Philosophical Sunday~

Not so long ago I was bent down in my garden planting seeds. A few days later, I was there again, doubting their ability to sprout. Every year and without fail, I find myself wondering if my garden will grow, if the flowers will bloom, if the plum tree will fruit...and every year despite my disbelief, the garden grows, the flowers bloom and the plum tree fruits.. and every year I stand in awe at the miraculous ability of nature.

It occurred to me just recently that I might benefit from considering the possibility that this is also what is happening for humanity. That my part in the garden of creation is only that, just a part. That as much as our lives are governed by the way we think about them, there is also something beyond our minds, beyond our thoughts (which lets face it, are not always sweetness and light, at least mine aren't) beyond our "control." That beyond our thinking there is a magnificent indescribable momentum that propels all life forward toward bloom and fruit, death and rebirth.

On my knees, there in my garden, the sun beating down on my shoulders, the moist earth between my fingers, I felt relief as this thought washed over me. I let myself sink into the possibility that I was being carried, like all living things held in the arms of the Great Mother. Moving like a river does, destined for the sea. Perhaps life then is a balance between active and passive, between doing and not doing, between knowing and not knowing, and this, at least for today, is a great relief to me.

My book shelves are lined with books whose pages are dedicated to teachings that explain "how to create a glorious reality," and looking at their bold titles and colorful spines, on this quiet Sunday morning, seems really quite hilarious, like a lot of work and pretentious notions. Today I am considering the possibility that my reality is already perfect. Today at least, there is no better reality to create, no more perfect way of thinking or being anything other than what and who I am. As for tomorrow, who knows what new and clever notions will be taking for forefront, but I'll keep you posted.

Papa Sigi and Ravi Shankar ~

Papa Sigi (my grandfather) and I ~

Yesterday, I spoke with my grandfather. He turned 92 last week. He still looks like he's sixty; out in his garden on most days planting seeds and digging weeds. He's often found in cut off jean shorts and gum boots, chopping wood and stacking it against the shed.

He told me that it's hard to believe he's 92 this year and that he remembers 29 like it was yesterday. He told me that he has lived the best life and that he can barely believe his good fortune. He told me that the luckiest thing to have happened to him was to have lived through the hungry thirties. "After that, he said, a person is never in want of anything again. Yes, he said, I have had a good life, I am still having a good life, I am the luckiest person in the world Nao."

"What is the secret to such happiness," I asked him, and he said, three things: "not worrying, not envying and lots of sleep." After a half an hour of delightful conversation, I put the phone down, without saying goodbye of course, as my grandfather believes that there is too much finality in those words, and that nothing is ever final. So when we part ways, we only say, I love you, and then we hang up the phone, or walk away, and there is never a goodbye between us.

Later that same day, I spent the evening, in an old baroque theatre, listening to the 89 year old Sitar Master, Ravi Shankar. It was one of the most extraordinary things I have ever been privileged to witness. There he sat, on that elegant stage, in his Indian slippers, speaking only to announce each Raga and then he played with a radiant smile on his face, his eyes closed, his head tilted toward the sky. He played 2 songs over an hour and a half. It was like being inside a prayer.

While I sat there, the classical sitar music of India enveloping me in like sunshine, I thought, here is another wise man, who like my grandfather has also lived through the majority of this past century. And despite the fact that he has lived an entirely different life to my Papa Sigi, the quality of the smile on his face seemed to reveal the same sense of gratitude that my grandfather, in his little wooden house, in a small Canadian town, on the edge of a grassy field also knows.

The wisdom of one who has lived and loved and lost is truly a wonderful thing to experience.

This post is dedicated to Papa Sigi Kuraoka and Ravi Shankar, both Gurus in their own right.

Namaste~

Beetime Traveller Chapter 2~

Four months ago, on a rainy wintry day, I called the local honeybee center, and registered for a four day long, "Basic Bee Keeping" course. The course was to be taught by a local Beemaster and would include both classroom and field study. The cost was 250 dollars, which I paid without hesitation.

A week later, I bought all my honeybee equipment including the veil and safari type hat. Of course, once I had those things in my possession, I tried them on every chance I got, and stood in front of the mirror dreaming of bee keeping, like a child does Christmas. I was on the count down. And as the blossoms bloomed in the garden, one after another, the way they do at this time of year, I knew I was getting closer to the course scheduled for the beginning of May.

