A Lesson in Being Present from This Turkey

I don’t know if you’ve had the opportunity to spend much time in the company of Wild Turkeys—probably not. They’re kookie-looking birds known to be quite clever and cautious. If you live in Canada, chances are you’ve seen them gathered in farmers’ fields, and it’s likely that the amount of time it took you to pass by them in your car was the full extent to which you thought about them. I personally never thought a turkey would be the source of a life lesson about being present in the moment—but read on. 

It was early Fall and the weather in Ottawa was nice enough, which is to say it wasn’t raining. I had been working from home all week and desperately needed to get out of the house for a change of scenery and some fresh air. My afternoon was wide open, so I grabbed my camera and took a quick 20-minute drive to one of the forest trails not too far from my home.

As I set off down the trail, my senses were immediately awakened by the beautiful array of fall colours and the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet. It was a welcome change from the familiarity of my home office and, since it was a Thursday, I had the added pleasure of having the forest all to myself—or so I thought.

Meandering along, lost in thought, I was keeping an eye on the ground in front of me to avoid tripping on some gnarly tree roots when, suddenly, I got the sense that I was no longer alone on the trail. I looked up, and about 80 yards ahead of me was a giant, fuzzy, black blob moving very slowly toward me. I squinted, attempting to use my middle-aged eyes as a pair of binoculars, but this did nothing to bring any of the blob’s distinguishing features into focus. I pulled up my camera and zoomed in close to discover that my new trail neighbour was a sizeable, female, wild turkey, and, just like me, she was all alone.

Wild turkeys usually forage and move about with their flock utilizing a strength-in-numbers strategy to deter predators. They live in complex community structures with a strict pecking order and perform most of their activities as a group, so it was surprising to see this “lone wolf” strolling out on the trail that day.

I was amazed and delighted when she kept moving toward me, so I crouched down and pointed my camera in her general direction, thinking it was just a matter of time before she saw me and would flee to safety.

The distance between us continued to diminish one ungraceful step at a time. Positioned right in the middle of the trail, wearing a bright pink jacket and firing my camera at her like she was a supermodel during Fashion Week, I could not be missed, and now she was just 20 ft away. 

Surely, I thought, she’s going to start moving away from me…but astonishingly, she didn’t. Head and beak held high, with eyes straight ahead, delicately and steadily placing one shank in front of the other, her brown feathers perfectly coiffed around her three-foot tall, globe-shaped body, she forged ahead, straight towards me.

12 feet…8 feet…6 feet…4 feet…….2 feet!!! This bird got as close to me as 2 feet away. If I had stuck my arm out, I could have easily petted her…which probably would have been weird for both of us…but still…2 feet is no joke!!! 

Our eyes locked. Neither one of us batted an eyelash. Neither one of us wavered an inch. We were each fully aware of the other. I remained perfectly still and, in the famed words of Johnny Cash,…the turkey walked the line, passing within a foot of me and didn’t skip a beat. She carried on her merry way down the trail, and I was absolutely captivated by the whole experience.

Once she had disappeared from sight, I took a moment to gather myself and reflect on all that had just transpired. What was remarkable was the turkey’s unwavering confidence as she approached me on the trail. It was clear to me that she was fully present with me and that this was what gave her such a confident demeanour. Then I realized that I, too, had been fully present with her. The moment of such close proximity between us was only possible because we were both fully engaged and aware of our surroundings and each other. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but I can count numerous occasions where, instead of being present in the moment, I was somewhere else altogether. I was either working myself into a lather about the past repeating itself, or playing some kind of half-baked fortune teller with my imaginary crystal ball, trying to predict how the future would unfold.

When I let myself become distracted and consumed by my thoughts instead of paying attention to what is happening in front of me, I put myself at a disadvantage.

Animals, by virtue of their nature, live in the present moment and are not capable of contemplating the past or future in the same way humans do. They are guided by their instincts, responding to immediate environmental cues and needs. This turkey didn’t give two clucks about me. She wasn’t thinking about other times she’d encountered a woman in a pink jacket on the trail, nor did she worry whether I would pull some kind of kung fu panda move on her the moment she got too close to me. She was entirely focused on the present moment and was being guided by her intuition. I did not pose a threat to her, and so she strutted onward.

Being present is a challenging practice for us humans, and it doesn’t help that we live in a world designed to distract us so it can capitalize off our inattention. The good news is, having the capacity to be present is a developmental muscle that just about anyone can build should you choose to make that type of investment in yourself. 

Since becoming a coach, being present in the moment is something that I practice daily and, much like my turkey friend, I reap the benefits of increased confidence, a deeper connection with the world around me and greater peace of mind.

I’ll never know why that turkey was all by her lonesome that day or where she was headed off to, but I’m so grateful our paths crossed. It was a lovely reminder that magical things can happen when two sentient beings are fully present with one another in the moment.