Love is the bridge between you and everything. (Rumi)
A cool breeze and a moderate temperature turn our walk in a county park into a mini utopia. It’s the kind of day where people pass by and say, wow what a day, as if they could hold onto the beauty longer. Storms and hot weather will return soon. Then, something peculiar in the grass on a hill to the left of the path catches my attention. At first I think it is a piece of plastic caught on a hidden twig. But the shape isn’t right. It is too perfectly round. As we draw closer I see a turtle digging with her hind legs into the grass, apparently readying the area for her eggs. The lake is about three feet from the other side of the walkway.
Jay and I move closer, but not into her space. She remains focused on her work. As we watch Mama another walker stops. He and my husband discuss the hazards of eggs buried in that shallow open spot, mowed by park workers, within a predator’s view.
“Well, turtles aren’t known for their intelligence,” the man says, and then moves on shrugging his shoulders.
A reply comes into my head too late. I don’t equate intelligence with the right to exist. True, I wouldn’t take a vole to the vet, but that’s because it has a life-span of three to six months. Moreover, I’ve never met one. But this example circles the truth: Love is the bridge between me and anything.
Jay and I look at one another. We decide to notify a naturalist. At the camp store the woman behind the counter calls the naturalists’ office. The office seems pleased we let them know about our discovery.
When we return to the hill where we saw Mama, the search doesn’t turn out to be as easy as we expect it to be. Jay finds the spot, now a packed circle of dirt. Fortunately my husband’s memory is better than mine. The area he chooses to survey is right on. Mine misses it by several trees and thirty feet. He places three yellow warning flags around the mud turtle nursery.
The Midland Painted Turtle is known in the scientific world as Chrysemys picta. These turtles often bask on logs or stones in lakes with their friends, sunbathing with the stillness of the surfaces under them. Perhaps Jay and I didn’t save much, but a few more painted turtles may have a chance to celebrate the water and sun someday.
We didn’t bring a camera, so my quick colored-pencil rendering will have to do. One form of life may feed on another, but sometimes one life form helps another, too. The red stands out exaggerated in this picture, like dark stitches or scars. Life always has its cost. But that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.
Some scavenger may find all of Mama’s eggs. Maybe. Maybe not. I have no control over tomorrow. For now Jay and I trek hand-in-hand over the bridge that crosses the lake, and I wonder what the next bridge will ask of me.
terrypetersen 