Of Bee-ology, Bee-urgy and a Honeyed Alchemy

The Living Theology of the Bee.

[Disclaimer: Yes, I am aware that the male honeybee does not collect nectar from the flower, it being the role of the female honeybee. If, however, you can, please suspend your need for strict fact for the purpose of poetic truth, (you know you did it for The Bee Movie). If you can’t you’re probably at the wrong Stack anyhow.]

None can name what lay between the honeybee and his flower.

She calls him out from deep in his honeycomb tower.

A song he’s always known since before even the deep dreaming of larvae,

That resonates from stinger tip to the ends of antennae.

From black earth depths to golden sun heights,

Rippling concentric circles down his spine.

He, then, cannot but help his buzzing.

The echo of her song from within him.

A sound of sheer delight that cannot be contained.

A Hymenoptera hymn of sunlight.

Sophia-winged in sunshine, his existence is the vibrational hum of the electricity between lovers,

That draws her sweetness to him, that treasure of his deepest desire, acquired for the journey home.

Where, though, his home?

Perhaps the honeycomb tower is not home but a shrine to her.

Or the arcane sanctuary of a mage’s tower, say.

A conduit of their ancient magic.

Her fragrance, her colour, her form all encoded in golden hexagonal effigy.

He weaving that ancient magic tirelessly that it’s strength never fails.

Is his bee-urgy not a hex enveloping the flower of life?

Their magic, then, is the 6-rayed sun of the Heiros Gamos.

Honeyed alchemy.

All those that promote the bee as an icon of industry are mistaken

One cannot do anything tirelessly if it be mere work.

It is only by way of a pandemonium-enthused soul that he might build the honeycomb kingdom of his inner dream.

For true art is the raptured response of the heart to True Art.

There is no transaction that takes place,

No contracts owing.

The ‘urgy,’ the work, is not that of running a race,

Toward a ‘telos’ stuck in place,

But the wonder-actualizing of a spiralling, intertwining Mercurial and Venusian embrace.

It is but the dance of life in them.

Through them.

As them.

For the bee then the hive is not his home,

His home is that eternal dance that none can name,

For to name it would be to ensnare that most ancient of gods and render impotent.

To destroy the mystery between them.

So, his is a vagabond heart,

that finds its rest in the rhythm of journeying.

Moving ever betwixt the longing for ecstasy and the ecstasy of longing.

Yearning is his religion.

He belongs only to the unending song that is the Heraclitean fire of her solar soul.

It is naught but very life itself to him.