My favorite poem by the Irish poet William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, begins with these four lines:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
I always loved the sense of silence, stillness and peace that Yeats paints for us in this poem, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I was really aware of what it might be like to live in a bee-loud glade. Yesterday we hiked Craggy Gardens Trail, a path right off the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina, which promised a trail to “craggy flats through a high mountain Rhododendron bald.” I had never been surrounded by the bone-like Rhododendron before, and I became mesmerized by the bare branches clawing their way skyward, seemingly dead and yet holding life in the glossy leaves at the end of their limbs. Perhaps another word for another day…
When we arrived at the top and walked out onto the bald of the hill, I found myself virtually encircled by bees busy doing what bees do, not caring a buzz that I was tramping through their livelihood. But the sound! It took me a few seconds to realize that the roar in my ears was the chorus of the workers. Going about their life and livelihood, I wondered if they knew the sound they made. Yeats’ words immediately surfaced and I smiled. Bee-loud glad indeed. He knew. He knew because he paid attention, as I was doing now.
So often we don’t act because we don’t think we make a difference, as if one voice doesn’t matter, as if the buzz that comes off of our lives is insignificant. But that mindset negates the power of community — of people who put their heads down and work and get the job done, of singers who lift one voice and form a chorus, of worshippers who gather around a common table and form one body in Christ. That’s the buzz of our lives, the bee-loud glade of our existence. We are not made to be alone.
Ask yourself in silence: When do I feel insignificant? When do I feel alive and part of something larger than myself?
Oh! The sound bees make! And so true! In the silence . . . all the more loud! And how we can allow some things to drone (pardon the pun!) out what we choose to! Not ‘hearing” a thing. Thank you for these thought provoking words, Steve. As always, how much I receive from your writing. Just beautiful. Now I think I am going outside to listen . . .
God bless,
Kathleen
I often do my best to listen to the bees and the birds and the various other sounds I come across. I also listen to the babel of the brooks and the sound of the wind not only in the leaves as well as the sound it makes as it blows across the tall grass. Sometimes when I get busy or self absorbed though, I don’t hear those things as I should. Thanks for reminding me that I need to take the time in my daily life to listen a little harder so that I don’t miss what really matters – the fact that I’m here for a purpose and still have a lot to accomplish in my own small way.
Steve,
It’s refreshing to read your Spirit-laden words. God bless and thank you!
Jack
Beautiful words and, as always, I love the pictures you use to illustrate your thoughts.
A couple of nights ago Norm and I were walking in the cricket-loud dampness after a rainstorm at Pere Marquette, insects know how to make themselves heard! Thanks for a good meditation and some questions to ponder, Steve!
My role at work is hidden: I edit manuscripts of people who are brilliant, but not good at English. It’s nice to be reminded that one set of bee-wings is barely audible, but many bees working together make a difference.
Thanks, Judi, and thanks for encouraging me to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek all those years ago. The smallest of things…
Thanks, Maura. Having been an editor, I know the feeling! But we all make a contribution, however small it feels at times…
Thanks, Kathleen. Hope you and Steve are doing well…
Thanks, Jack. I miss seeing your face!
Thanks, Jim, as always.