The man and the bee
Small things, with great love.
In the last month it has been challenging to figure out what to say in public spaces. I’ve been juggling a lot of different balls, dropping many of them, including, and most prominently, my regular substack postings. Not for lack of writing, but somehow recent winds have left most of my thousands of words scattered like leaves at my feet. My hope is that with time they will compost, but for now they are just that, no beautiful trees.
That said, I recently encountered a passage where David James Duncan writes of a Mother Teresa quote “that has been saving my sanity” in politically oppressive times. “‘We can do no great things — only small things, with great love.’”
Duncan writes: “I don’t know about you all, but I’m hopelessly flawed. …[But] when small things are done with love it’s not a flawed you or me who does them: it’s love. … small things, lovingly done, are always within our reach.”
We could pick at Duncan’s words, weigh them for the philosophical value, but I’ve found them encouraging, at least sufficient encouragement to share one small thing. Here’s a small silly story I’ve told once before - something from last summer, but which somehow still seems relevant, and which I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
From my journal, dated 6/10/2024:
Brain fried after a long day of work, I thought I would ride by bike to the lake. At the bottom of the apartment building stairs, next to the outside basement door where I get my bike, I found a guy, perhaps mid 30s, kinda awkward looking, squatting down on the concrete. He had a glass of something the color of apple cider vinegar in his hand, and was pouring small amounts of it on the sidewalk. I must have given him a quizzical look as I fumbled with my keys, because he looked up at me sheepishly.
“There was a bee crawling around, so I thought she might like some sugar water,” he said. He’d apparently gone back up to his apartment to prepare a mix he thought she’d like, and brought it back down, sharing a little bit at a time.
“So I was giving her some but she doesn’t seem to like it,” he explained. “She moves away from the wet fast - so I don’t know. Maybe she’s dying.”
He shook his head a little, and then quickly stood up, and, embarrassed, walked away.
Don’t go, I thought, don’t go. But my mouth couldn’t work out any words. So I unlocked the door to the basement and stepped inside, wondering at this person, all 6 feet of him, caring for the little bee. Or trying, even if she couldn’t receive the love.
Once I’d gotten my bike I thought about looking for that guy. I wanted to share something, let him know some of the appreciation I felt. But he had left, the moment passed, a little blink in spacetime. The bee too, was no where to be seen. Just a little spot of wet pavement in the dry June heat. I looked around once more, and then slowly pedaled away.
Duncan also writes of another Mother Teresa quote “God doesn’t ask us to win. He asks us to try.”
Today I’m not winning. But today I continue to try.
Beautifully written Luke. Perhaps it was not in the moment for what you needed to do, but what you can do from that moment onwards?
This was beautiful. Definitely the realistic, yet motivational encouragement I needed today. It’s funny you say you’ve lost your words, while I believe you and know exactly what that’s like, you seem to have found them in this post. So many poetic things you said, such as the analogy of your words being scattered like leaves in the wind.
Anyway, I wanted to let you know I connected with this post, the message, your writing, even the bee story. And I didn’t want to let the opportunity to tell you pass me by, as happens sometimes, like when the man left before you could say anything. I do know what it’s like to have this happen, and I’m trying to do what I can in my life now to avoid those moments of not expressing appreciation, or anything, when I can.
June of last summer I was also seeing dying bees and trying to revive them, giving them sugar water. I have some journal entries and poetry about those experiences. The two I nursed disappeared and I have to hope they lived. Like the bee in your story, I hope it disappeared because it lived.
I hope that what you’re going through dissipates, or riddles you with excess strength, or both. Thanks for sharing!