Nine women at midnight climb into small boats to make our way to a beach in Costa Rica. Our yearning is to see the giant sea turtles that make their way every year to the same beach at the same time to lay their eggs. We check in with the park ranger (this beach is now protected) who explains there is to be no use of flashlights: they confuse the turtles that navigate by moonlight. He says that we are to wait quietly on the beach until he spots a mother or a nest in the sand that is percolating with tiny black baby turtles breaking free from their eggs where they have incubated for a month.

This beach is not a zoo; there is no guarantee that we will have the privilege of seeing these magnificent, ancient creatures. We are on their time. We must wait. We lie down on our towels in the sand still warm from the day and gaze at the Southern Cross, a constellation not visible in our Northern Hemisphere. At first we talk softly, giggle a bit and pass the flask of cognac to stay warm. Then we ease into the quiet mystery of the moment. How do these mothers know where to come every year? What compels them to come to this beach and then return to the sea? Where have our instincts gone as we respond not to our deep knowing but rather to the demands of our daily lives?

The guide comes softly with his infrared light that does not disturb the turtles but allows us to see. We walk gently and stand in awe as the little creatures struggle out of their eggs and up the sand bank of their nest. A hundred emerge. They know the direction to the water. Many won’t make it; they are tasty morsels for birds and fish. We can’t touch or help them though our own mothering instincts want desperately to do so. So we cheer them on. Some fall into a footprint in the sand and we cry out “Oh, no. Come on. Come on. You can make it.” We are all mothers of the universe at this moment, wanting each baby to survive. “Ah,” we sigh, as they climb out of their Grand Canyon and reach THEIR home, becoming black spots bouncing on the waves.

And then the guide spots the great mother, laboring to lay the last of her 100 eggs. Her huge flippers cover the nest with sand. She then turns, ready for her return to the sea. She is enormous and her flippers are not made for earth. She heaves herself forward guided only by the vibrations of the surf and the light of the full moon. We earth mothers cheer her on - as loud as we dare so as not to upset the natural order of things. She stops. Oh, no. A distant light in a resort confuses her. Her magnificent head scans back and forth for the right direction. Oh no. She is going the wrong way. I am softly weeping now, recognizing how I lose my way by looking at the wrong signals and not wanting her to have to push one extra time. She stops, scans again, and orients toward the moon. Ahhhh. There is ease about her enormous body when she reaches the edge of the water. With each move she becomes more buoyant and disappears into the depths that give her life so she may return again to give life.

I am weeping with gratitude for the gift she has given as a guide to us women. Find places that are protected. Use our own rhythms. Orient ourselves to natural vibrations and light so that we may return again and again to those places and people who give us life.

Dr. Elaine Yarbrough is president of The Yarbrough Group (www.yarbroughgroup.com), a consulting firm in Boulder, Colo., that provides a wide range of services worldwide. Her specialty is developing women's unique leadership capacities. Over the past 32 years, she has assisted more than 500 organizations, including business, education, government, and human services. Dr. Yarbrough has published three books and numerous articles. She taught at the University of Colorado, where she received every university teaching award. She has worked in 26 countries on five continents. She lives at the edge of the Rocky Mountains with her husband; they can be found hiking and skiing. Send your questions to Elaine@smartnow.com.