You see I have this "way" of looking forward to an event that has to do with what flower, or vegetable, or fruit is in season, on the day that the event is scheduled for. It's a childhood ritual I simply cannot help but still do, and it goes like this: I knew that on the 1st day of my bee course the plum trees would be in flower, and so instead of looking on the calender to when my course would be, I waited for the plums to bloom before preparing.

I invented this planning style as a child when I couldn't understand calenders and time lines. I could however, understand what time of year it was when the violets were out, or when the pumpkins were ready. I knew that my birthday was just before violets and Halloween was sometime around pumpkins. My niece understands this logic very well, and she asks "when will I see you again Auntie, and I reply, "when the raspberries are ready to eat, or when your mom plants the squash, or when the sunflowers are out." And she gets this, more than she might if I had said in two months and five days. For, what does two months mean to a child?

( Funnily enough this is how beekeepers think too, as they respond to the needs of their bees based on what is blooming, and they ask themselves "are we in dandelion season or blackberry?")

But back to Basic Bee Keeping, a course due to start when the plum is in bloom.

Two weeks ago the plum tree's bloomed. A week later I got in my car and drove for an hour into the fields where I met up with twenty others who wanted to learn about honeybees. And I have to say, as far as I can tell, people interested in honeybees, seem like a pretty good bunch. These folks were the most down to earth, unpretentious, good hearted group I have met in long time. I think it takes a certain kind of temperament to be interested in such things. Opening a hive of 60, 000 honeybees is not for the angry impatient ones, it really isn't.

And so together, with our unbelievably knowledgeable and inspired teacher, we ventured into the land of the honeybee. We donned our bee suits and headed out into the Bee Yard, we opened hives, inspected frames of bees, lit smokers, counted eggs and larvae. We read books, we took notes, we watched slide shows, and we were tested, both on the field and in the classroom. There was an exam which I proud to say I did rather well on (little geeky grin), and a certificate awarded to all of those who past the test. It was one of the most informative and interesting things I have done in a very long time.

I learned more over the course of those four days than I can fully integrate, but I expect I will figure much of it out along the way. It's a bit like all things that way, gardening, parenting, getting a dog, buying a house, going traveling, falling in love, first kiss, loosing ones virginity, all daunting things in the beginning. You can only prepare so much for any one of them, and then, you just do it, and you figure it out. eh eh eh. ( I hope I haven't offended any bee keepers out there by comparing bee keeping to "loosing one's virginity," but you get my drift, I hope).

So that said, here I go, two weeks until my Bee's arrive! I know a little bit more now then I did last week, and I will learn a whole lot more over the many years that I hope to do this. I have no doubt that this is going to be a life long learning, but I am truly okay with that, cause let's face it, what isn't?

Gramma Bell

Image from interent

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to take me to this tiny spot of green beside her house, where the wild violets grew, over the graves of the family pets. Only two things grew in that little shady patch of green, that lay between those two old buildings, on the main street, of that small mountain town. One was the wild violet, and the other, was the bleeding heart.

Image from Internet

The violets, she would tell me, grew there because flowers naturally grow on the graves of those we love. The bleeding hearts however, grew there to tell us a story. The story was of an unhappy princess who refused the love of a charming prince. Eventually the prince killed himself because the princess would not return his feelings. "Hearts bleed," my grandmother would say, "when we believe that only someone else can bring us happiness."

My grandmother was indeed a wise woman, she was also a heavy drinker and an angry woman. She was perfectly human, and in her humanness she was the most colorful, loving and raging woman I have ever met. To glorify her as a saint would be more than untrue, it would be unfair, for it was her ruckus laughter and big bellowing whiskey cheer that made the people love her. It was the way she sat on the piano bench and sang "Just a closer walk with thee" after a bottle of booze with her friend Dorris on a Sunday, that brought the house down. It was the upside down pineapple cake she made for us on our birthdays, and then force fed us, that was her charm.

