Nature's Place

Little Heart, Big Hearted …

Carpenter Bee making nest early 2013

Mother Carpenter Bee making the nest early 2013 – a rare appearance as she tossed debris

Teddy Bear Bee feeding on nearby flowers

Male Carpenter Bee feeding on nearby flowers

The best I could get - she's big and fast

The best I could get – he’s big and fast – I was lucky

It’s a male Carpenter Bee, I think. It has been occupying the nest excavated in 2013 by the female/mother – I believe – Carpenter Bee. The nest is in a two inch thick stick I had to secure to a metal rod after it rotted in the ground – soft wood.

Then I built the no-till garden beds and recently, a week or so ago, sowed some seed that needed shade from the hot sun, and the shade got in the bees way of returning home – that I noticed one day, having already missed it.

So I remedied the situation, I thought, only to find something else had acted to block the nest for a short while. And no bee to be seen for days now. I wonder if it has another nest somewhere …

I doubt its little heart could survive the rigours of homelessness for long, not like people do. People, it seems, can adapt to almost anything … almost.

We can usually retreat, recover and renew – if the situation allows.

*And just after posting this he returned to the nest.

© Mark Berkery … CLICK any picture to enlarge in a new tab …

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Truth?

One of the Stingless Sugarbag Bees native to Oz gathering pollen for the hive from one of the Daisy’s in the garden, hungry little fella, about 1cm long and shot on the run.

What is that, truth? I’m sure someone famous has asked before since there is nothing new under the sun, as someone else has also said. So what’s the point to living then?

There must be a point or I wouldn’t be here. And the fact I am here must point to the truth, because if truth isn’t in the fact where is it. Where else could it be? Surely not in imagination, the swamp to lost souls. And there’s only the fact or the fiction.

So what is the fact? I am sitting here writing this, that’s a fact. And the next moment I am (doing) something else which is also a fact, albeit a different one.

But surely if there is such a thing as truth it is common to all who are capable of asking the question or there is more than one truth. I don’t buy that, the duplicity or multiplicity of truths. That’s what we already have with everybody living their own truth that is the source of so much conflict.

So truth must be without conflict? For me it must, because I have known enough conflict to know I don’t want that and I still want the truth. So where can I find no conflict? Is it possible in a world of believers?

Probably not, but does truth depend on what others think it is? I don’t think so, that’s just more imagining. Truth is mine, irrefutable in my own experience, or there is none. For if truth is not mine there is no such thing, or it is all imagining after all.

But anyone who has played around in the imagination knows there is no truth there. No peace of mind, another way of describing ‘no conflict’. Is this making sense to anyone but me?

Peace of mind, what else is worth living for. What else is it you do everything for in the end, if not peace of mind. Or would you say you prefer conflict? Some would, I suspect, having been there. But that’s just the way it is, on the way to truth, you have to know what it is not.

And it’s not conflict or we’d all be at peace. :)

What then is common to all who can ask the question; What is truth? Could it be the measure of intelligence it takes to do so? Could it be to do anything, or for anything to happen or be cognised there must be a measure of intelligence?

Let’s leave so-called objective science out of this and look in our own experience, which is now, and not some past book or words of some ‘wise old man or woman’ who are not here now.

Truth, surely, has to be now or it’s not here now. And anything that’s not here now is imagination, gone, hasn’t come.

So what is common to all that is now? It’s a fair question, no? What is truth? In my own, your own experience.

I am. What I call ‘I’. I in the question and the questioner, I in the doer and the doing, I in the happening, the living and the dying.

I am the truth. I, the intelligence behind the appearance of any body or thing at all, am, the truth.

So you are the truth too, if you can just see ‘I’ in all things.

And the way to do it is negate anything that is not ‘I’.

Negate, render to nothing, everything.

For no-thing is ‘I’. Or ‘I’ am.

Then, like any truth, it must be lived.

Just thought I’d get that out today.

