September 10, 2014
Before I went to europe for three months in 2011, I spent a little over a month with my dad and family in New York. My dad was, reluctantly, in nursing home care after the passing of my mother only a few months earlier. I visited him almost everyday during my stay. We would sit and have afternoon coffee and sometimes go for drives in the Connecticut countryside. Dad liked that. He was like a child sometimes as he marveled at the backroads and houses we’d pass. My heart saddened as he commented on never having been on these roads before–ones that he had known so well, like the back of his strong, thick, carpenter worn hands. Though excited to embark on a new chapter of my life in Europe, I was deeply saddened to leave my father. After my last visit with him before departing on my journey, I drove past a row of turkey vultures sitting on the rail near a horse pasture. Something about them urged me to stop and photograph them. Something about them also made me cry.
The birds are scavengers, never killing but patiently waiting for the opportunity to consume what has died or what others leave behind. Because their prey is already dead, the Mayans believed them to be the converters of death into life. The vulture was a symbol of cleansing, renewal and transformation. Native Americans also revered them as a symbol of renewal.
I knew nothing of this three years ago when I saw these birds. I was struck by their numbers as they sat on this fence. All I could see was the ominous nature I conjured in these vultures. The serenity of this peaceful pasture seemed to hold a secret that would be revealed as the months unfolded.
I wouldn’t see my father again.
