Head out of the shell

From watching the experiences of people before me, I know enough to not burrow my head into my shell like a turtle. If there's an impending problem, it's usually better to willingly stare it in the face when it's still far away, then be forced to deal with it later, when it's too late.

The question is: can you prepare for a future that no one knows for certain? Because for all we know, we could have been staring at a ship that wasn't ever going to make it to shore.

At least when your head is stuck in your shell, you take every experience at a time. You're in one place at one time, and you know nothing else - there's nothing else you can see.

Funny. Isn't that precisely what people always tell us to do? To always live life in the present, and enjoy it?

So maybe the turtle had it right after all - stick your head in your shell, live in the now, and brace yourself for disaster.

Because regardless of whether you were planning for it or not, it's going to come anyway.

Death.

turtles

The morning of June 5, 2011, our turtle finally returned to us after seven months of exploring the world outside of the plastic tub he had sat in for much of the past eight years. When we found him, Leonardo was burrowed by the camellia plant, head and arms withdrawn, his shell gently covered with soft pink petals.

We were happy to see him, of course. But doubt crept in.

My mother put on a pair of gloves and poked him a little. He didn’t move. She picked him up. He didn’t squirm like he once did. I put him in one of the water-filled tubs I had left for him, in case he ever decided to come back. He floated.

Unsure of how to handle the current situation, my thoughts drifted back to two months ago when I had spotted Leonardo, then seven years old, crawling along the patio. Since the rest of my family was away, I had recorded a video of the brief reunion, concluding with Leonardo crawling back into the bushes. Instead of taking Leonardo back into captivity, I had let him go.

Now, he was dead.

My sister glared at me, cheeks flush with tears. Why didn’t you take him when you saw him in April? Leonardo would still be alive if you had.

In truth, I had momentarily extended my hand to grab Leonardo. But just as I was about to pick him up, a thought had flashed into my mind. What would I want if I were Leonardo?

I looked back at the sterile tub that had bound Leonardo – that sickly small space clamped between one cold, circular wall. And suddenly, I felt disgusted at how we had treated him. It was too cruel to lock Leonardo up in a box, even if it would keep him safe.

So I let him go. And now, I had to face the consequences.

My father passed the shovel to me, and after a pause, I drove it into the ground. As my arms trembled over the still shell, the shovel full of dirt, I looked around at my family. I tried to form the words, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t, because I didn’t mean it. For in making that decision on that April day, I had already decided that if it were my own life, that’s what I would have wanted: to be left alone, to be free.

As I set the foundations for my future in the years to come, I will have to make that decision again. I could listlessly pursue the formulaic lifestyles and career paths that my peers and parents define as “successful.” I could live life entirely focused on future financial security and stability, giving up my own interests and dreams when they don’t lead to steady paychecks. I could steer away from risks and exploration outside of my shell of comfort, and settle for safety and familiarity behind the high walls of security.

I could. But I won’t. Why should I set a ceiling while I still have the opportunity to fly?

The last bits of dirt slid off of the shovel, and the little grains of earth washed over the serenely silent shell. As I gradually lost sight of it under the soil, I realized that oddly enough, I was smiling.

Leonardo had left his shell behind. And at that moment, so did I.