The Bees Wax

Waxed the hive together - so much so the keeper could not extract the honey. A cave, a tomb - tomb of life - inside there are thousand of little bodies - buzzing, humming a tune - a resonance of the force - the source of life. Like sitting by the sea and feeling the same hum - wondering: what? It is the constant thrum of the low vibration of aliveness in every moment. The waves touch my face and I know that death is in every one of them. Like the forrest wants to eat me alive - so does Tangaroa. And in that same death face embrace - there is life - the two one - not separate - are not separate. We have been told all our lives to turn way from the face of death and we are so destroyed by this fact. Hospitals full of resistant death - the hum and thrum of the bees could not be here. There is another way. To take death in the bosom of life - in the boson of the great mother. What would it be to receive your last breath not all coddled up to machines in a white room - but on the forrest floor - with sunlight on your face - earth beneath - starlight above? What would your body say - nay, what would be possible if it were again possible to die this way? Very inconvenient for family and friends - or perhaps not. The ritual human sacrifice was many times willing. To willingly face the great reaper - the great unknown that is so known by all our ancestors - such a definite point on all our horizons. Why would we not want to face her now and live without the baggage - without the stuff? What will I remember in that last moment? Stuff? Never. My children, my love, yes. The people who know my love around me and the very fact that I spent my life plumbing life itself, love, hope, nurture of myself and everything that is alive.