Faith and Values: What I learned caring for bees about nurturing relationships

The first sting hit my leg before I even reached the hive. I should have taken the hint.

Instead, I went back inside, pulled on a hoodie under my bee jacket and returned wearing extra layers to finish treating my bees for mites. I was trying to help them, after all. What I didn’t notice was how the hoodie hung loose beneath my jacket, creating a perfect highway for angry bees.

The moment I opened the hive, they found it. Dozens of bees poured through that gap and began stinging my chest and abdomen. I ran around the house, swatting, peeling off layers and stumbling, my good intentions forgotten in the chaos of unexpected pain.

So much for the gentle partnership I thought I’d cultivated with my bees.

Finding my way

to the hive

I’m new to beekeeping – drawn to it because bees are good for the planet and, honestly, because I love honey. What started as an environmental gesture had become something deeper. Tending these industrious creatures felt like meditation, a weekly ritual of checking on them. I’d grown comfortable with their presence, even protective of them.

But comfort, as any beekeeper will tell you, can be dangerous around creatures armed with stingers.

That day, everything went sideways. The bees were already agitated – late summer brings heat, food scarcity and wasp raiders to their doorstep. I don’t normally smoke my bees to calm them, but I should have that day. I should have secured my gear properly. Instead, I got careless, and they reminded me why respect trumps familiarity every time.

The physical pain was sharp and immediate, but what caught me off guard was the emotional sting. These were my bees. I feed them, protect them from disease and worry about their winter survival. Yet here they were, treating me like a threat. It felt personal, even though I knew better. Bees don’t hold grudges – they simply defend their home with the only weapons they have.

Suiting up again

The next morning, I faced a choice. I still had another hive to treat, and mites don’t wait for wounded feelings to heal.

So, I suited up.

This time, I moved like I was approaching a sleeping dragon. Slow movements, soft voice, and I used the smoker. Every buzz near my ear rattled my nerves, but these bees were calm. Same species, different day, different energy.

This is where Buddhism sneaks into beekeeping. The attack and my fear were both temporary – impermanent, like everything else in life. The bees weren’t inherently vicious any more than they were inherently gentle. They simply respond to conditions I can’t always predict or control.

My suffering came not just from the stings, but from my expectations. I’d assumed that careful attention would earn me safe passage among the bees. When that unspoken contract shattered, I felt betrayed by creatures incapable of betrayal.

Showing up

despite the risk

Buddhist teaching suggests that our pain often stems not from events themselves, but from our stories about how life should unfold. I’d written myself as the benevolent keeper, deserving of grateful cooperation.

The real wisdom came in returning to the hive – not fearlessly, because I was still nervous, but purposefully. Some relationships require us to show up despite the risk of being hurt again. The bees hadn’t changed their nature; I had to change my approach.

This mirrors so much of human experience. We nurture relationships, projects and practices that sometimes turn on us. A meditation routine becomes a source of self-criticism. A friendship delivers unexpected pain. A creative project feels like it’s fighting back.

The Buddhist response isn’t to abandon what has hurt us, but to return with greater wisdom and humility. The bees taught me that resilience isn’t about avoiding future stings – it’s about suiting up properly and showing up anyway.

Tracy Simmons, a longtime religion reporter, is a Washington State University scholarly assistant professor and the editor of FāVS News, a website dedicated to covering faith, ethics and values in the Spokane region.