Who am I to judge her way of coping? Who are any of us to judge anyone? I know there was a sad and secret story from her past. I know her heart was broken in a thousand places before my grandfather fell in love with her, and even the love they shared, it never fixed hear heart permanently. The love between she and my grandfather was strong and real, but it was more like the glue that holds a potted vase together after it has already been broken.

I know it was her brokenness that made her understand the sad wayfarer passing through. She had the kind of empathy that comes from experiencing the rugged and treacherous landscape of living. How many of those shoeless, womanless, penniless people, did she invite in off the street for a hot meal and a bath? How many broken hearts did she hold to her breast and with that big warm soft body, whisper that it would be alright?

When she died the whole town mourned. And I swear that little mountain town became a quieter place over night. "Just a closer walk with thee," has gone back to being sung by church congregations, and I am sure everyone would agree that it seems to have lost a certain kind of zestful deliverance.

I am not a believer in perfection. The more days that go by in my life, the more I am aware that our imperfections are what make us human. As far as I can tell it is the mud of who we are that is what really rounds us out, gives us depth and color and character, that makes us the passionate and perfectly imperfect beings that we are.

Joseph Cambell once said, "Be careful of the demons you cast out, lest they be the best parts of yourself."

And so, on this May morning, I am thinking of my Gramma Bell. Just a few days ago I noticed the bleeding hearts in my garden are in flower. Whenever I move into a new house I plant two bleeding hearts for my grandmother and every year when they offer there soft pink shapes to the world, I raise a glass to that wild and wonderful woman, who taught me so much about being myself.

~ To Gramma Bell

Isobel Elizabeth Kuraoka

Image from Interent

The Light Of Encouragement~

Last years Peony

There is something about encouragement that makes possibility grow and bloom and become. I think encouragement is a most vital nutrient for all living beings to thrive, to live radiant and happy lives. I know I could drink vats of the stuff and only benefit. If encouragement was a healing elixir, there would be thousands of different honeyed flavors. For encouragement is one of those wonderful things that appears to come in infinite forms. Sometimes it rides into our hearts on a phrase spoken by someone that sees us, and other times it is brought to us by a sunrise a dawn, or by dog licks on wet tears, or cat purrs, or a child's song, or a grandmothers homemade soup...

My little niece called me last week and said, "Auntie, Auntie, you will never believe it, but a rainbow stopped by our house yesterday, the most beautiful rainbow. It came to bring us the best luck Auntie, I wish you could have seen it, it would have brought you luck too, I am sure of it." I told her that was indeed a lucky thing, when a rainbow "stops by" your house. And when I put the phone down I thought isn't it wonderful the way the universe encourages us.

Senay (My neice making Easter Eggs)

All this is to say, I have had the most wonderful encouragement from so many beautiful people over my latest bee keeping adventure. Even the plants in my garden appear to be cheering me on. Somehow I can't help but thank you all for your kind and supportive and unwavering enthusiasm. Please know how very much it means to me.

Rose from last years garden

And now I leave you with a poem from our Dear Hafiz:

How Did The Rose?

How

did the rose

ever open its heart

and give the world all of its beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light against its being,

otherwise we all remain too

frightened.

~Hafiz Sufi Poet 14th Century

Beetime Traveller Chapter 1~

Image from Internet

Well, I think most of us in the northern hemisphere can officially agree that spring has at last come. There are flowers blooming and birds singing and seeds sprouting in all directions. If I had a favorite time of year ( which I don't) this would be it. Of course I feel like this at every turn of the seasonal wheel. I am like a child trying to decide my favorite color, at first I declare it's red and then swiftly change my mind to, oh no it's blue, and then, actually no it's green, before I say, "no it's all of them, give me the whole rainbow." Yes, I am somebody who loves it all, including spring, winter, summer and fall.

And speaking of loving it all, I will take this opportunity to share with you, my latest endeavour, Bee Keeping. Because, let's face it, spring would not be spring without adding BEES to the mix of birds, flowers and trees. Indeed, the earth as we know it, would not exist without these busy little pollinating friends, whose miraculous ways pollinate 90% of the earth's plants. In fact, if we really think about it, it is quite possible that we humans wouldn't exist without them. For, I believe it was Albert Einstein who said, "if the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live."

