“Where the bee sucks, there suck I,” sings Ariel in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. It turns out that contemporary science confirms the truth of this whimsical line. Discovery News reports that “About one-third of the human diet comes from insect-pollinated plants, and the honeybee is responsible for 80 percent of that pollination.” This is just one more example of the delicate dynamic equilibrium existing between human beings and the many often unseen and certainly underappreciated fellow living beings on our planet. According to these figures, bees indirectly provide us with more than a quarter of the food we consume—not including honey!
So why is Discover reporting on this intriguing but obscure fact? “An unknown pathogen is pushing the industrious insect to the precipice of disaster as scientists scurry to figure out what the cause is.” We notice what’s happening to the bee because it affects what will happen to us. When more than a quarter of our food supply is threatened, suddenly we become aware of the humble honeybee.
I wonder how many other small, unseen creatures contribute to human well being? From the microbes that aid digestion to the bacteria that facilitate biological recycling, we truly do depend in a very literal, material way on our fellow creatures. The intricate web linking all life on earth is held together with such apparently ephemeral strands as the role of the honeybee in fostering human nutrition.
Since food—at least up to a point—is a necessity in human life, we do sometimes perk up and notice the role smaller creatures like the bee play in our lives. But what about those things that, strictly speaking, we do not usually count as “necessities”: birdsong, for instance?
I recently spent over an hour resting on a grassy slope listening to an absolute cacophony of birdsong. Atop an isolated mountain on an (otherwise) quiet spring morning, I detected more than eight different songs competing with each other across the nearby airwaves. Some were loud and raucous, as if bragging or challenging the others for dominance. Then there were some faint continuous warblings that never changed rhythm and never stopped. A distinctive sweet cheeping poked through intermittently, while an elaborate aria rang out, answered by a much more muted one farther off. One of the birds kept asking a question to the others, but no one seemed to answer. The cycle repeated, over and over. I was lulled by the regularity of the cycle, yet alerted by the distinctive voices. I also heard the frequent buzzing of bees . . . .
I suppose I could listen to birdsong on a CD, but there was something especially uplifting about experiencing the real thing in person—along with all the accompanying environmental sensations: the faint fresh scent of newly opened spring greenery, the warmth of the sun beginning to beat through the arboreal canopy overhead, and the muted sight of distant grey-blue mountains across a hazy expanse of rich, fertile bottom land.
This is the sort of thing that is supposed to be an “extra”—something dispensable in our lives; a luxury, not a necessity. And yet I wonder . . . is it really? The lift I felt in my overall mood and perspective after communing with nature in this brief, but intimate way was far more sustaining than popping an anti-depressant, for example. How many businesses today depend on us relying on medication of one sort or another to enable us to “buck up” under the pressures of unbalanced, overscheduled lives?
Another thing I noticed in the mountains was the more laid-back pace of life. In major urban areas, everything is possible: whatever you want, whenever you want it. Got a craving for Chinese food at 2am? No problem. Don’t want to go out and get it yourself? Just have it delivered. Need to send something to Tokyo by tomorrow morning? Just take it to FedEx. The city never sleeps. That’s not true in the country.
In the country, people actually set limits on their lives—and keep them! Stores shut down when it gets dark. There aren’t 50 choices of coffee—just one or two (caf or decaf). You may have to wait awhile for something you need to arrive by special-order. When the repairman says he’ll be out to fix your plumbing “soon,” that means sometime before next week.
Of course there are costs to setting limits on our lives. The quality and availability of medical care, for instance, is much below what you’d find in a major urban area. In life-or-death circumstances, such differences can have a material effect on the outcome. But there are surely benefits of setting such limits, as well. Another thing I noticed, for example, was the sweet, fresh, cleanliness of the mountain air—and the acrid, offensive, inflammation-inducing smog of the city when I returned.
How much is too much? How much is enough? How can we tell the difference? The answers to these questions vary with time, place, and other circumstances. But, given the intricate web of earthly life, it’s too much when the activity of one species threatens the welfare—much less the existence—of other species. It’s too much when our lifestyle “works” only with the aid of caffeine to pump us up in the morning (and afternoon) and alcohol or sleeping pills to wind us down at night.
It’s not enough when we hear real live birdsong so infrequently that we can’t recognize their individual songs. It’s not enough when we’re too focused on our own frantic agendas to notice the mortal peril facing a fellow creature—unless its death has practical consequences for our own continued life.
I’ve written before about the Book of Nature as one of the two books of God’s revelation. It’s also one of God’s ordinary means of grace and healing. Make sure you’re getting your daily dose . . . and keep a watch out for the birds and the bees. They’re God’s creatures too!
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