THE RISE & FALL OF AN EMPIRE

I sometimes think of the great empires of the world while watching the beehives. The thing about successful empires is how strong and permanent they seem to be. The Aztec, the Roman, the English, the American—each in its day was such a juggernaut that it appeared eternal. Yet, each in turn had its beginning, its ascension, its successful run, and its inevitable decline.

And so it is with a successful beehive. It is formidable. It mounts a strong defense against any aggressor, keeping its borders safe from other bees and even animals many times its size. On a summer day, it is a literal beehive of activity, sending envoys out in all directions and bringing back wealth, out-performing other colonies by sheer strength and numbers.

Yet, as with empires, history tells us that the mighty will ultimately be laid low. In both cases, empires or beehives, you may see dozens of small warning signs. Sometimes there's something that can be done to forestall it. Sometimes there isn't. It could be that, as with all living things, there is a lifespan that can be optimized, but not extended indefinitely. But ultimately all things dwindle and die, even thriving empires and beehives. And so it goes.

THE MACK TRUCK OF MORTALITY

Sometimes I worry about what's to become of me. I wish I could say that the bees comfort me. Well, they do. But not enough. I'm scared of dying like a bee, perishing alone when I'm no longer useful. Bees don't have Social Security. Bees don't have health plans. It seems sometimes as if there's a malignant strain of philosophy that wants human society to become more like a beehive. Unless you're part of the aristocracy, you're expected to work yourself to incapacity, then crawl away to die alone.

Live productively,
keep flying, and leave
an impressive splat on
some trucker's front
window.

I'm afraid of living on into a feeble decline. My goal is to keep flying as long as I can. When I start slowing down, I hope to be smart enough to look as tasty as I can to a hungry blue jay, or—in a pinch—the windshield of a fast-moving truck. For that's what I've learned from the bees about death. Live productively, keep flying, and leave an impressive splat on some trucker's front window.