A friend in Florida keeps two albino turtles. Too visible to predators, they'd not do well in the wild. But set in a little pool, in a garden, swimming with goldfish, and even protected by a screen from hungry mosquitoes, they do quite well. The larger one is female, the smaller is male. They don't have names, yet.
An hour sitting nearby, watching them with my camera, I am struck by how simple their life is. They swim to the bottom of the pond. They come up to the surface and breathe. They climb up on a rock. They nibble at a lily. They touch noses. They stay still. They move.
When I move too quickly, they dive for the bottom of the pond. Then they come back up, eyeing me cautiously. Nothing keeps them from escaping the pond, the edge is flush with the ground around. But they don't try.
Fed and protected, they seem content. I know nothing from their perspective, except as it resonates with mine. The analogous human life is, perhaps, living in suburbia with a fixed income.
It's a life I'd find impossibly boring. But who am I to judge? I'm just some snobbish adrenaline junkie human. Were I a turtle, I'd want to live fast and large along the edge of one of Florida's inland lakes, gators to my left, and pythons to my right. I wouldn't last long, but every day would be an amazing challenge.
They have a beautiful life. They often pose as if for a landscape painting, their delicate details speaking to the wonder of creation.
I wonder if they're aware how much they impress people--enough for us to care for them, give them a cushioned life, just so we get to look at them. Maybe that's their adaptation--the turtles that survive are the ones that enjoy being looked at. But, as usual, I'm likely overthinking it. Turtle brains are on the smaller side, so logically speaking, they likely don't think too much.
Better just to enjoy them, as they are.
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