Why am I davening with turtles?

It’s Shabbat

and the synagogues aren’t open—

There is disease.

 

I don’t want to daven for Shabbat

where I daven every day—

in the study.

So, I daven with the turtles.

​

Before everything locked down,

my son and his fiancé

rented a car and escaped New York

to shelter with her family in Charleston.

 

Not the turtles, however.

Two turtles they left behind, with us.

Where my son once slept

is now a large tank.

 

An environment

with mountain, waterfall,

a dry rock under a sun lamp,

a comfortable plastic plant,

and heated, warm water.

 

A safe world.

 

What’s amazing about turtles—

and who really gets the chance to observe turtles,

except now that they are exiles

in our house—

 

What’s amazing is that they breathe

both air and water.

Versatile.

And they are simultaneously majestic

and silly.

 

They seem to take themselves seriously.

 

Friends have said that

being in quarantine,

they daven with more kavanah—

more devoted focus.

 

But I am just more anxious.

Unfocused.

Rushed.

Dismayed.

 

Do the turtles daven?

Do they thank God—(or, actually, me or my wife)—

for providing food, warmth,

a place to bathe in the (faux) sun?

 

Or do they curse us for keeping them

in this little box

with bland food pellets and krill,

and an all-too-safe habitat that runs like clockwork?

 

Do I thank God?

Or am I disappointed in him for this disease

keeping me from friends, family,

concert halls, synagogues,

and bars?

 

I take myself seriously.

I daven with turtles.

 

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