We’ve all heard of certain human endeavors described as “interminable boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.” We might include combat, surgery, firefighting, whitewater rafting, or rock climbing in a list of activities that elicit periodic unhinging.
I’ve heard folks describe beekeeping in this way, although I don’t quite agree. Boring? Absolutely. Terrorizing? Sometimes. But beekeeping also offers winks of sublime bliss that compensate for both the mind-numbing chores and the flip-flopping hearts.
The idea of becoming a beekeeper drips with romantic charm. It’s a lonesome struggle — just you and the bees against the world — much like becoming a neurotic novelist or a sequestered sculptor. But the daily drudgery, the tedious tasks, the dull duties — whether it’s the next word, the next strike of the hammer, or the next inspection — may leave little room for joy.
I often think wannabe writers who sit for hours eyeing a blank screen are more in love with the illusion of writing rather than the act of writing, which is isolating, mundane, and stodgy. The same goes for those beekeepers who cherish the notion of beekeeping more than messing with actual sting-ready bees. The things we imagine ourselves doing sometimes interfere with our achievement, especially when the glamorous ideal is shinier than the real thing.
Doing the thing or not
Unfortunately, becoming a bee whisperer is akin to becoming an Olympic gymnast, a Super Bowl quarterback, or a pop-star. The things separating dreams from reality are hard work, disappointment, and heartbreak. Those willing to work will succeed while the others drift away.
There’s nothing wrong with false starts because we don’t always find love on a first date. I’ve heard estimates of the number of beekeepers who quit during the first years, usually around 80%. But that number isn’t surprising. Beekeeping requires effort, money, and dispiriting setbacks. Those who embrace it keep bees for decades; those who don’t move on. And for them, leaving is the right choice …
