I have days when I feel as if I am eight-years old. When everything astounds me.
I remember when I moved to Mexico, everywhere I looked offered something new. Horses. Whales. A family of five on a motorcycle.
They were fascinating enough to end up as photographs on my blogs -- where veteran Mexico expatriates would calm me down with: "Yes. It's a horse. We have them here." or "Wait until you see eight on one scooter."
It always sounded like a mixture of "You're acting like a tourist" and "Act your age." Not that there is a centavo's worth of difference between the two.
I was simply showing that I was green wood.
Well, green I still am.
This week, I was walking through the garden when I heard voices. Not quite human. But there was a distinct conversational rhythm. Similar to the sounds you hear from a pocket-dialed mobile.
But it wasn't coming from below. It was just above my head in the ficus tree. Suspecting that if God had chosen to have a conversation with me, He would have taken a clearer tone, I took a closer look.
In a clump of leaves were a handful of bees. Honey bee-sized, but emerald green.
A bit of research indicates they are orchid bees. But they were definitely not after orchids on those leaves. It appeared they were after an orgy. Unless my lessons on the birds and bees have failed me, they appeared to be involved in a reproduction cycle. On my ficus.
I just stood there. Fascinated with their song. Their fairy-light flight. Their primitive beauty. I could almost hear them recite:
I remember when I moved to Mexico, everywhere I looked offered something new. Horses. Whales. A family of five on a motorcycle.
They were fascinating enough to end up as photographs on my blogs -- where veteran Mexico expatriates would calm me down with: "Yes. It's a horse. We have them here." or "Wait until you see eight on one scooter."
It always sounded like a mixture of "You're acting like a tourist" and "Act your age." Not that there is a centavo's worth of difference between the two.
I was simply showing that I was green wood.
Well, green I still am.
This week, I was walking through the garden when I heard voices. Not quite human. But there was a distinct conversational rhythm. Similar to the sounds you hear from a pocket-dialed mobile.
But it wasn't coming from below. It was just above my head in the ficus tree. Suspecting that if God had chosen to have a conversation with me, He would have taken a clearer tone, I took a closer look.
In a clump of leaves were a handful of bees. Honey bee-sized, but emerald green.
A bit of research indicates they are orchid bees. But they were definitely not after orchids on those leaves. It appeared they were after an orgy. Unless my lessons on the birds and bees have failed me, they appeared to be involved in a reproduction cycle. On my ficus.
I just stood there. Fascinated with their song. Their fairy-light flight. Their primitive beauty. I could almost hear them recite:
—Look at you!
So handsome, so pleasing, my darling!
Our bed is the greenery;
cedars are the beams of our houses,
cypresses the rafters.
And, in that moment, I knew it was time for me to let that eight-year old run free. Even if he doesn't own a camera that can take decent macro shots.
