i realize that i have all these ideas that i forage through on a daily basis, all the while scratching my head or carefully plucking the suicidal hairs on my arm (or at least i *think* they are suicidal).

who is to say that those hairs are going to come out? i never give them a chance- i just keep picking.

all the ideas, those rich, delicate, foraged truffles of ideas, are voraciously picked over, never to be tasted by the elegant lady who longingly waits for one, sweet bite.

once, i was a photographer, studying color, process and film, and even working due to sheer networking ability.
once, i was accepted to a prestigious art program, only to deny the invitation.

once, i was a writer, studying shakespeare, milton and prose, and even working, due to sheer networking ability.
once, i nearly finished my english degree, and then chose love instead.

once, i was a musician, studying notes, chords and rhythm, and even played in public...twice.
once, or maybe even a few times, i wrote songs, and then forgot them, leaving them behind for the next big idea.

...and then i kept on foraging, like that voracious little pig, snorting its way through ebony soil, only to come up with a snout full of mud.

as the foraging continues, the envy grows.
why do some seem to have the luscious truffle to feast on?
why do i go headlong into the forest, only to come out with more questions, less truffle?
i want it, i do. i can almost taste it, but i'm scared, of it, i guess.

so, instead of saying, "YES! I WILL DO THIS!", i willingly eat white button mushrooms and an occasional crimini, or maybe a portabella (but really they're kind of the same thing), tasting only the mundaneness of average faire.

one must truly commit to, and work for that truffle. it's long suffering. it's angst ridden. it's dirty. it's cold. it's really hard.

but that day, oh that one luminescent day when a handsomely dressed waiter delicately shaves a few ribbons of truffle on your impeccable, white plate, and you see and taste, and SAVOR what is truly amazing, you can never go back.

suddenly the picking stops. you stop beating yourself up for going on what you thought was a fruitless search and suddenly realize that the fruit was in that ridiculously long journey, and that sometimes it takes a bizarre, snorting animal to seek out one of the most prized ingredients in the gastronomical world.

each of my days has, somewhere in it, just a tiny sliver of truffle. i am certainly a clumsy swine of a person, fumbling, getting dirty, coming up with what seems to be empty hands. the physical and mental picking is relentless, literally. but slowly, oh so very slowly, i see why. that is my truffle, at least for now.

i am still a photographer, a writer and a musician. maybe i am not making my professional career out of any of those right now, maybe never. but what defines me is this journey, the chances i choose to take through the forest of thick trees, deserted beaches, parched flatlands, crowded metropolises and finally back home, to my heart, and a wonderful little land called forgiveness. that is a delicacy that one must never pass up.