Since this seemed to be a healthy hive, it seemed the environmentally friendly thing to do was a live bee removal.  Before too long, I discovered that this was incredibly expensive and my good intentions wavered.  I had long conversations with myself and then remembered a book Rae had recommended, The Voice of the Infinite in the Small [Re-visioning the Insect-Human Connection] and wondered if there were something within it about bees.

I found the chapter, "Telling the Bees," and discovered that, not only are they intelligent and aware, in many religions they are considered sacred.  But it wasn't until I read the following story, and got goose bumps, that I decided that no matter what, I had to save these bees.

It occurred in Shropshire, England, in the mid-1960s.  In the small county of Myddle lived a beekeeper named Sam Rodgers, who was also a postman, cobbler, and handyman.  Although he liked his work and had many friends, his great love was for his bees.  Each day he would go to the hives and care for them.  He would always talk tenderly to them, as if they could understand his every word and affectionate gesture.  People say that Rodgers would sit in a chair in front of his hive and ring a small bell.  The bees would swarm out and cluster all over him.  Then one day the benevolent eighty-three-year-old beekeeper died.

His family, aware of the old customs of the area, knew that someone must tell the bees of his death.  Two of Sam's children walked down the path to the hives and solemnly told the bees of Sam's passing.

Sam was buried a few days later in the local cemetery behind the town's church.  The Sunday after the funeral, parishioners called the parson outside to witness what was happening.  The Reverend John Ayling reported later that he saw a long line of bees heading straight for Sam's grave.  They came from the direction of his hives a mile or so away.  It resembled a funeral procession.  Once the bees had circled Sam's gravestone, they flew directly back to their hives.  Friends and members of Sam Rodgers's family were mystified by the strange behavior of his bees; so were bee experts in the area.  No one could explain logically what they had witnessed, for it seemed as if the bees had gone to the grave site to pay their last respects and bid Sam goodbye.

Of course, the next step was a conversation with Rae and the bees to let them know that they couldn't stay where they were and they would be moved to a better place.

The first message we received from the group consciousness was that they knew something was happening, as they had felt human attention.  Rae then received several comments from the queen.

"This has been an ideal place and we wish we could stay.  It will be very distressing, but if you promise we will live, it will be OK.  It should be a gentle and friendly place with no danger.  We have much work to do.  The beekeeper needs to be very respectful--before he leaves us in the new place he must make sure we are secure.  We are quiescent now, but we won't be that way when it happens."

Finally the big day arrived.  The bee removers, John and Joe, arrived and they were both calm and had a very quiet and gentle energy.  I took them to the hive and asked them to explain exactly what would happen (knowing that the bees would hear).  John gave me all the details--first, they would use a heat sensor to find out exactly where the hive was; then with an electric saw they would cut through the stucco around the outer edges of the hive until it was exposed.  Then they would remove the honeycomb, with the queen and the bees, and place them in a hive box. They would then be driven to an avocado grove in the countryside outside San Diego, and my wall would be repaired and repainted.  I was so happy to hear about their new home, I suddenly threw caution to the winds and told them that the bees were prepared for the move, as I had had a conversation with them.  This was greeted with a very polite "uh huh."

They suited up in full beekeeper outfits and went to work. 

John warned me that the bees would probably swarm angrily as soon as they opened up the wall, so I took refuge inside the sun porch, where I still had a great view of all the proceedings.  Pretty soon I heard a high pitched whine as Joe started using the saw to cut an opening in the wall.  After a few minutes of this horrible noise, they pulled the stucco off the wall and I expected to see angry bees flying everywhere.  However, only about a dozen took off; the rest just stayed with the hive.

Guess what?  The hole wasn't large enough - it only exposed half of the hive.  (See below)