The art of working with nature
Working with beeswax brings me intimately close with nature. But what does that mean, to be close with nature? What’s different about working out in the world versus what we mean when we say we’re working with nature?
For me, it means being brought to a quiet state of awe; an active pause within the activity. Choices come from internal sensation, rather than technique or logic.
When I’m pouring beeswax and making candles, I’m in a quiet flow state, working in tandem with the natural world. When I melt beeswax I start by turning on my industrial wax melter. Once the clicks and clacks of the melter fade, once the golden substance is heated and begins to liquify, the first thing I notice is the warm scent of honey as it whispers through my space. It’s subtle at first; I’ll catch a scent that wafts in my direction. Sometimes it’s gone before I can take a second sniff. By the time I’m pouring candles, my entire apartment is thick with the rich smell of honeyed wax. The neighbours can smell it, though I’m not sure they know where it’s from.
Interesting things happen as I continue to pour candles. Bees visit. Sometimes I’m graced by the tiny presence of a native Australian bee. Other times, a European honey bee floats in. They all do the same thing. They circle the melter, looking for the source of the scent. If I have candles made and ready, they’ll stop to land on one. Sometimes they’ll walk around on the rim, licking and tasting as they go. I often wonder if they recognise the wax. Did it come from their home? Or perhaps they’re searching for a threat. I wish I could ask them.
On a few occasions, bees will get lost in my apartment. I’m never too busy to stop and help them out. The pouring stops when I’m called to feed a bee in need. On my patio grows a giant flowering tree. Its red plumes never seem to be out of season. I’ll bring the bees to this tree and watch them delight in the nectar of the red flowers. When they fly off, I head back and continue tending to the candles.
This is a tiny taste of what working with nature means to me. It’s a quiet practice. Not quite a meditation, as it can be frustrating at times, but it takes me to a place of stillness and reverence nonetheless. I slow down and become a part of the natural world right along with the bees, rather than someone who lives beyond it. It’s the place for me where schedules don’t exist, and my actions come from internal sensing rather than some sort of tangible structure. Where my knowledge grows from a place of inner listening, and the messages speak in whispers, not paragraphs.