In that way.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture to enlarge in a new tab – best in FireFox

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Perfectly Queen … of the Bees

It was a few weeks ago now that she showed up on the morning rounds of my little nature. There were still some of the little people/creatures to be found in the fields and woods as the winter, such as it is here, hadn’t yet taken a firm hold. Grass was still growing and leaves hadn’t fallen, not much of either. An in-between time you could say, not yet too cold for long enough to drive everything to death or shelter.

The field of long grasses was beginning to dry out with few of nature’s flowers, man’s weeds, still blooming here and there. Little yellow and red striped bells of beauty to me, shining here and there at the tops of the now yellowing threads of the earth’s summer blanket. Calling out to the remaining little people, come to me, here I am, just for you my love. Drink deep and live a little longer in my cold Elysian field.

And there, down the tracks of the season’s comings and goings, I saw a sign of wonder and mystery. A solitary queen, of queens, sitting in the shadows of the morning sun. Drinking the shine as it rose on the dew, warming to a new day to which there were now so few. My little queen, ‘tis you.

So I went to her, and with a passion new, tended her rising ‘til she had awoken true. From this way and that I saw she was fine and I, labouring in the rising sun, a little heady on just the scent of her wine. My, my, what a lovely so new. The form and the colours a blessing of Thine.

Then, inevitably she woke and I stood back to hear what she spoke. A tinkling sound to the ear of the round, a way of the listening, and the speaking, not often found. And what was it she said that touched me so, was it something you hear now that I can no longer know, or keep.

It’s that same sound, of the blackness, the silence so deep!

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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Sunrise on Dew Laden Nomad and Friends …

… in the Wildness.

Cold nights and humid air with warm sunshine in the morning means something to drink and life goes on, if you’re lucky and survive the day, if luck it be. All the creatures are making the most of the light and warmth at sunrise. I would too if I was sleeping on a leaf, though I think I might hang under it and brave the spiders rather then carry all that cold water on my back.

Well, I was this side of the camera so I don’t have those considerations today. ((:

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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The Dreams of Bees

As the still bright sun goes down behind the clouds over the woods on a cold and windy day, a Blue Banded Bee gets ready for the long dark night through which he cannot fly away. For a while he comes and he goes but eventually to keep, he locks his jaws on the stem and that way goes to sleep.

And on the way he dreams of the things, of bees. While stretching his wings and kicking his legs he turns this way and that to indicate, he sees. The blue of a flower in bloom, a little nectar or pollen, a mate of his kind. Zooming in and out among the grasses and between the trees. God knows he will find.

Dreaming in imagery a thinker could never know, the things a bee is and does. Making his home near enough to his kind, making it on the go.

And all the while, he keeps his big eyes open for danger and, marvelously, knows no foe.

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She, in her clay nest looking over her brood, waiting to wake to the sun once more to do the dreams of bees, given the weather’s mood. To find a blue flower, some pollen and nectar, a mate perhaps, of her kind, a choiceless love that does not intrude.

She knows no time but what she does as the need presents in mind. Yes, bees have minds. Did you think you are the only ones, you and your kind?

And when they are done and dead, no one to mourn, the little ones fed, it happens o’er, never once knowing the ill of human dread.

Rise up little one, to the golden flight, though there be a little fright, Thou art a queen, of light.

Rise up, to know your right.

*

Each bee new to the fact of being a bee, each flower a rare discovery, sipping the nectar of the earth can only be heavenly, to a new bee. And all the other things that happen anew in a bee’s busy day, you see.

Chased by a Dragon or Wasp or even a bird or three. Evading death a hundred ways, the wind no less a threat, when hungry, being as small a bee.

They have been cold and wet of late. Holding on for days and nights before they ate. To live and die as is their fate. And all to know a mate, a mate.

That’s their fate, and their faith, it’s never too late.

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And then I look up and what do I see, but the gods of the sub-continent aligned to a V. Sailing or running along on the wind, aflame, a-coloured, gloriously unhinged. What may be.

Was it me? With them or not, I can’t now see. A b… on the wing, I could equally be. ((:

What is this I have seen? The passage overhead, alongside, of fantastic creatures, warriors, a king and a queen. A wonderful procession of the characters of innocent mythical mind a keen.

