Turtle Emergence

Driving home from a soccer game in Barre — I must always be writing about driving, driving, as maybe that’s when my mind wanders most, maybe thinks the best — we’re tired, or I’m tired at least, and my daughter must be starved. It’s raining, and the way is wooded and green.

Stopping at my library, on the way home, it’s wood turtle day. The hard-backed creatures have laid their eggs and are edging their way back to the wetlands. I see a six almost immediately in the grass. Looking down at the kids’ soccer field, the turtles are on the move, their ancient dance alive on this hot and now rainy summer evening.

My daughter stands silently, rapt.

Some late night reading….

(Aldous Huxley after an LSD trip wrote he saw)… ‘the direct, total awareness, from the inside, so to say, of Love as the primary and fundamental cosmic fact.’ The force of this insight seemed almost to embarrass the writer in its baldness: ‘The words, of course, have a kind of indecency and must necessarily ring false, seem like twaddle. But the fact remains.’

Michael Pollan, How to Change Your Mind

IMG_3675

 

3 thoughts on “Turtle Emergence

  1. Your comment about writing about driving are apt in part because so many solid writing reflections occur in 2 main places- while driving and while bathing/in the shower. The PhD psychologist (with the long Czech- I think-name) who always writes on “Flow” and being in the “zone” comments on these 2 “sacred thought” places frequently. Of course self driving cars will sadly soon destroy this reflection zone too…so keep writing Brett! GT

  2. Well, a self-driving car isn’t in the immediate future for me, so that’s something. Csíkszentmihályi, maybe? I’ll have to look him up…. And thanks for the encouragement on this hectic Thursday morning!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s