The Night of the Turtle Moon

The full moon glanced light onto the most ancient of rituals. What was at stake had to be done at dark. It has held court for millions of years.

Ms. Turtle first appeared to be a large rock that was in church as the evening ocean sang hymns. She hid, as she was mysteriously attentive.

Lumbering with hesitated steps, she found the spot where she would bury her gift of eggs, so that her little sons and daughters would be given their time.

Their task would be to climb out of their first home, through the layers of sand, and then scramble back across where their mother had brought them, before diving head first into the dangerous deep waters,

All without becoming dinner for the many gulls, who with hungry stomachs would be watching every move.

Life orchestrates instincts of danger for moving us on, making birth our first trauma, frightening us into living, guaranteeing nothing, blessing us as we find our courage.

Ms. Turtle, and mothers in all skins, know all of this, and yet they abide by their calling, to be a vessel for life, as they assume their role, so life can go on.

I did not know if she had said her prayers, so I said mine. May the lunge to live be successful for all babies and those of us finding our nerve.

I stood up and quietly applauded. The Ocean played on. I was thankful.
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