The Sea Turtle Prayer
An Offering for Yom Kippur Day 5768/2007

by Anna C. Martin

A few weeks ago I was in Costa Rica, watching a sea turtle lay its eggs on a deserted beach in the moonlight. It felt sacred, standing there with my children and husband, a soft breeze, and this ancient animal. I was moved to tears – filled with a feeling I could not name, until last night. Thanks to Rabbi Burt’s teaching, I can now name it as ‘radical amazement.’

 On RH, our prayer leaders asked us what we need to learn from our world, from animals and plants. I immediately thought of the sea turtle and what I could learn from her.

The sea turtle returns to the same beach where she hatched to lay her eggs, no matter how far she has travelled. I don’t know how or why she knows to do this. When she arrives, it is a struggle to sidle up on the beach – the fins that help her swim do not make walking on land easy, but she still does. [I feel compelled to say here I am not thinking of eggs as her children in a literal way].  She does not lay an egg or two and see how it turns out before she lays the rest. She doesn’t demand a guarantee that the eggs will hatch. She doesn’t get credit for the ones that turn out well, or obsess about the ones that don’t. She covers the eggs with sand to keep them warm, doing her best to protect them. It is not for her to stay and see what happens. She turns, slowly, and follows the path of the moon on the water. She doesn’t think ‘is that the moon or just a light?’ Or ‘I wonder if there is another moon I should wait for?’ She waddles slowly back through the sand until she reaches water, where she can move again smoothly, and she is gone.

So this is my prayer – my “May I be as a Sea Turtle Prayer”

May I be as a sea turtle

May I do every single thing I can, big and small, to protect the earth and the miraculous animals and environments left to me, so that my grandchildren and their grandchildren can stand one night on a beach and watch a sea turtle in the moonlight.

May I listen to that deep still voice inside to guide me to my beach

May I swim when I can swim, and do the hard work of waddling on sand when I need to

May I stop wanting to know exactly which eggs will hatch, and when before I take action—may I let go of the need to get credit for my eggs or to own them

May I give all that I have to give – may I leave to this earth, this life, every egg I am capable of producing

May I know when it is time to turn and go

May I trust the path of the moon and follow it