Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I can only walk with sufficient carelessness I am sure to be filled. –Thoreau

There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story. ~ Linda Hogan

We spend Sunday morning surrounded by the snap, snap, snap of strawberries being plucked by stem from vine, over and over, the sound crisp and clear in the air that hangs thick with river fog and the sweet scent of strawberries. The picking has been phenomenal this season, but today, the particular kind of strawberry we gather seems entirely worthy of the lavish attention its getting from the scattering of families, who easily fill four, five flats with the ripe fruit before heading home. At the center of everyone’s focus is a strawberry that seems quite quintessential in character--tidy and plucky off the stem, shapely, and brightly crimson in color, with a muted texture and sweet taste that tickles the tongue—a veritable starlet on this summer outing. We are lucky.

Thunderstorms have sent us inside, where we read on the red couch, watch the rain pour down the windows, and try to settle the dog, who has decided that Armageddon has come to play out its final battle on our lawn. I’m trying to take it easy, in between hulling strawberries and writing up our end of year progress report for the school district, but the booms and claps of thunder sound like calls to attention, and I’m trying desperately to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’m impatient, drowsy, and melancholy. I haven’t quite kicked off the residual effects of the anesthesia, or perhaps, it’s more than that, and the recriminations and tides of change have crept up and found me here, wondering when my light will shine again, this heavy blanket of slumber shadowy and still, obscuring the edges of my sunshine. Soon, soon, I tell myself, in pockets and patches and sunbursts it’ll come, at first a fleeting, shimmering display, then quieter, still, a soft glow radiating inward, and I’ll catch it with nimble fingers and set it to sing from my heart.

And so, I wait. I am used to waiting, but it is wearing on me. I skirt the edges of activity, try to maintain compliance, and follow doctor’s orders, but I have been forgetful. I reach for a pot hanging on the ceiling rack, and I reprimand myself. Let someone else get it for you. I lift a watermelon onto a cutting board, and feel the all too familiar pinch and roll of the fish flapping in my chest. Ouch, that didn't feel right. At night, I wake myself up just as I’m about to roll over to sleep on my left side. Nope, can’t do that. I feel like Hagrid spilling secrets to Ron, Harry and Hermione: Oops, shouldn’t have said that.

After my mastectomy, there was a lot of swelling, stiffness and intense soreness to stop me from putting my arms over my head, from lifting much of anything. I simply wasn’t able to do it, even if I wanted to. And I had no desire to toe the line. Self restraint came easy at first, and for the bulk of the first two weeks, as I walked about slowly and protectively, I rendered my left arm off-limits, keeping it quiet at my side, hand in pocket, and avoiding all temptation.

Later on, after my pec muscle had started to stop its twitching, it became harder to not want to resume my usual activity and get full mobility back—but I knew it would take an achingly long time. There was still ample discomfort to provide swift warning not to lift my fat cat, a pile of books, or a shopping bag loaded with groceries, or get on my bike and fly over the hills without a care. The repercussions were swift and furious.

Less than a week out of my last surgery, my new girl a mere five days old, I am already wondering how I’m going to make it through the next four weeks without totally screwing up. Dr. Pitts gave me plenty of warning—do anything rigorous, lift anything over five pounds with either side, stretch your arms overhead in the first two weeks, wear a bra, for god’s sake, and risk messing with the implant, which could move, change position, and assume the very lopsidedness that I was so desperately trying to avoid.

I’ve already put in a lot of jail time, and I have no desire to blow it. How would I ever forgive myself?

I’ve realized I need help in leaving this frustration behind, and staying the course.

For several days leading up to my last surgery, I saw turtles, it seems, everywhere. One morning, as I was pulling out of our driveway one morning, a huge turtle appeared on the road before me, about to make her way down the grassy slope towards the stream that runs on the edge of our property. We get a lot of visiting turtles in the springtime—usually snappers, but sometimes the more elusive wood turtle, now designated as a species-of-interest with a limited habitat (including, it seems, our specially-mapped wetlands) in the state. This one was attracting a lot of attention, and we made sure she made her way to safety.

One afternoon, the boys and I went on a long walk one day to the outer reaches of River Road and Pisgah, where the road turns rough and the trees start to fill in along the river. The tiniest of baby painted turtles—the size of a quarter—lay on the road, where it seemed to have been caught under a tire. Dominick scooped it up and cooed to it, hoping to revive it. Its little tail moving ever so slightly, we placed it gingerly in the tufted grass on the side of the road and wished it well, knowing that if we attempted to bring him home and valiantly nurse him back to health, he’d surely die by the time we got to the end of the road.