Image from internet

As many of you know, there is much discussion with regard to the decline of honey bee's. Indeed, this is a rather enormous problem on our planet at this time, amongst a very long and frighting list of other enormous problems. I don't know about you, but I could get very sad if I let my heart break for the present state of our Good Earth. However, after much thought on this difficult topic, I have come the conclusion that sadness is not the best style for me to adopt in an effort to make positive change during these troubled times. And so, Instead of cultivating sadness I am endeavoring to cultivate happiness and although this is not always easy, it feels like the best option. I, Nao Sims, choose to dedicate myself to loving the earth with nothing but joy in my heart and a radiant unwavering belief that we can indeed heal this beautiful world.

When I first learned about the problems with pollination I cried for two hours straight. And, when I realized that crying wasn't going to do anything for the bee's, I got up off the floor and got organized. Within a week I had ordered 20,000 honey bee's, two bee hives, and registered for a course with a Master Bee Keeper in a large field, under a big sky, an hours drive my house.

I spent the last days of winter cozied up with tea, reading books on back yard Bee Keeping, dreaming of my own honey, and remembering those long ago days when I was a little girl and my father was a bee keeper. There is nothing like the smell of fresh honeycomb, like seeing a bee on a dandelion after a long winter, or like the smell on my fathers hands when he'd come back from checking on a hive.

Yesterday, the boxes containing my hives arrived. After a song and a dance, Gus and I gleefully opened our packages. Gus was just as keen as I was to see what was inside, although his canine sense of smell gave the contents away well before I opened the lid, and the smells of honeycomb permeated the living room. What we found in those big cardboard boxes resembled a jig saw puzzle more than it did a bee hive. Apparently bee hives, like most things, need to be assembled. Our boxes were filled with parts of hives, and one poorly photocopied pink piece of paper, with very few instructions as to how to put the parts together. I laughed for a long time before I considered how to begin.

And then, without further adieu, I began...

I hammered.

And I painted.

And eventually,

I did it!

(This is Bee hive number one of two)

Gus and Mark cheered me on through my trials and tribulations and an old friend came over with lunch and together we shared the painting. All this said, my first day as a bee keeper, went very well.

The Bee's don't officially arrive until June 1st, but the preparations for their new life, in my garden, have already started. I shall keep you posted as to how it all goes.

To read more about what you can do to help support Bee's and the important work of these winged friends click here.

Going Home~

Image by Martina Lang

There is a feeling I get whenever I go to my hometown that always surprises me. It comes the instant that I arrive in that valley surrounded by those familiar hills and mountains. At first it comes in the form of a kind of amnesia, where the memories of my new life disappear. As the car meanders down the winding road to the place of my childhood, I am nowhere else but HOME. In these moments I can barely remember that I ever left and I marvel at this feeling that seems to come up from the very ground I walk upon.

In my mind I can still hear my grandmother's voice showing me the buttercups blooming on the hillside just before town. "Spring is here" she would say, and the way she would say it, those three simple words, would always make me think that the whole world was new and beautiful and filled with promise. As my mother slows the car to round the last bend into town, we both look up at the hill to those tiny yellow blooms that speak to us of all the days before this one, and all of those to come after. We are silent for a moment, before we look at one another and say, "Grandma's buttercups."

Image from Internet

I have heard it told, that in the indigenous traditions, the people believe that the spirits of the land welcome us back to our birthplace. That the elemental beings and the guardians of the earth who dwell in our homeland, never forget us. That we are as much a part of the land as the trees and the blades of grass, as the yellow buttercups on the green hillside.

Artist Unknown

Walking by the creek with my little niece, looking up at a circling hawk in the April sky, I think I might agree with those wise indigenous ones. That indeed there is a kind of invisible magic inviting us to sink down into the roots of our own beings and drink up the nourishment of being HOME.

When I get on my plane tonight and I fly over these beautiful and sacred mountains I will give thanks to this good earth for reminding me of this beautiful circle I am a part of. And when I walk through the front gate of my little green cottage, 300 miles away from my hometown, another feeling will greet me. Another sense of HOME, and one that is just as wonderful. When my dog licks my face in his enthusiasm to see me after four long days, and my man put's the kettle on, I will remember my new life in all of it's beauty, just as I have remembered my old life.

Someone once said, "Home is where the heart is," and I think I would have to agree.