Then to my rear I see the world, a-burning where there is no flame, consuming yellow arise from the earth, a perfect dissolution that knows no blame – it’s not you or me, no such fame.

This way or that, there was no escape, from these hard won laurels no man could possibly ape. T’was real enough, to me, all form agape.

The end I see, nothing to bemoan, but to set me free. The death of you and me, but no, not Thee.

Or was it just a dream after all, of bees, no more to be seen or fall? A dream, too few do recall.

No, t’was real enough to me, my friend. Know though, this is not the end.

For we meet in the wilderness, of mind, where thought would only offend.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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A Field of Bees …

… at sundown.

Dark clouds and blue sky on rainy days. These Nomads are hanging on against the downpour that is our weather this year. Love to see them doing well. The first one was aware of my presence and slowed by the conditions of cold, wet and impending darkness. She moved around a bit and I was lucky to get the flower in the frame. Wonderful little creatures.

I often refer to these Bees as Mystic, Beauties, Magical or otherwise more than they appear. That’s because they are more than they appear, and I search for language to describe what I see. On the fact side of things they are known to be the pollinators of around 70% of the plant kingdom, what a big job for such small and usually unseen creature. Without them we would not be, chances are.

Such a place in the order or web of nature, responsible for the key to the very existence of so much – reproduction, is representative of a special place in the Mystic, the real world behind. These are bees all right, but they are angels too, working for the mighty power that enables the lot – including you, me and the sceptic.

It’s just so obvious to me. But you don’t have to believe it, just get the sense of it. Isn’t the Mystical good? That sense of a place, inside – where else do you sense, where there is nothing but impersonal spiritual power – peace of mind to me.

A sense is all you need to get there, eventually.

Events need to happen.

This one is new to me. It looks like a Leaf Cutter Bee and it was sitting on the dried out grass at sundown but not gripping it in its jaws as they do when settling for the night. So my approach was extra cautious lest she fly away before I got a shot, I got three, lucky me.

She’s a real Queen, of her kind, to me.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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There Is No Such Thing As ‘Just’ A Bee …

There is the magical messenger of the spiritual Earth, carrying the music of creation from flower to flower until the symphony is complete and the mind of Man is at peace.

And when will that be? Well, there is only one ‘real’ time. More real.

It comes down to what you give your attention to – first.

No ‘pop’ religion intended. ((:

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A nomad bee from a nearby field at sundown on a cloudy afternoon.

Little beauty, to me.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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Genesis

… is now.

And the Lord said “Let there be Light”, and there was light enough to reveal the earth, here and now. And there ‘was’ movement – of form – on the face of the deep – non existence.

As the pre-born bee stirs towards existence, coming slowly into its senses – the same ones as you and me in the morning – it reaches a point that must be called born. Warm and blind in the darkness of its solitary being, sound and smell rapidly expand as it breaks the curtain of its leafy cocoon and light strikes its eye for the first time, as the hammer to a bell.

The light of the sun, father of earth, strikes the centre of intelligence bee is and instinct turns to action and quickly comes to speed for the prevailing conditions of sense.

What, what is this new world to me? Sense, form and function, what else?

And something to do. What beeings do, of course.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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Pearls of Clarity

Falling with ease, tumbling, colliding, splashing big soft drops that soak in as they hit and drench in the beat of a wing, cool summer rain. Wonderful wet washing water from the sky. What an amazing thing that is.

Tup, tup, tup on the big broad leaves of the palm trees outside my window. Crashing into green. Leaves bounce as they are hit and rain water rolls down and drips off to explode and soak into the earth below. Life to some thing, many things. Death to others.

Wonder, wonder, wonder. The way things are in existence, how every thing is separate but fits exactly where it is in the web of form and function that is nature. Reflective of the vitality below, above the formlessness that powers it all.

And here I am sitting on top looking ‘down’ with nowhere to go but back, back home.

Or … What is left to do, for a wet bee.

Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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