One Flower and a Bee
One of the recurrent pleasures of nature-focused photography is that it gives you excuses to do things a grown man would not ordinarily do.
Had one of the several Parkway motorists who passed me on my knees in a field of roadside flowers not seen my camera held up to my eye, they’d have thought me daft. Ah, he has a camera then, so while he might be an eccentric tree-hugger, maybe he’s hasn’t wandered away from the Home after all.
And I like the way the focusing on one place at a time in slow motion allows the ground under your feet and at arm’s reach to tell its own story at a pace that you can hear. The tourists passing by did not–could not–see, hear, smell or sense what I did, set in place in an acre of black eyed Susans and spotted Knapweed.
The camera isolates time so wonderfully to the Here and to the Now. For the duration of the time I had in mind to first FIND honeybees, and then having found them, to successfully catch a sharp image of one in flight, all the bad, sad news from earlier in the day ceased to be real to me. One flower and a bee sequestered me from reality. And happily.
I failed in my mission, and was glad there were no judges to grade my efforts, none but me. I found the honeybee and the universe contracted to the limits of my viewfinder. And on my knees in the vivid weeds of summer, a single knapweed flower taught more I’m certain than the wind-blowing galaxies of fushia spots blurred beyond the windows of a passing SUV.