A few days later, we discovered a large painted turtle hanging out in our side garden, about to make her way under our deck. She was beautiful—the distinct orange and black markings stunningly artistic, her belly an unexpected orange. We ran inside to get our turtle book, but when we had returned, she was gone. We experienced much disappointment at not being able to spend more time with her: a missed opportunity.

The next evening, I was driving to Dominick’s baseball game in Northfield, and suddenly realized that the small gray thing plugging along the side of the road was a turtle, moving with much determination and focus, each stride deliberate, and, fortunately, just within the narrow shoulder. I slowed down to see it more closely—boxy, strong, motoring, it could be a snapper, looking to lay her eggs. I instantly feared for her life. A car could have easily squashed it. And who knows where she was headed—to the local market for a turkey sandwich? She’d have to cross the road. To the library to return some overdue books? (At least the library was on the same side of the road.)

So many turtles, so little time.

But if I listen, I can learn from these turtles that move ever so slowly through life, as if they know they’ve got all the time in the world--and they do. Don’t we all?

Turtles have long been associated with many things in many cultures—as a native symbol for Mother Earth, turtles can represent longevity, the female, an awakening to heightened sensitivities. The thirteen markings on its shell provided inspiration for the lunar calendar. Turtles have been thought to be the keepers of the doorways to the Faerie Realm, where the mysteries of the stirring of the senses take full flight. That's where we find our peace, after all.

Turtles, it seems, don’t have to work very hard to move with purpose and deliberation, each intentional step forward echoing their strong sense of groundedness within life, their feet solidly connected to earth. Perhaps I need to trust the catch and flow of the ground beneath me, immersing myself into this thing called life.

The wise old turtle carries its shell on its back, and when need be, when there’s trouble afoot, or when life becomes too much, he can retreat, pulling his head into the safety of his shell, and ponder things until all is clear. Perhaps there will be times when I need to go inside my shell, coming out only when my ideas are ready to be expressed.

Life gets busy, and the hectic pace quickly reaches a crescendo of disequilibrium if left unchecked. Things get topsy-turvy. We fly by the seat of our pants. We turn a blind eye to the opportunities around us. We miss out on the chances to tap into ourselves, restore our awareness, and reach for the abundance that is waiting. We lose sight of who we are—that primal, animal center of energy and connection to the natural world that lies, pulsating and awaiting release and renewal, within all of us, often neglected, forgotten, dismissed, diminished, belittled.

Perhaps the turtle can teach me some things about getting through the next four weeks—and the next forty years. Perhaps the turtle can teach all of us.

When life becomes too hectic, slow down. When you can no longer see the forest for the trees, sit back and open your eyes again to your surroundings. Take time to notice the little things—they matter. When your world upends itself, use your head and knowledge to right yourself. All that you need to know is within you. Let the natural flow work for you. Take your time. Revisit your own perceptions about time. Is your relationship to time a healthy one—or does it control you, spinning things out of control and away from the harmony that soothes our souls? Don’t expect to take giant steps; too much, too soon will only upset the balance. Pay attention, or you’ll miss our on opportunities. And when you need to, ask yourself: are you not hearing or seeing what you should? Are you or those around you not using discrimination? Are your senses awake, tingling, searching, keeping you grounded in this present moment?

The turtle reminds us that Mother Earth generously offers all that we need—but we need to be able to open ourselves up to it and in order to do that, we need to slow our pace, awaken our senses, and realize that we have all the time in the world. We can wait to pick up the cat, reach for the pot hanging from the ceiling, or stretch those arms overhead. We don’t have to figure out the big stuff all at once. Not just yet. There’ll be plenty of time for all that later.

I am grateful for the animal totems that frequently enter my world—and bring me back to a place inside that feels safe, true, and pure. There is peace in this place, an all-out sensory experience that instantly transports me back to being a child, visiting my great grandparent’s farm, and losing myself in the smell of hay, the rush of wind against the waves of grass, the stark quiet of place; searching for salamanders with friends during recess, when we’d focus all our attention on where they might be—with ears, eyes, hands, noses all tuned in, becoming a part of their world as we left ours, that wretched blacktop playground, behind; and holing up in a rocky crevice at my father’s beach for the afternoon, tasting the salt in the air, watching the sea birds spiraling and dodging currents and tides, and hunting for treasures amongst the tide pools: sea glass, crabs, star fish, sponges, periwinkles, and the perfectly smooth banded stones, wave worn and full of magic.

It’s the magic I’m after. But finding those doors to the Faerie Realm requires some serious work—quiet, reverent listening, noticing the little things, and maybe a little luck. I’ve got time. We all do.

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. ~ Rachel Carson