From: Nature, Poem 15: The Bee
By Emily Dickinson
...His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid...
Although it is contested as to when “native” bees arrived in England (some believe as early as 9000 years ago), there is no doubt they arrived long before I did. I am American and came to Oxford, England, as part of my Master degree studies in Education. It was 1986: the same summer Prince Andrew made Sarah Ferguson his bride. Perhaps it is ironic that the Etmological Museum is located in Oxford, England, where my story takes place, but I will let the reader decide on the value and importance of this fact. David Cushman stated in an article based on a lecture by Phillip Denwood in 2012, “in the last decade DNA studies by Pedersen and others in Denmark and elsewhere have conclusively shown that modern specimens of Dark Bees from the UK and Ireland fit into the genetic specification of Apis mellifera mellifera (see e.g. the article by Pritchard).” Yes, but they are so much more than their DNA.
Let’s quickly peruse the symbolism of the bee, as perhaps this might be important to the story, as well. If you like looking deeply into a story. As this story is a true one, with no embellishment, it may be a fun exercise, at the very least, to create layers to my tale. With that said, the bee has been associated with, and therefore symbolizes many ideals and concepts: Fertility, Death, Rebirth, sexuality, the soul, femininity, immortality, hope, humans/family, government, social order, diligence, cleanliness, royalty and more. Again, I leave it to you to attach any symbolic significance to this tale.
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Without further ado, let me begin to tell you about me and the Wycliffe bees.
“...His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!”
I was probably a gypsy in a former life, as my desire to travel, and wanderlust, were well known to all who loved me. I was twenty five and the world was her oyster; I worked and saved my money. In July of 1986 I boarded a Virgin airline and was whisked off to England. After two nights in London, with a group of other American students, we were brought to Wycliffe Hall, in Oxford, where they were to be dorm for the duration of our stay. We weren’t aware, until we got there, that Wycliffe Hall housed the seminary students, several of which were there for the summer.
Wycliffe is a beautiful old tudor building, named after John Wycliffe. I was a young woman when I arrived and the last thing on my mind was why the place was named Wycliffe Hall. But now, looking back as a woman, I find the information fascinating. He was quite an amazing man. Wycliffe was a theologian and seminary professor at Oxford, but clearly Mr. Wycliffe was also quite a rebel within the Catholic church. His followers were called “Lollards”, which was the precursor to the Protestant Reformation. He spoke out against the wealthy, reminding the people that Christ called his disciples into poverty. In a way he was a purist, writing that the focus should be on Christ and his teachings. He believed every Christian should have access to the bible and translated it into English with the help of his friend, John Purvey; the church completely opposed this idea. Sadly he died before the translation was completed. Purvey is considered responsible for the “Wycliffe Bible” of today.
How would he feel about what happened to me in the chapel named after him?
Let me walk you into the main entrance where you will immediately see the grand sweeping staircase, with a beautiful wood banister, which leads you to the bathrooms, rooms and study rooms. Downstairs was the dining area, a general area and a hallway which led to, I was told, a chapel. The building is solid, speaks to its history and I adored it. My room was probably the tiniest one available, all the way at the end of a long hallway. It was perfect; my view was of the incredible gardens in the back yard. To me it felt magical. Every morning, right around sunrise, I would walk through the garden, under a stone archway, cross over Norham Gardens and to Oxford University Parks, next door. The mist would rise and I would sit by the River Cherwell and read. When I look back I think of these mornings as perfect moments in my life.
Wycliffe Chapel, designed by George Wallace, was opened in 1896 by the Bishop Oxford. There is a stained glass window of John Wycliffe. These are facts. But what I felt, and experienced, that day in the chapel goes beyond accepted truths. I could tell you that I am not certain what drew me to the chapel, but that would be untrue. I was curious to see the chapel, but also to find a quiet place to think and meditate. Do not confuse wanderlust with being carefree. I had a lot on my mind at twenty five and, in general, was an introverted and introspective type of girl (that hasn’t changed in the years which have passed). I could also tell you that I remember the exact moment I decided to go to the chapel, but that wouldn’t be true either. It’s as if that memory was superfluous to the story and my memory has simply chiseled it away from the focus of the moment. I simply remember going and being there.
Here is a glimpse of Wycliffe Chapel:
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On leaving the old nest, the swarm normally flies only a few metres and settles. Scout bees look for a suitable place to start the new colony. Eventually, one location wins favor and the whole swarm takes to the air.
From The Secret Life of Bees (From Bees of the World)
From the moment I walked through the door, which connected Wycliffe Hall to the chapel, I felt that I had entered another world. It was a rather grey day, this I remember clearly, and the were was a definite smell of damp mildew. It felt like the dust had settled here a long time ago and very few disturbed it. The silence was palatable. I immediately felt at peace and at home.
The chapel itself was not as bright as the image, above, indicates. In fact, I remember it being shadowy. I didn’t even notice the stained glass windows. All I saw were the wooden pews beckoning me to sit down for a bit. And so I went and sat down.
In my lifetime I have been to a few places that immediately felt unique and, yes, holy. The Western Wall in Jerusalem, a small town outside of Boulder, Colorado, different woods I’ve walked and the Grand Canyon. Wycliffe Chapel was too. I simply can’t explain this feeling; I believe it is so very personal and every person can experience it in his/her own way. I just knew immediately that this chapel would have a lasting and extraordinary effect upon me. I had no idea how, but even then, when I was just coming into understanding myself, I knew I simply had to remain open to whatever was going to happen.
I wish I could tell you how much time passed, but I really don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I sat and my mind wandered, returned, meditated, calmed, wandered again and returned. The simplicity of the wooden bench and chapel allowed for a focus within. No outside noise penetrated. I was alone, calm and unafraid.
Finally I seemed to awaken and become aware of time having passed. It was time to go. I could always come back. As I stood up I heard a buzzing sound. A bee. “Bees are one of the major groups of insects, numbering about 20,000 described species. But only a very small proportion of bees are honeybees or bumblebees - most species are actually solitary bees.”
But this bee was not alone. As I stood there it seemed as though dozens of bees arose around me and started swirling around my head. The thing is I didn’t panic. Not at all. There wasn’t the rational thought that the bees may have settled in my wild hair. I just stood there and let them move around me. I was aware of their droning sound, the whirl of their wings, the presence of them. I was still. Calm. Aware. Communicating, so to speak, from the heart that I didn’t fear their stings. It was a surreal, spiritual moment. Not one bee stung me.
Time seems to have a mind of its own. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours...I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there with the bees humming around me. All I can tell you is eventually they all flew away and I felt as if I was waking from a dream. No longer lulled by their sound, the silence seemed suddenly odd. I wanted to leave.
I never went back into the chapel again. For me, I instinctively knew this extraordinary experience was once in a lifetime. The rest of the summer kept me very busy with “life”. I had fallen in love, was growing as a woman, learning and budding in a spiritual way. I simply stored away the experience and I don’t believe I have ever spoken to anyone about it until now.
I know that the world didn’t change that day in any dramatic way. The cure for any dreadful disease was not found because of my experience. Prejudice didn’t end. The world didn’t stop spinning on its axis. But I know what I was meant to learn that day and it changed me. Forever.
Perhaps you will find some irony, or symbolism and feel free to take from this story what you will; for whatever you walk away with, is what you are meant to understand.
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Works Consulted
http://bibba.com/honeybee-origins/
http://www.christianitytoday.com/history/people/moversandshakers/john-wycliffe.html
http://www.oum.ox.ac.uk/visiting/presenting19.htm
