I often wait a long time after the batiks have been waxed over to dye them. This is the moment of completion, when it all comes together, and often those are the moments where I have the most fear. What if I mess it up? What if I just wasted all those hours? What if what I dream, what I imagine doesn’t happen? I struggle with those emotions; I struggle with all those ‘what ifs’. I dream of the turtle during this time, I imagine it swimming before me, I listen to what it wants to say, I wonder if I am hearing everything I need to hear. Then, I don’t think of the turtle at all. I go on about my life, doing all those things, the go go go, the do do do…it’s like a distraction from what is real, what matters. It takes me a while to process all the fear, there is this anticipation that builds as well; there is an expectation that develops and then dies and then develops again. It is like the process of living and dying, ironically, I guess. We all live in each moment, and we all die in each moment too; we find our true selves and then we get lost again. It is a struggle, a battle. There is a warrior in each of us that takes up the fight, and there is demon in each of us as well, that tells us it’s not worth fighting. It is the lightness and the dark, the hope and the despair, the dream, the imagination and the fear. Then, there comes a moment, when I haven’t thought of it, the turtle, for a long time, a moment when I can’t stand the anticipation anymore. I have to see it. Maybe it is like what mothers go through as a child develops within… all that anticipation, nine months of wonder and hope, and then the truth arrives. There is something that dies in that moment, a former self, a dream that can’t happen anymore; and then there is something that lives, the truth, that new human being, set free finally to be whoever they are. I want to see the turtle so much, I forget how afraid I am, and I just dive in. I find the color, or the combination of colors, I mix the dye, I ponder the relationship between my dreams and my reality. I soak the waxed turtle in cold water, I worry for a moment about the cracks and then I don’t worry, I can’t worry anymore. The time is now. This is it. I crumple it, I destroy it, I push it under the dye, and little parts float to the surface…the first images of the turtle are there. I’m amazed, but I try to control my excitement…I tell myself it isn’t over until it’s over, it isn’t done until it’s done. I keep stirring, I keep dreaming with these little bits of reality thrown in, these little glimpses of what this turtle will be. I keep stirring, I rinse, then I set the water on to boil. After many many rinses, and lots of cracked wax everywhere, I push the turtle into the boiling water. I can see nothing, all I see is steam and the faded color of the dye in the boiling water and the yellow burbling wax that sticks to my thick gloves. But I feel something here, in this moment, I feel it is alive, it is beautiful. I’m in love with the turtle again. I hear garbled sounds bubbling up through the wax. This is the call, he says, and I hope you are listening. I am, I assure the bubbling water and wax. Look at me, the turtle says, and realize, this is the truth, this is why I’ve come to you, to bring you the truth. I take a deep breath, the truth, I ponder. Yes, the truth, the turtle says again. I’m not sure what it means, but when I rinse the turtle again and stretch it and clear off the rest of the wax, I stare at those eyes, those wrinkles, those colors, those cracks and I say to myself…This is the truth.