It was a dusky Wednesday evening, and, Wednesday generally being my botany day, it dovetailed perfectly with my need to collect certain ingredients for the recipe I was preparing to try. My collaborator and I had travelled up to the foothills of Mt Hood to forage for some fresher(more) specimens than could be obtained in town. We had left directly from work mid afternoon, and the sun had been high in the sky; but now the light had become flat and smoky, and my initial sense of elation at the prospect of our endeavor taken a similar turn.
We wandered through the trees studying the ground for the cottony heads of the Taraxacum Officinale that the recipe called for, but I had soured on the idea of pursuing the project in tandem. If I was honest with myself, I did not want to share it. When I closed my eyes and pictured my laboratory space, I saw only myself in it.
I enjoyed discussing and debating the natural sciences with a group of enthusiasts with which I met weekly. However, I truly preferred pursuing my studies alone. I could choose to offer what I learned, or not to.
An eager voice called me back into the present, and my friend was crouched in a small field with his back to me. He was rummaging through his knapsack for his trowel and collection box. As I walked towards him, I observed the stones on the ground. I picked one up, and it seemed to fit my hand so perfectly; its heft so manageable, so useful.
As I walked closer, I felt a sense of clarity returning to me. I knew what I really wanted; what was best for me. I stood behind him and raised the stone high above my head.(less)