It’s summer. And it’s December. I have lived here for almost twenty years but I still can’t come to terms with this fact. I forget that it’s December. Advent. Christmas soon. It feels like a rather pathetic attempt at creating some sort of sense of the season by lighting a candle. The doors are open to the setting sun and the flame flickers. And I think of cosy stillness in front of the fire. Smells of mulled wine and gingerbread. But then I sit down in my rattan chair on the verandah with a glass of crisp and cold sauvignon blanc and watch the setting sun paint the city… And Christmas fades.
A friend told me today that the new zealand bees are in a very poor state and might even be threatened with extinction. Some disease, he said. Their task has been taken over by bumble bees, apparently. I watch the roses along my fence and notice they are hard at work there. But surely they don’t produce honey, do they? Still, watching them is somehow heartening. These peculiar little organisms that shouldn’t really be able to fly. Too heavy, the wings too small. But they do. And they restore my hope that the seemingly impossible can be possible. At least if you are a bee. A bumble bee, that is.