Early last week a tip-toeing summer sun behaved like a shy new third grader taking his seat quietly in a room full of strangers.
Suddenly a bumblebee tumbled past my nose and into the kitchen. Quite surprised, I stepped through the doorway only to hear the familiar thud-thud-thudding of an insect against a window, the bumblebee clearly confounded by a clear obstacle preventing its escape.
Then the bumblebee bumbled upward towards the warmth of the sun shining into the kitchen through the skylight. And again came the now all too familiar thud-thud-thudding of an insect against a window and towards the warmth of the sun and imminent freedom.
By now the tumbling bumblebee was tiring, losing its grip on the skylights smooth surface, tumbling down towards the floor, and laboriously flapping its wings, sending it skyward. But with each consecutive attempt at freedom, the bumblebee tumbled farther and farther and farther still down towards the kitchen floor. I knew then that there was very little bumble remaining in this bumblebee.
In panic I said aloud, “Now how can I save this bumblebee?”
Immediately I heard a voice say, “Open the screen less window. Focus on it. Send your energy back and into the room. Be the bee’s freedom and not another trap.”
I did as I was told; opened the window, focused on the opening, and sent my energy backwards.
And in two seconds the tumbling, bumbling, bumblebee shot past my ear like a Maserati on steroids, through the open window skyward, with a small plume of soft gray condensation trailing behind.
Okay, so I embellished a bit on the “small plume” part.