I talk to my bees. Not all the time, but I do when I work them, when I open up a hive and interact directly and invasively. You'll be (perhaps) happy to know that they don't talk back.
Why do I talk to them? Not because I think they understand. Not even in the way that some people talk to their plants, with the hope that the plants somehow sense what they're saying and will respond to them in some form of mystical life-force communication. True, leaning in close to your corn and whispering into its ears will provide carbon dioxide and water vapor, which plants like. But that doesn't work for the bees. Bees don't respond well to being breathed on—it can really get them buzzed off, actually.
Yet I find myself talking to them, in the same tones I use when talking to a cat that I'm holding while a vet gives it a shot. It's a tone of voice that's supposed to be soothing, but it works as well on cats as it does on bees—that is, not at all. Still, hearing that voice is soothing . . . to me, which is really why I talk.
Why do I need soothing when I work with bees and cats? Well, for one, because I know that, from their perspective, I'm betraying each of them. I'm colluding with the vet in causing pain, fear, and discomfort, no matter that it's for the cat's own good. With the bees, it's even less ambiguous. I am there to take their honey. True, I provide a house for them, but they don't know that. I protect them from predators and disease. They don't know that, either. All they really know is that I'm an invader, no better than a bear. (Well, maybe a little better than a bear because I don't destroy their hives and I don't eat their babies for tasty protein.)
So, I talk to the bees, sometimes using the soft voice that comforts screaming babies (“heyyyy, it's okay”), sometimes with the firm but good-natured voice I learned as a teacher of teens (“okay, you rowdies, settle down . . .”), sometimes with the directive voice I employed as safety coordinator in a San Francisco office building during earthquake drills (“Everybody down, I don't want you getting squished . . .”).
Here's how it helps to calm me. Like that “I Whistle a Happy Tune” song from an ancient musical, it's true that sometimes the simple act of projecting fearlessness and calm is a very large step to actually becoming those things. The power of self-deception is not to be underestimated. At least, that's what I've flimflammed myself to believe.