A Turtle's Consent

As I write, I sit in my decently comfortable office chair, working on my laptop, which rests on my massive, five foot wide, solid wood teacher's desk that I stole for $20 at Goodwill (quick plug: thrift stores rock). Many memories rest upon this desk. Sitting about a foot away from me is Harold, my pet turtle. Okay, so he's not a real turtle...well, scratch that, he is real, he's just not biological. Well, scratch that, too, because I think his shell is made of some kind of nut shell...let's just suffice it to say that he's not breathing.

Harold is one of those handpainted bobble-head turtles you might find in a street market in the Caribbean. A dear friend of mine, who lives in Canada, of all places, gave him to me as a gift. For months, he's been riding shotgun with me in my Cavalier, nodding his head along with the beat of my music. Well, maybe more in tune with the potholes and speed bumps than the music, but his consent was unquestioned.

Harold suffered a rather grievous injury recently, when an enterprising thief (previous post) cracked his shell as he plucked my in-dash CD player out of its nest (more prying and ripping than plucking, actually, but I digress). You know what, though? Harold is still nodding. Sure, there's a crater in the back of his shell and cracks in two other places, but he's still optimistic. And the paint he has left is still pretty.

I've had my shell cracked a few times. Death, illness, rejection, failure, and pain have all taken swipes at me, making their cracks and craters and fissures. And, oh, how often I've wanted to buckle, wanted to submit and give up. What I try to remember is, like Harold, the paint I've got left is still pretty - and I've got to keep bobbing my head, nodding along whether life throws me a pothole or a song.

Four drops of superglue, and Harold will be back in my Cavalier, riding shotgun once again, nodding in tune with my thoughts in the absence of music. He's had a few knocks, but he'll be all right.

We'll both be all right.