The Order of Things

What bees—and a margherita pizza in an apple tree—can teach us about finding calm in a chaotic world

WRITER Heather Hartle
PHOTOGRAPHER Tri Nguyen

NewTree Ranch luxury estate in Healdsburg

You know that feeling when you’ve been moving too fast for too long and suddenly the world makes you stop? That was me on my way to NewTree Ranch. Just 10 minutes outside Healdsburg, it’s like crossing into another frequency. The first time I went, I was rushing late, distracted, missing everything. The second time, I slowed down, windows open, redwoods flashing by, and the shift was immediate.

NewTree Ranch isn’t just a place to stay; it’s a biodynamic sanctuary offering guests the chance to reconnect with the land through immersive activities. There are sound-healing sessions on the dock of Lake Andreas, guided equine meditations, and seasonal cooking workshops with ingredients pulled straight from the garden. Out of all of them, I chose the Bee Rewilding & Re-Population Experience partly because bees have always fascinated me, but mostly because it felt like a way to understand order through something wild.

There’s this thing that happens at NewTree where time softens. You feel it in your breath, then in your shoulders, and finally in how quiet your mind gets. I noticed it most as we climbed the massive trunk of an ancient redwood by ladder, 40 feet up, where a rewilding hive was nestled against the bark—suspended as if it has grown there all along. The whole ranch had gone still except for that low, steady hum of bees—not just sound, but vibration, energy, and order.

Michael Thiele, Founder and Executive Director of Apis Arborea spoke with a calm, unhurried rhythm—his voice so soothing and full of quiet wisdom we could’ve listened for hours. He explained how bees communicate, how a hive organizes itself, how every movement serves the collective. Standing there, surrounded by the sound of their work, I remember thinking: they had it right from the beginning.

Here we are, with all our tech and our networks, and the bees already figured it out. They’re nature’s original social system—connected, efficient, cooperative. Instead of chaos, they create harmony. Their hum felt ancient and alive at the same time, and it hit me how much we’ve confused connection with noise. The bees don’t overcomplicate it. They just belong,

That feeling stayed with me—the sense that comfort can come from the simplest things. It was there again that night, at the outdoor piza kitchen where we cooked with the chef. Vegetables picked straight from the garden—roasted eggplant, caramelized onion, heirloom tomatoes, squash, zucchini, broccoli, garlic, basil—became artfully wood-fired vegetable pizzas, each one different, each one a reflection of what the garden offered that day. The chef added a simple salad, gathered from the same garden—edible flowers and greens so fresh they barely needed dressing. The olive oils and vinegars were local and lovely, but unnecessary. It was one of those meals that makes you stop halfway through, realizing everything tastes like the place you’re in.

Later, in the apple orchard, we chose a classic margherita pizza—simple and perfect—for a photo, resting at the base of the branches where they rise from the trunk, as if it had grown there, another offering of the orchard itself. The order of the trees struck me too: rows so perfectly aligned, yet apples scattered freely, perfectly imperfect. Earlier that afternoon, we’d picked some ourselves—honey-sweet, sun-warm, the kind that ruin you forever for store-bought.

After dinner, we moved to the fire pit beneath an open sky. A beautifully curated s’mores kit awaited: handmade skewers, artisanal marshmallows, and bars of exquisite chocolate that somehow managed to be both simple and decadent. Someone passed the box around, and suddenly there we were: adults talking about bees and balance and life, eating s’mores like kids, laughter rising with the sparks into the night.

When I woke the next morning, a fine, silvery drizzle softened everything—the fields, the oaks, the bright day before. From my villa, I watched the rain settle across the landscape, quiet and clean, like the world exhaling. Inside: Frette sheets and bathrobes, homemade jam, fresh strawberries on the counter—all of it quietly perfect without ever feeling precious. Outside, tucked behind the dahlia garden, a Balinese stone soaking tub waited with a view of the open sky: the kind of place where you can sink in at night and watch the stars until the world feels still again. It’s not luxury that separates you from the world; it’s the kind that brings you back to it.

Edward Newell, the founder of NewTree Ranch, told me that guests often arrive vibrating from everyday life, phones in hand, nervous about being disconnected. Parents think it’ll be hard for their kids to unplug, but it’s usually the adults who struggle. The kids slip right into it, like they’re remembering something their parents forgot.

Maybe that’s what finding comfort in unexpected places really means: not escaping the world but remembering how to be part of it again. The hum of the bees, the rhythm of the rain, the taste of tomatoes still warm from the garden—all of it reminding me that comfort isn’t out there waiting to be discovered. It’s been here all along, buzzing softly, just asking us to listen.

NewTree Ranch is located just outside of Healdsburg. Explore retreats, rentals, and experiences at newtreeranch.com.

NewTree Ranch
3600 Wallace Creek Road, Healdsburg