Father Damien’s Bees
Bees have congregated in Father Damien’s church, a century and a half after he founded it. A sign on the sanctuary door says that as a result, mass will be canceled on June 3rd. Since it is now February, I assume the massive bee swarm is a persistent issue. Also, since this is the remote Hawaiian island of Molokai—where little happens quickly—that June might’ve been years ago. Perhaps Father Damien himself once dealt with a parallel issue, when he tended to the sick on the Kalaupapa Peninsula.
The graceful way the bees move through their cohesive, intricate way of life feels deeply spiritual to me. I consider their shared life sacred; as divine as the intent of this ancient wooden church. Without bee pollination, much of the food chain would collapse, including that upon which Catholic worshippers depend. Yet the swarm’s presence is a prohibitive hindrance for people wishing to practice their faith here. It’s another religious conflict, in which I don’t choose sides.
From some perspectives, the bees’ presence parallels that of Father Damien’s. When the twin plagues of leprosy and fear resulted in the cruel banishment of the terminally ill to Kalaupapa—one of the world’s most beautiful but isolated places—Father Damien nurtured their tragic lives in a way almost no one else would, at the eventual cost of his own life. For his selfless actions, he was later elevated to sainthood. Yet to some in the native Hawaiian culture, his people and his religion were as invasive as the swarm of church bees. Conflict and divinity merged beyond borders.
My companion and I leave the church yard quickly, after aggressive bees chase us away from Father Damien’s statue and the adjoining graveyard. Bees are as selfless as Father Damien, in giving their own lives to protect their community. And bees have been on this island far longer than Catholic worshippers. This hits me hard as we pass a hand-lettered sign along the coast road, proclaiming in cold block letters, “STATE LANDS R STOLEN LANDS.” I can’t argue with that native perspective. Yet residents here are more friendly to visitors than in mainland culture. Beauty and pain, again inseparable.
Later along Molokai’s western shore, we hold hands in a spectacular expanse of yellow flowers. She and I marvel at their brilliance. We’re hypnotized by their waving dance, in rhythm with the breeze. We wonder of the flowers’ identity, or at least of their human name.
“What are these gorgeous flowers?” I text Dewitt Jones to ask, since we’ve come to Molokai to visit him.
“Wedelia,” he replies, “Non-native.” We soon learn that wedelia is extremely invasive; an imported ground cover that has gone wild and pushed the native plants out. Once more, magic and damage merge.
As non-native visitors, all of us are as invasive as we are beautiful. Molokai is not as overrun as many Hawaiian islands with people like us: there are only 7,000 residents, not a single traffic light, not even an island mayor. Even the beach resort in which we stay has been half-abandoned for twenty years. Its old ruined golf course is overrun with wedelia; but golf wasn’t native either. The beaches are now nearly devoid of humanity. Yet if people newly swarmed, we’d become a larger problem than Father Damien’s bees.
The need to hold everything in a single embrace is relentlessly evident on Molokai, where life is exquisitely fragile. I see our need to celebrate nature’s contradictions. I celebrate the oneness of the magic and tragic, not only around us, but within us. This is my meditation as we watch the ceaseless waves on Papohaku Beach.
I marvel that the restless ocean has created waves without a moment’s pause for four billion years. After all that time, the majestic curl of each new wave is unique, and forever will be. Each wave may also be uniquely dangerous. The riptides are frequently lethal; sneaker waves wait to sweep us away. Everything on Molokai leads me to the same unified contrasts.
My mind wanders from conflicted unity to a seemingly pointless question: How many waves have there been on this beach, in four billion years? Hmmm. How many waves per minute, approximately? How many minutes fill four billion years? The number is beyond my limited capacity to calculate. I might as well try to count sand grains or water molecules.
My calculation collapses as I confront separation’s illusion yet again. When does a wave begin? With the crashing of it, or within its preceding swell? Does one wave end when it recedes into the sea, or when it first hits underlying ocean and sand? The more deeply I look, the more unified the individual waves appear, until I reach the simple answer at the root of my question. How many waves have there been, in the past four billion years? One. All waves are inseparable elements of one enduring ocean. And we’re all a native part of that one living wave, no matter where we were born. It’s in this greater oneness where my mind finally rests, as the warming yet burning sun sets over that endless ocean. Another day of celebration is complete.
It’s been fourteen years since my love and I first came to visit Dewitt. Our previous trip was my entry point for contributing to this practice of celebration. Full circles have led us not merely back to the beginning, but to the understanding that there is no beginning, no end, no separation at all. From some perspective beyond intellect and time, Father Damien and the church bees are also one. However, Sunday’s mass is still canceled.