We love to count. Is today your birthday? How old are you? Are you graduating? What grade? You lost or gained weight. How many pounds? You observed a new bird. What is your life list count? Are you an inverter? How many insect species have you posted?
Once we learn how to count (at an increasingly early age, it seems), we start to lose something of the grandeur of not quantifying our discoveries. The first time we see a frog jump, we want to jump like them. The second time we see a frog jump, we do get on all fours and jump after or along with them. At pre-counting days, it never gets old. Once we start counting, it becomes, ya, been there done that (sixteen times), the allure has faded, to be replaced with the tally.
Up until the point where I reached 99 species of bees observed, the number of observations seemed obscure. I seldom had a handle on what my latest count was. Each new bee and all the ones I had previously seen excited me as though I was meeting a friend for coffee to exchange each our latest adventures.
 |
| Fine Striped Sweat Bee Agapostemon subtilior no. 115 |
Then I observed my 100th bee species; most were observed in our yard. I don’t even remember which species was my 100th anymore. My 98th was Dwarf Cellophane-cuckoo Bee (Epeolus pusillus), I remember because there were no other posts of this species on iNaturalist at the time (August 23, 2023).
May of 2024 brought me to 99 species with an Obliterated Nomad (Nomada obliterata) overall (meaning our yard and a few at other locations). I had learned to ‘count’ and I was about to count to 100 for the first time. Think back to counting popsicle sticks in preschool or kindergarten and getting to 100! Suddenly, it felt like every bee I observed was going to be number 100 to get me a gold star.
From then on, it seemed that if an observation was not a new bee, I felt a slight disappointment. “Oh, hello, tri-colored bumblebee bee my old pal and best friend; sorry I can’t stay to chat and sip nectar, looking for a new best buddy. Ah, look at an uncommon Yellow-banded Bumble Bee. Nice, I am impressed, good to see you again, come by more often, gotta go, on a mission, bye”.
My neighbor sees me on the sidewalk on my knees near the rose bushes. “How many bee species are you up to now?” he asks. Ninety-nine, I respond with a sigh. A few years ago I would have been all giddy and talking his ear off about whatever I was observing at the moment or how a Common Eastern Bumble Bee I observed was carrying a dump truck load of pollen on one leg and half as much on the other so that it seemed on the verge of tipping over and when it started to fly it looked like an airplane taking off with wheels on only one side.
I was now struck with the counting game. The competitive fire that can never be satiated. Before we learn to count, a nickel is a gold mine, able to buy the sweetest candy or trinket. We learn to count, grow up, and find that our bank account is always hungry; the more we put in, the less satisfied we are.
The nickels of countless observations lost some of their luster. The tri-colored bumble bees were as orangey as ever, the yellow-banded still a surprise, and the perplexing still reminded me of free-range scrambled eggs. The Zadontomerus digging the pith out of last year's goldenrod stems still entertained me for long stretches of time. But somehow the desire to reach a new count kept taunting me, tarnishing my joy in everyday observations, no matter how different they were from one observation to the next.
Lost was my spirit of “Seeking insects is like treasure hunting, and observing their behavior is like going on a wild safari.” I missed my youthful self, who was young enough to have a curiosity that required direct sensory experience. Now I needed a fix of a new high count, one that would satisfy me briefly, then quickly let me down.
Insects seemed to become less patient with me, landing briefly but not long enough for me to get a good photo. Butterflies no longer sat upon my hand to drink my sweat and exchange complaints, praises, or stories about the weather. Beetles ran faster than ever upon seeing me. Jumping spiders no longer stared at me or followed my movements.
The peace, inner stillness, along with some of the joy from being in nature observing many other life forms going about their daily routines, seeking food, building a home, and procreating, were diminished. In place, a competitive, perhaps self-competitive (the worst kind), ate at me to reach new heights. Upon sighting a frog, if I even thought of jumping, it was only to jump faster and farther than the frog. If a dragonfly or hoverfly held in place in front of my face with hundreds of knowing eyes, no message got through to me, no clear sight returned.
My one-hundredth bee species, thankfully, came. So important a number, yet I do not recall which species it is. No doubt a most beautiful bee, unique in structure, colors, life behaviors, and yet, I only recall reaching the pinnacle and then quickly being once again diffused, deflated, and discouraged. After all, there are over 350 bee species known to be in Vermont. I had a long way to go. Not to mention my bucket list item: to see a live Rusty-patched Bumble Bee in the wild in Vermont.
Some addictions can be overcome. Yes, I am still a counter. Perhaps once a counter, always a counter. But I have learned about my addiction and how to keep it under control. I have found my way back to my friends, and they have kindly befriended me with their patience and understanding. I meet them at the diner of their choice, and they allow me to join them for a sip of nectar, sharing the latest buzz about the weather, and lay about some goldenrod sawdust to sit upon. Beetles still scurry, but pause occasionally to what? I don’t know, perhaps to count the number of humans they have observed.
Now I mostly count my blessings; open natural areas with an abundance of species. New ones to discover, old friends to learn more about. Life only gets old if you focus too much on the count!
Baltimore Checkerspot Euphydryas phaeton
PS, in case YOU are still counting, Bernie is up to 129 bee species in Vermont. See his bee posts at https://www.inaturalist.org/observations?project_id=96859&ttl=900&place_id=any&verifiable=any&view=species&user_id=11956.
View Bernie’s iNat observations at https://www.inaturalist.org/observations?place_id=47&subview=table&user_id=bugeyedbernie&verifiable=any
No comments:
Post a Comment