Slow Down, Said the Turtle!

 “Have you ever watched a turtle?” an Oneida woman asked me from behind the counter at the Shako:wi Cultural Center in Oneida, New York.

“Not really,” I admitted—but told her the subject of turtles kept coming up in my life.

She smiled. “Turtles are slow, steady, and strong.”

As she gave me a tour of the center, I mentioned I was looking for a book about Deganawidah and Hiawatha—figures I admired from Travels in a Stone Canoe. I also picked up one on the Oneida creation story.

“It’s the turtle that grows and becomes the island of North America,” she said.

Months later, I found myself at a Lenape inter-tribal Winter Solstice gathering in Pennsylvania, deep into the night as we sang the Walam Olum, the Lenape creation story. As I read along, the words jumped out: and the turtle became the foundation of the earth.

Turtles again.

Overheated and restless, I stepped outside into the cold. A man wrapped in a wool blanket joined me by the fire. “I’m Walking Bear,” he said. “You looked cold. Drum too loud?”

“I just needed a break,” I told him.

He studied me. “What do you know about turtles?”

“Not a lot,” I replied.

“I saw you inside,” he said. “Sometimes, you reminded me of a turtle. Other times, it looked like you forgot how to be one.”

“Turtles are slow, steady, and strong,” I offered.

He nodded. “Turtles carry the horrors of the world and remain connected to the Creator. You have a turtle shell. I see it.”

Then, pausing, he asked: “You’ve seen the Creator, haven’t you?”

He didn’t know me, didn’t know about my near-death experience, my years of service to others, or the guilt-driven urgency I carried. I said nothing. He was called back inside. I never saw him again.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about turtles.

I researched turtle totems, animal behavior, legends—driving my friends nuts. Everyone told me to slow down. I didn’t listen.

Then one summer in Oriskany, a large turtle stopped in front of our RV and stared us down. I jumped out, laid on the road, face-to-face, and begged it: What does this mean?

No answer. It eventually turned and walked away—slow, deliberate, unbothered. I watched until it was safe, mildly disappointed.

Weeks later, before a major presentation—my first in 25 years—I was spiraling. Panicked. My friend, sharing the hotel room, finally snapped: “Go splash your face. You’re driving me crazy.”

In the bathroom, a silver turtle charm fell out of the washcloth.

Tears welled in my eyes. I rushed out. “Look! The Creator sent me a turtle!”

My friend sighed, picked up a pillow, and whacked me. “I put it there, genius. Maybe I’m the miracle. Ever think of that?”

She was right. I calmed down. The presentation went beautifully. Had I been rushing, I would’ve missed that moment entirely.

Months later, burned out, sick, and disconnected, I knew I couldn’t keep living that way. I began training my replacement—an ex-priest who, somehow, knew what I needed better than I did. On my last day, he handed me two gifts: a stitched saying, To help another person is to touch the heart of God—and an Oneida creation story print.

Of the turtle.

“You’ve got the shell,” he said. “You just need to live like it.”

I didn’t get it then. Not fully. It took four more years, a chronic illness, and finally crashing from overdrive to understand. I’d been trying so hard to prove I was worth the second chance I’d been given, I forgot how to live it.

Now, forced to slow down, I hear more: in doctor’s offices, waiting rooms, quiet walks. I catch moments I used to miss.

“Slow down,” the man said.
The turtle says it too.

And I’m finally listening