There was a deep buzzing, the sound of lawn care on a sunny June evening. The droning and catching of blades on grass. Stopping and starting. Stopping and starting. My block is full of small plots of front lawns and tiny front gardens, no one needed this long to care for their yards. As I went to look out the window at the front of the house to find the source of the sound I was caught up in the hum. It was coming from above. The dome of my skylight amplifying the buzzing of a bumbling bee who had followed the scent of my blooming stephanotis floribunda and was now disoriented by the invisible barrier to the open sky. The size of my thumb, this black and yellow beast, legs laden with pollen from my indoor flowers, was throwing his thorax into the glass. Wings buzzing and beating at the barrier. Out of my reach.  I watched as he landed on the edge of the skylight, gingerly walking the perimeter trying to find an opening. 

         “If you come closer, I can help!” I wished I had a butterfly net that I could extend up to the ceiling, some kind of perfect device to scoop up this creature and carry it outside. He didn’t listen, choosing instead to continue his tirade against the skylight glass. He was trapped and out of my reach and relentlessly determined to solve this problem himself, not willing to engage with my offer to find a solution together. The buzzing continued periodically for hours. Wings against window. I wondered if he would fight at this misguided attempt to escape until he died of exhaustion. When the buzzing stopped, I prepared myself for where I might find his lifeless fuzzy bee body and what I might do with it.

          In the morning I searched the kitchen floor, the counter, and the ledges he might have landed on. I wondered if his self-preservation had pulled him towards the desire to escape or towards the desire to live. I wondered if he found the gap around the air conditioner that I hadn’t yet sealed. I wondered if this had been his entry point. Had he stopped to sleep or had he fought feeling trapped so hard that the freedom was in death? I sat down at my computer, the same place I was sitting when I first heard his boisterous buzzing the night before, and all of a sudden, I heard him!  He was barreling his bee body up the stairs as though he had found a soft place to rest at the foot of my bed while contemplating his next move and he was now awake and ready to join me at work. 

          “I am so glad to see you!”  The tiny black hooks of his little bee feet clung to the window ledge at the top of the stairs. “Wait there!” I exclaimed with relief and excitement as I carefully passed him to grab the empty mason jar from the coffee table. “You’re in the perfect place little bee, just wait!” I called out as I rummaged until I found a scrap of paper large enough to cover the opening of the jar.  I approached quickly but calmly. He stayed at the window waiting for me. He listened. He had come around to exploring some options he was not ready to consider last night. 

          “I’m going to put you in this jar and take you outside.  I know it’s unpleasant!” I gently lowered the jar over his body and slipped the paper underneath. He began to buzz against the glass, filling the jar with sound. I understand. Accepting help is hard. Especially in moments where the resolution is unclear. Where powerlessness is a risk. How was this glass going to be different from that of the skylight he had battled the night before? I carried him downstairs, repeating reassurances.  “You are so brave. You are going to be so happy when you’re free. We are so close.” I opened the balcony door and briefly considered the risk of being stung, the risk that my help may be met with rage or embarrassment, but as I held up the jar and removed the paper barrier he immediately understood the opening , buzzing determinedly up into the blue sky without looking back.