Rescue

A pond turtle was sitting in the road, as still as a stone, and I pulled over to investigate. As I approached, he (or she…who knows?) moved slightly, sluggishly, in a turtle-like way, further into the path of traffic (not that there is much traffic here, but all it would take for a tragic turtle-ending is one car at one ill-timed moment). I gingerly lifted the turtle as it retreated into its shell, then carried him down a roadside slope toward the pond, and gently placed him at the shore. He scurried straight to the water and swam away. I stood for a moment, smelling the dank, rich, swampy smells of alien life, and then I retreated to the carapace of my vehicle and drove home. It was the most tangible and satisfying accomplishment of my day.

And sometimes that’s the kind of reality I inhabit. The bigger picture is bleaker right now than anything in recent memory. I don’t even want to talk about it here. I can’t.

It’s always good to step outside, of course, and I’m grateful for that option daily. A few days ago, when the late-day tide was in retreat, I walked along the shore with a friend, past the train trestles and seawalls and various manmade structures both functional and obsolete. The older things were melting into art, already melding with nature’s sculpture, which itself was transforming slowly, in its own time. I have had the thought before, that when no longer useful, it is good to at least become beautiful or interesting in some way before disappearing. I’m not sure where I am on that continuum. I am definitely inching towards my vanishing, but still defiantly trying to be useful, if only in small ways, like turtle rescue, which, in fairness, was a big deal to the turtle.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Oxford, my grandson is discovering that he quite likes the world, and a mile or so away from my own house, the children are at their computers, learning remotely, and my 95-year-old mother-in-law next door is listening to Mozart while she sorts and organizes and tidies things up, as is her way. Fog is drifting and settling on the hilltops like whispered secrets, and a residue of last night’s curious dreams is clinging to me still.

I don’t know if this blog post is finished, but I’ll let it go for now. There is an “event” listed on my calendar, and I need to brush my teeth. The little routines are my skeleton sometimes, and my protective shell.