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  • One foggy morning, a few weeks ago, I was walking in the park. There's a magical spot by the water that a very few people know about. It's a place where you can breathe in this flustered city.

    I had a dream a year ago that I was riding the back of a turtle who was thousands of years old. It was teaching me as we swam through the water and I dug my fingers between its neck and shell so that I could hold on when we faced the tide.

    Six months later, I met a man and, for some reason, I told him about the dream. His eyes narrowed and his face lit up with a half-cocked smile. He is Native American and told me the symbol of his tribe is the turtle. The turtle is a teacher, and he mused that since we crossed paths, he must have something to teach me.

    It turns out he did teach me, but not through his words.

    There are moments when the fog clears and the dots connect. I touched the bark of one of the trees in that special place in the park and remembered that while some of us call this continent the Americas, there were people here long before us who called it Turtle Island.

    In essence, by walking, living, standing on this land, I am riding on the back of a turtle, wise as hell, and thousands of years old.
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