Putting the Bees to Bed: Learning to Slow Down
There is something about autumn that makes me want to slow down. Perhaps it is the change in the light, or the leaves turning from green to gold, orange and red. Perhaps it is simply the invitation to stop rushing around and pay attention.
Or perhaps I have always been an autumn person. My birthday is in October — in fact, it is this week — and I have often wondered whether that has something to do with my love of the season. There is something comforting about having your birthday arrive as the year itself seems to be taking a breath.
Autumn feels like permission to slow down, spend a little more time at home, pull on a cosy jumper and curl up under a blanket (although I may have to negotiate with Atlas for that privilege). It’s the perfect excuse to light a candle, settle down with a good book and make a proper hot chocolate. I know iced chocolate is delicious, but somehow it isn't the same.
September starts things. October settles them.
September always feels like the start of a new school year. New stationery, new teachers, new routines. There is something exciting about it, a sense that something is beginning again. Perhaps it is because so much of our early life is organised around the school year that we carry that feeling with us. September can feel like a reset, a chance to make plans and imagine that this year might be different.
But by the time October arrives, something has changed. The new school year isn't quite so new anymore. We know where we need to be, and our routines are beginning to settle. The new timetable has become the timetable.
Putting the bees to bed
For me, autumn also means putting the bees to bed. There is a point in the beekeeping year when the frantic activity of summer begins to ease and the regular inspections come to an end. The bees have done their work, and what a lot of work it has been.
Through spring and summer, the colony has been growing, foraging, building comb, raising brood, collecting nectar and pollen, and storing food for the months ahead. As a beekeeper, I open the hives to check that the colony is healthy, look for signs of disease and monitor for pests. I make sure the bees have enough room as the colony expands, helping to reduce the likelihood of swarming. I check the brood, watch the queen and make sure the colony is building towards winter in good shape.
I love opening a hive: the smell, the incredible hum of thousands of bees going about their business and, of course, the honey.
But eventually there comes a point when my role changes. I am no longer trying to help them expand; I'm trying to help them survive. The aim is to send the colony into winter strong, leaving them with enough stores to get through the colder months when flowers are scarce and there is little to forage.
Something extraordinary happens inside the hive. The bees form a cluster, huddling together to conserve warmth. Those on the outside provide an insulating layer, while the bees within the cluster generate heat by vibrating their flight muscles. They use the honey they have stored as fuel. They don't hibernate; they work together to keep the colony alive.
The winter bees
Late summer and autumn bring the production of what are known as winter bees. They are physiologically different from summer bees, with larger fat reserves that help them survive for much longer. A summer worker bee might live for around six weeks, while a winter bee can live for several months, sometimes up to six.
Their job is different. They aren't spending their lives flying from flower to flower in search of nectar. They help carry the colony through winter and into spring. I find this strangely moving. The colony doesn't simply carry on doing more of the same. Its needs change, and the bees change with them.
Every bee has a part to play. The colony relies on its members to share the work, each contributing to the survival of the whole. They depend on one another, working together towards a common goal.
Perhaps we could learn something from the bees
We are so often encouraged to keep going: to be productive, make the most of every opportunity, achieve more and add another thing to the list. Even when we're tired, there can be a voice telling us we should be doing more.
But the bees don't work like that. There is a season for expansion, a season for gathering and producing, and then a season for conserving energy and surviving. They don't apologise for it or think they have somehow failed because they aren't producing honey at the same rate as they were in July. They have done their work, gathered what they need and now prepare for winter.
The autumn of life
I've been wondering whether I'm entering — or perhaps already in — the autumn of my life. I'm still working, still ambitious and still have things I want to create. But menopause has made me think differently about my energy and priorities.
With work, relationships, home and my own interests competing for attention, I'm beginning to wonder whether this stage of life is less about doing everything and more about deciding what really matters. What do I want to carry forward? What can I let go of?
Perhaps slowing down isn't about becoming less useful. Perhaps it's about recognising that our needs change as we move through life.
A season for stopping
Perhaps that is what I love about October. The world hasn't stopped, but it has changed pace. The trees are letting go, the bees are preparing for winter, and I am thinking about what I want to carry into the next season of my own life.
As I put the bees to bed this year, I think I might take a little of their wisdom with me. They have done their work, gathered what they need and prepared for what comes next. Now they stay close and get through winter together.
Perhaps I don't need to be doing more. Perhaps I can simply ask: What season am I in — and what does this season require of me?
And perhaps you might ask yourself the same. You don't have to have everything figured out or be starting something new just because September told you to. Maybe this is a time to settle into where you are, notice what you need and be a little kinder to yourself about what can wait.
Happy autumn.
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