A turkey vulture is not exactly a pretty animal. Not all animals are, although each has a distinct purpose in nature’s processes, which is beautiful in itself.

Last weekend I noticed a turkey vulture sitting outside our kitchen window in the grass, a most unusual sight. Big and impressive, dark and a bit ominous, somewhat threating and ugly, and so close. It stayed there for a while, then it was gone. A bit later I found it elsewhere in the garden, seemingly at rest, then hopping to an adjacent rock, never flying. Then it was gone again, but it had simply leapt out of sight, to a stone ledge below where I couldn’t see it. Maybe it wanted to be at peace, left alone.

I became concerned that it had broken its wing and called the Audubon Society to find a wildlife rehabilitator. I felt sorry for the large bird. Its ugliness was no longer relevant, its beingness touched a soft spot in my heart.

Just before calling the raptor rehabilitator I looked around to see where it was, but the vulture had disappeared. I looked all over the place. Had I been mistaken? Was it ok after all? Later that afternoon, I saw a vulture at the end of the property flying high up into a tree, and I thought, “Is this my vulture, is it ok?”

Two days after the incident we were planting new seedlings in the woods and, lo and behold, we found a dead turkey vulture on the ground, under that tree. I felt sad that I hadn’t been able to save him - once I connected, it became he. I had felt a connection to this ugly bird. I didn’t want him to suffer. Beauty and the Beast, an old theme, inner beauty hidden under an ugly shell. Repugnance had given way to compassion, and I no longer associated this raptor with carrion, just a being in need of empathy. A shift (see a previous post on shifting).