The Turtle, My Teacher

Out walking, pondering a verbal interaction and my own visceral response to it, I sought solitude and quiet. I was drawn to the river, and walked across the low growing bramble and sat on a rock, looking down. At first it was just me and the water, and the sun and the clouds making shadows and glistening pools. To my surprise, a turtle appeared. It was swimming along the bank, and seemed to be floundering as it moved in and out among the rocks near the surface. Perhaps it was moving in a normal turtle way, but regardless, it caught my attention, and the perception of floundering stuck with me. I watched it, curious about why it was swimming so close to the water’s edge and wondering what it would do.

That I should encounter a turtle in this moment was not a coincidence, I knew, for I have a special affinity for turtles. The lackadaisical paddling movements of this turtle’s legs fit with the famous slow and steady plodding of the winner of the race in The Tortoise and the Hare, a character who I emulated as a child. I connected with the turtle appearing to me now and welcomed its visit as a visit from the Divine. So, sitting there in peaceful companionship, I watched to see what it would do, wondering what this creature, my own mascot, might teach me.

In the silence of the moment, my cell phone sounded, and I picked it up to see who had texted and to decide whether to respond. When I looked back, the turtle was gone! My disappointment was keen.

Until that moment, I had been immersed in the present, in a moment of contemplation. I had been considering what my judgment of its movement as floundering might mean. In light of the conversation that was on my mind, I considered the quality of the verbal exchange. The words. The silence. What was said and what was left unsaid. Had one of us been floundering?

Was the turtle not floundering at all, but moving confidently and surely? And what of my own judgments of the words and silences, actions and inactions of another? Without knowing a person’s character, I could not know if they were floundering or confident, could I? And yet, I tend to believe that I do know, and I jump to conclusions that are based on unfounded assumptions.

I stood up and walked along the water’s edge, hoping against hope to see the turtle again. I realized that I had been counting on the turtle to guide me, and I felt disconsolate at the thought that my chance to learn had come and gone. And then — Oh! What a joy! – I saw a turtle. Very likely, a different turtle, but similarly floundering among the rocks along the shoreline. What would it do? I wanted to know. This time I would not look away. I settled in to watch and wait. And then – all at once – as if it saw the open water and knew with certainty what to do, it dove confidently and very directly straight to the bottom of the river and disappeared from my sight.

This, I knew, was the answer I had been looking for. Plunge into the depths! The phrase “wallowing in our emotions” came to my mind. In the context I remembered, wallowing was contrasted with going deeper. The term “wallowing” was describing a practice that hinders one’s growth. Wallowing is what we do when we are afraid to go deeper. Wallowing keeps us stuck at the surface.

I am a reflective person. I value what lies deeper. Writing is one way that I reflect, and journaling has been a part of my life since childhood. Walking in nature is another. Song writing is yet another. In my training as a spiritual director, I have learned a variety of modalities that help me to be present, to have compassion for what I am feeling in the moment, to listen for underlying stories, and to identify underlying needs and values. Going deeper is a large part of what I do with others as a spiritual director and with myself on my own spiritual journey.

So, as I continued on my walk, I let myself plunge into the depths of my feelings. I entered into the confusion and pain and discovered a story from my childhood, a story that had formed my outlook on life at an early age. I let myself be with it. Visiting that place from the past as my adult self, the view was different. I was seeing with more experienced eyes. Inside me, it felt like I had dived directly down just as I had seen the turtle do.

As the day wore on, I realized that I was no longer wallowing. Like the turtle, I was swimming in the depths. I didn’t know what I would find there, but being in a new location with a new view was enough for the moment. The turtle had provided the guidance I needed and started me on my way.

Have you been floundering? Or wallowing? Do you need to plunge into the depths?

Share