Shelldom

I've always kind of liked turtles. They're sort of clunky and awkward, not particularly entertaining and yet I've always thought of them as kind of cool.

In fact, I think if I were not a person, I might choose to be one. They seem to lead a simple life, somewhat nomadic, not particularly social, not quite loners but perhaps just independent, and of course, there's the shell. The shell would perhaps seal the deal. It's a place that's safe, secure, alone, all your own - a retreat and a defense all in one package.

I convinced my parents once to let me have turtles. Sometime in high school I had several baby turtles. They were tiny creatures housed in a tank on my nightstand. Though they didn't last long, they still lasted long enough to teach me a a few things, though I don't think I realized any of it until now.

Hiding

A shell is not enough. Despite the illusion of the shell being a place of escape, a place to shut out the rest of the world when you've had enough, when it's time for a break, or even the image of a shell as a hard exterior to hide under when you're feeling weak, feeling the need for some protection, it's not enough.

In their tank of water and rocks, my young turtles would often take to hiding around the rocks. Perhaps they just liked to hang out in the crevices or perhaps it made them feel more secure and better protected. Occasionally we let them loose in the living room to run and play. Man, could they run fast! However, no matter the starting point, they always managed to find their way to the sofa and zip beneath content to remain until someone lifted it so they could be safely scooped out.

Even with their shell to retreat to, within their tank they made their way beneath the largest thing they could find. Despite their shell, when set free to roam the living room, they always made their way beneath the sofa, the largest thing they could find to hide under. It was as though the built-in defense of their genetic composition was somehow not enough. Even turtles take to hiding beneath something bigger than their shell.

Though I often miss living with my family, though I've really enjoyed sharing apartments with several of my previous roommates, there is still something satisfying about living on my own. For I am a turtle - clunky and awkward, not particularly entertaining, somewhat nomadic, not particularly social, not quite a loner but perhaps just independent, and it's nice to have this shell of an apartment, something bigger than myself, to come home to. A place to retreat to, a place that feels secure, a place to be alone, a place to call my own. A place to be when I feel like quitting the world for a bit, a place to take a break. A place of cozy familiarity and warmth. A place to be when I'm feeling weak and in need of some protection.

You see, I have these things called thoughts and feelings and despite the storehouse of my brain and the protective caging of my skull to seal them in, it's just not enough. Uncommunicated they remain protected and lodged somewhere in my head, and yet, that's not enough. There's still a need for a larger shell and so I run home to that largest place I can find only to lodge myself in the crevice of my room to once again feel safe, protected, at home.

Coming out

The funny thing about turtles, at least the ones I've observed, is this: in the end, there is something that seems to have greater power over them than the need for seclusion, security, and protection, a force strong enough to draw them out of hiding. Warmth. The sun and the warm glow of light would eventually draw them out. It's something that takes precedence over the need to be alone, the protection of a rock to hide under, or the security of a shell to hide within. Eventually they're called out of their hiding place to absorb the warmth of the sun with all of their being despite the fact that it also makes them vulnerable. Not only are weaknesses exposed, they're put on display.

I think the same holds true for me. Alone is only good for so long. Eventually I'm called out by the Son. Eventually I give over to the warmth, not out of loneliness but obedience. Eventually I quit my hiding place, despite feeling vulnerable, despite exposing my weakness, because a part of me can't resist. A part of me knows that there's something better about being in the Son then being tucked away alone.

Should I ever decide this business of being a human just isn't for me, I still think I might like to be a turtle - knowing when it's time to be called out, knowing when it's time to be in the sun, gathering warmth to sustain in darkness, through the night, through the storms, through the winters. To know that as good as it can feel to have a place to hide, a place to call my own, a place to feel secure, there's something satisfying, something infinitely better about being in the sun despite being vulnerable and exposing weaknesses.